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voice was gravelly, his back stooped. He’d worked out West as a locomotive engineer most of his life, and his body bore the toll the stressful work had taken.
    Pete hurried toward me with his hitched gait and slapped gnarled hands on my shoulders. “You all right, Del-Belle? I heard it all from Tucker, you know he lives three doors up from where you found Clara?” Pete’s cheeks were red, at the least the part I could see around the unruly gray beard that spread down his neck. His small blue eyes glistened with concern. “We were so worried ’boutcha, started hearin’ things ’bout somebody dead. Can’t believe it’s Clara, I just can’t believe it.”
    Clara had been in our house many times.
    Andy eased into the kitchen and shut the door to the garage. “Hi, Pete.”
    “Hi, Andy.” Pete didn’t take his eyes off me. “You okay, Del-Belle, are ya?”
    My throat knotted. I raised my chin.
    Colleen appeared, trailed by Nicole. In her mid-fifties, Colleen was big-chested and stout. Despite her odd ways she was the mother I wished I had. Always there for me, with a wise word and a soft touch. Colleen loved to run around the house in fuzzy multicolored socks that reminded me of Dr. Seuss. Her short brown hair was never quite in place, her hands always moving when she talked. At dinner she was known to take out a glass or two.
    She hugged me hard. “I’m so sorry about Clara. Don’t know what this world is coming to. In our little town.”
    I hugged Colleen back, even as I felt Andy’s distance from the scene. He never knew quite how to fit into my “family.” And they weren’t quite sure what to think of him, either. Except that any future I built with Andy would mean the breaking up of our household.
    Nicole was shaking as she stepped up to me. At twenty-one, she’d seen too much, lived too much. I knew what that was like. She’d lost her parents in her teens. They’d been abusive. She came to Redbud to live with her grandmother, who ended up needing Nicole’s care when she became an invalid. The elderly woman died last year, leaving her house to Nicole. But Nicole needed a home . She needed love. I’d invited her to come live with us.
    I wrapped my arms around her. “Shh, don’t worry now. We’ll get through this.”
    She shook her head. “I was there . I should have stayed and helped you clean up. Maybe if I’d left when Clara …”
    Faulting herself was something Nicole did well—in all circumstances. I attributed it to her difficult childhood. But Clara’s murder would give her the perfect opportunity for self-blame. Hadn’t I been doing the same thing?
    “You couldn’t have stopped this, Nicole. Any more than I could. It just … happened.”
    The question was why.
    Andy took charge, herding us all to sit down on the couch and chairs in our large “gathering” room. He talked with Pete about keeping his gun loaded and ready—a task Pete was more than eager to do. Andy tried to reassure Nicole, Colleen, and me, telling us to look out for each other.
    “We do that already.” Colleen waved a hand.
    My heart pinged. Some things Andy just didn’t understand. But then again—how could he?
    “Well, do it more.” Impatience tinged his voice. He pulled his head back, his tone lightening. “Sorry. I just … I’m really worried.”
    Pete ran a hand down his beard, an old habit. “We all are.”
    Andy’s cell phone rang. It was his mother, who’d heard what had happened. He said he was with me and would call her back. Apparently she wasn’t too happy about being put off.
    Phyllis and Doug Bradshaw lived on the outskirts of town in a huge Southern mansion. White pillars, long porch, and green shutters. Ancient oaks in the yard. They were of the country club set, born and bred. Phyllis stood tall and lithe, her Kentucky drawl as much a part of her as her perfectly groomed eyebrows. Her husband, a college football star, had founded a real estate company in Lexington years ago that now