“A beanie?” Brandon suggested helpfully.
“A beanie!” She beamed at him.
Genevieve and Brandon looked at each other ominously, and Genevieve nodded. Brandon set down his tea cup, pulled the photo of Tyler from his jeans’ pocket, and handed it to Mrs. Dixon. “Did the man look like this?”
Mrs. Dixon gave the photo a cursory glance and handed it back, shaking her head. “No. That’s not him.”
“But you barely looked!” Genevieve cried. “How can you be sure?”
The woman turned her gaze slowly toward Genevieve. In an icy voice, she said, “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing or my sight, young lady. Although you seem convinced I am a useless old woman—”
“Please, Mrs. Dixon, Ma’am,” Brandon said, “if you could just tell us why he’s not the one.”
The woman, still glaring at Genevieve, said, “Because the boy in this picture is far too tall, and he is too heavily built. The man that night was no more than five foot ten, and of average build, slender even.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Besides, the boy in this picture is named Tyler and I’d know him anywhere. I used to babysit him while his father taught high school, many years ago. And now, if you’ll excuse me.” She stood.
“Of course,” Brandon said graciously. “Thank you for your time.”
She tipped him a courteous nod, ushered them to the front door, and closed it firmly behind them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GENEVIEVE KNOWS THE TRUTH
The next morning, Genevieve once again woke to the sun streaming through her window. She vaguely remembered disabling her alarm at five forty-five and throwing the covers back over her head, not ready to face the day, even to run. She had rarely felt so discouraged.
She’d been wrong about everything. She was no closer to solving the mystery of the Pinewood High killer, and she was growing increasingly afraid of the possibility that she was simply distracting herself from her own problems after all.
The problem that lay folded in thirds, tucked inside an envelope on her dresser.
Sighing, Genevieve kicked off her covers and swung her legs out of bed. She showered, brushed her teeth, and threw a few beach curls in her long dark hair, then spent some quality time in front of the vanity mirror applying mascara, her signature Cherry on Top lipstick, and hooking in a favorite pair of earrings. Then she grabbed the envelope and headed downstairs.
Her dad was still sleeping—he always slept till nine on Sundays—so Genevieve made a quick cup of strong tea, poured it into a thermos, and headed out the door. She needed someone to talk to and knew just the person.
On Sunday mornings, downtown Pinewood was sleepy and tranquil. Some of the stores stayed closed, some kept normal hours, and some, like Sweet Dreams Ice Cream Parlour, were closed to the public but were still a bustle of activity inside.
Genevieve opened the shop using her key and felt instantly transported by the wonderful warm scent of waffle cones and vanilla bean. Like always, stepping into Sweet Dreams was like stepping back in time, into the best memories of childhood. She took a few moments to appreciate the pink-and-white striped wallpaper, the shimmering polka-dot floors, and the cozy pink and green booths before walking into the kitchen where she knew Aunt Mellie would be making cakes.
“Hi, pretty!” Mellie said, her dark eyes sparking with pleasure. She set down her frosting spatula and stepped around the worktable to embrace her niece. “What brings you here this morning? You should be enjoying your day off.” She pulled back and studied Genevieve’s face attentively. “I see you. What’s wrong with my girl?”
Genevieve shook her head at the question and instead sat at the table. She looked admiringly at Mellie’s work in progress—a four-tiered square wedding cake with showy gold ribbons topping the layers in bows, like a stack of presents.
“Aunt Mellie, you are truly an artist,” she said.
Mellie laughed, tucking a stray wisp of salt-and-pepper hair back under her hairnet. “Well, when you love what you do, it shows in your work.” She picked up her palette knife. “I never would have guessed it, but it seems I was always meant to be a cake decorator.”
Genevieve watched her skillfully smooth the final layer of icing, and then said, “I wish I knew what I was meant to do.”
“Oh, but you don’t need to know that just yet, not at your age.” Mellie scraped the palette knife along the edges of a clean bowl and slid the bowl toward Genevieve. “Being seventeen means getting to explore—you have so much time to figure out what makes you happy.”
“The thing is,” Genevieve said slowly, picking up a spoon and scooping up some of the icing, “I feel I already know what makes me happy. It’s being here, at Sweet Dreams. And in Pinewood.” She sampled the icing, which was heavenly, and avoided looking at Mellie.
“Forgive me,” Mellie said gently, “but if you know that already, then why are you here this morning, Genevieve? What are you really asking?”
Genevieve set the spoon down and looked at her aunt. “It’s just that everyone is trying to make me feel like I couldn’t possibly know what I want yet,” she said. With a trace of bitterness, she added, “And by everyone, I mean Dad.”
She pulled out the envelope and placed it on the table. Mellie hesitated, then brushed her hands off on her apron and unfolded the letter. She looked at Genevieve in surprise. “I hadn’t realized you’d been applying to other colleges,” she said. “You seemed so set on Mountain Ridge—”
“He made me apply to at least three others,” Genevieve explained. “To keep my quote—options open—end quote.”
Mellie regarded her without expression. “And now you’re conflicted on which to choose?”
“No!” Genevieve said emphatically. She pushed away from the table and stood, feeling restless. “My feelings haven’t changed, I just—before I had confidence in my decision and now I’m doubting myself because... he doesn’t trust me. So maybe I shouldn’t trust me either.”
“Oh, honey.” Mellie smiled at her wistfully, and with great fondness. “Never in my life have I met someone so in charge of her feelings as you. I trust you. Never let a man—any man—make you doubt your deepest convictions.”
Genevieve stared at her aunt. “So you think Dad—”
“Loves you more than the moon,” Mellie said firmly. “And sometimes, as the saying goes, love is blind. It is easier than you know to impede the choices of those we care deeply for in the misguided belief that we are protecting them.”
Genevieve looked at her doubtfully.
“Don’t you see what he’s doing?” Mellie shook the envelope at her and then tossed it back on the table. “Your father is terrified of making a mistake, of holding you back. He sees your mother in you; he remembers the way her spirit withered being in a small town, and he wants to make sure you don’t end up feeling trapped here too.”
“But I’m not my mother!” Genevieve cried. “I love Pinewood; she never did.”
“Your experience has been greatly limited to Pinewood,” Mellie argued. “Your father is so attached to this town he is probably afraid your feelings are naturally tied into his. He’s afraid you haven’t seen enough of the world to make an informed choice about where you belong within it. As a parent he feels he’s obligated to push you toward new experiences so you don’t end up with regrets.”
“You sound as if you agree with him.”
