Page 71 of A Vintage of Regret
A slight movement across the street caught his attention. "There's Grant," he said, pointing as two figures emerged from the police station—Grant in his dark suit and Harlan with his distinctive silver hair and briefcase.
They were heading toward the crosswalk when a familiar SUV pulled into the station parking lot.
"Unbelievable," Erin muttered, her fork clattering against her plate.
Chad's vehicle came to a stop, and through the cafe window, they could all see the blonde woman in the passenger seat duck her head low, trying to hide despite being in plain view of half of Main Street.
"That's her. His mistress." Erin's voice was tight with barely leashed fury. "He didn't even bother parking somewhere else. She's sitting right there."
"Classy," Riley said dryly.
Chad got out of the driver's side, straightening his tie with the arrogance of a man who thought he was untouchable. But before he could make it to the station entrance, another car pulled up—Monica's pristine white Mercedes.
Bryson frowned. "What the hell is Monica doing here?"
They watched as Monica climbed out of her car, looking uncharacteristically rattled. Her usually perfect hair seemed slightly disheveled, and even from across the street, he could see the tension in her posture.
"Think she's here about the Main Street Beautification Project?" Kelly asked.
"Has to be," Erin said. "She was always working with Mom on budget approvals and funding requests. Makes sense they'd want to question her about the committee finances."
Grant and Harlan had reached other side of the street, but instead of heading to the cafe, they paused on the sidewalk, Grant's attention fixed on something behind them. Following his gaze, Bryson saw a third car pulling into the station lot.
Elizabeth stepped out with the regal bearing of someone who considered herself above such mundane concerns as police investigations. A deputy met her at the entrance, and she disappeared inside with the kind of practiced composure that had come from years of maintaining appearances.
"Oh my God," Erin breathed. "This is really serious, isn't it? They're questioning everyone connected to those committees."
The cafe had gone quiet around their table, other patrons stealing glances their way. Small towns thrived on gossip, and the Callahan family situation was quickly becoming the biggest story Stone Bridge had seen in years.
Grant and Harlan finally pushed through the cafe door, the little bell above it chiming cheerfully in stark contrast to their grim expressions.
"How'd it go?" Riley asked as they approached the table.
"About as well as you'd expect," Grant said, slumping into the chair beside Kelly. "They're asking very detailed questions about committee finances, about who asked for what and when. What I signed off on. What I didn’t. You name it, they asked me. Including stuff about the morning Dad died."
Harlan set his briefcase on the floor and signaled the waitress for coffee. "I'd prefer not to discuss specifics in public," he said quietly, glancing around at the other tables. "But the scope of their investigation is... broader than we initially thought."
"We saw Monica go in," Bryson said. "And Chad's here with his—" He gestured toward the window where the blonde woman was still trying to make herself invisible in the passenger seat.
"And now Mom," Erin added, her voice hollow.
"Monica makes sense," Grant said. "She worked closely the beautification committee. If there are questions about how those funds were managed, Monica would have had access to the records."
"What about Dad's death?" Kelly asked in a whisper. "Are they still?—"
"Kelly," Harlan interrupted gently but firmly. "Let's not speculate about ongoing investigations in a public place."
The next twenty minutes crawled by with stilted conversation and coffee refills. Bryson found himself watching the station entrance, noting every person who went in or came out. When Monica finally emerged, she looked worse than when she'd arrived—pale beneath her flawless makeup, her usually confident stride replaced by something that looked almost like panic.
"I'm going to talk to her," Bryson said, standing.
"Don't—" Riley started, but he was already heading for the door.
He caught up with Monica in the parking lot, her heels clicking rapidly against the asphalt as she hurried toward her car.
"Monica," he called. "Are you okay?"
She froze for half a second, spine stiff, but didn't turn around. "Yeah. Fine. Don't have time to make small talk." She waved a hand over her shoulder dismissively.
