As my grandpa served himself, he said, "There's one rule at this table. We don't talk business over dinner. So whatever business you're here to talk about, you save it for after."
"Yes, sir. Lou, sir."
Mason answered, but I knew that comment was directed at me, not him. I've never been a fan of small talk. Although it did give me a chance to get to know more about Mr. Mason Maxwell under the guise of not talking business.
As Mason served himself, I wondered if he'd ever actually eaten tacos before. But then I chided myself for the unfair thought. Just because the guy was rich and dressed like he spent his days at the country club didn't mean he'd never had an adventure or two. Plus, these days the country club probably served the occasional taco just to mix things up. Small-town Colorado wasn't as small-town as it had once been.
"So, Mason," I said." Do you like to travel? What's the best country you've ever been to?"
As I prepared my own tacos and snuck a bite of taco meat to Fancy while distracting Lulu from noticing, he launched into a story about riding a camel through a mountainous region in Northern Africa all by himself.
"Really? You just rented a camel and rode off into the mountains?"
I'd never thought I'd be jealous of Mason Maxwell, but I was. As a single woman traveling alone I could have never pulled off a stunt like that. I mean, I could've tried, but the odds that it would have ended with the delightful story he told about spending a night in a tent in the middle of the desert with a bunch of nomads and drinking some sort of alcohol he couldn't identify until the wee hours of the morning while they told tall tales to one another were pretty darned slim.
That story started us on a round of telling our most outrageous travel adventures including the time Jamie and I went backpacking in New Zealand and found ourselves stranded on a one-lane road in the middle of nowhere with no cell service and a baby cow that had somehow decided our car was its mother.
The dinner passed quickly. By the end of it I was starting to see what Jamie saw in him. He did have a sense of humor. He'd even been arrested a couple times in college. It seems I'd mistaken his professional restraint for his personality.
If I hadn't been worried he was a murderer, it would've been a very good meal indeed. (He even managed the tacos with aplomb. When the juice from the first taco started to slide down his hand he'd simply wiped it off and kept going. He'd only resorted to his fork at the end to clean up the last little bits, just like I had.)
But then the meal ended and I was reminded why I'd asked him to come over.
"You play Scrabble, son?" my grandpa asked.
"Actually, Grandpa. I need to show him something first, if you don't mind."
My grandpa eyed me, but all he said was "Fine. Go ahead."
Jamie and I quickly took the plates and dishes to the kitchen and then laid out the map I'd prepared at the barkery.
"What's this?" Mason asked, leaning forward to study the map, his sharp intelligence on full display as he traced an outline of the impacted area.
"Those are the business locations of all the people Janice Fletcher harassed in the past few years."
Mason sat back. "Huh. I'd never put it together."
"I think she was trying to ruin those businesses so you'd sell your land to her."
"And she almost succeeded, too. Last week the bait shop told us they were closing up. We were ready to wash our hands of the whole area. It's not easy to make a profit when no business can stay open for more than a few months at a time."
"But Greta said you changed your mind after Janice Fletcher died?"
He nodded and pointed to the same areas on the map Greta had. "Janice Fletcher owned both of these plots. If we can buy one or the other from her heirs then the whole area can be developed as a resort."
"What happens to us?" Jamie asked.
At least Mason Maxwell had the grace to look abashed. "Well, building the resort would require tearing down all the buildings in the area."
"So after all that work we put into getting the café set up we'd be out on the streets?"
"I…" He glanced at all of us. "It's not personal."
"To hell it isn't." It was one of the few times I'd seen Jamie genuinely angry. Ever. She stood up and grabbed Lulu's leash. "I've gotta go. See you at work tomorrow, Maggie."
Mason stood, too. "Jamie, wait."
She stormed out, leaving an awkward silence behind her.
"Ice cream anyone?" I asked.
Mason shook his head. "I think I'll get going, too."
He couldn't leave. I hadn't figured out if he was the murderer yet. But I couldn't exactly say that, could I?
He'd already stood and was moving towards the door.
"Wait. One more question."
"What?"
"Can I see your shoes? What brand are they? I have a friend who still lives in DC who I think might like a pair. And you did say the other day that they're comfortable."
He lifted one foot, revealing two rounded circles on the sole and rattled off some Italian-sounding name. "I'll send you the link to their website if you want."
"That'd be great. Thanks."
I closed the door behind him and turned to see my grandpa watching me, not looking the least bit amused. "That man is not a killer, Maggie May."
"He has the right shoes. And a motive."
My grandpa went to sit on the couch, turning the volume on the television high enough to make it clear he wasn't going to discuss this absurdity any longer.
I carefully folded up my map. I knew I should share it with Matt. Tell him what I'd found out about Mason's motive and his shoes. But, honestly, I knew there was no point. Not yet. Matt would no more believe Mason Maxwell was the killer than my grandpa or Jamie did.
I needed more.
But first I had to do what I could to save the barkery. I had to track down Mark Fletcher and convince him to sell his property to me instead of Mason Realty.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
According to Lesley Pope, Mark Fletcher spent most of his days hanging out at a bar that was creatively named The Hole. And, man, did it fit the description. This was a place for serious drinkers. It wasn't even trendy trashy like some places geared towards the college crowd are. It was just a dump.
It was located on the edge of Bakerstown, down a rutted road that hadn't been repaved in a good decade or two. The building itself looked like an old wood cabin that had been abandoned in the 1800s and left to rot. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the original owner had put the place together himself with trees he cut down from the nearby forest.
It wasn't a place I would've chosen to go. Ever. It was a place for people at the end to drink themselves to death.
But I had worked too hard to get my business off the ground to let one scary, dilapidated building stop me. I mean, really, some of the people in the valley were odd and strange and maybe not good at showers or talking to strangers, but I couldn't bring myself to believe that I was in danger walking into that place.
(What can I say, sometimes when you're used to the big city and the obvious ways it can be dangerous, you fail to see the subtle dangers. As I've since learned, although not in this particular instance, it only takes one bad person for you to be in a heap-load of danger.)
Anyway. I drove out there first thing in the morning as the sun was coming up. They were actually open twenty-four seven, but I figured I could at least wait until seven in the morning to drop by.
I hesitated outside, wondering what I was doing, but it didn't keep me from eventually opening the creaky metal screen door that served as a barrier to the outside world.
I squinted as I stopped just inside the doorway, noting the numerous animal heads on the wall—mostly bucks with big racks, it was that kind of place. There were three men, each seated alone, as well as a female bartender who looked like the toughest person in there. Not mean, per se, just…tough. Her skin was leathery and she was wiry and muscular in a way that said life had sucked
everything out of her it could. The tank top she wore had a Harley Davidson symbol on the front and I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that she was the owner of the Harley outside that was about five times her size.
The only real surprise was her lack of tattoos and her bright blue eyes. "Whatchyou want?" she asked.
"I'm looking for Mark Fletcher. I heard he hangs around here."
She looked me up and down. "If you're looking for money, he ain't got any. And he's not the type of man you want to keep in your life."
I stepped closer. "Actually, I had a business deal for him. I was hoping to give him some money."
"Ha. Doubt that." She looked me up and down. "Nice try. You have his kid or something?"
"What? No." I didn't know much about Mark Fletcher other than the woman who'd given birth to him and the place he chose to drink, but I was pretty sure he wasn't my type. "Look. Is he here?" I glanced at the three men, wondering if any of them could be him.
"Nah. But if you want to sit and wait, he'll probably be here soon."
I hesitated. I had his home address in my pocket. I could just drive over there. But maybe this woman could give me information I could use to convince him to sell to me instead of Mason Maxwell.
"Okay. Whatcha got on tap?" It's a bad habit of mine to pick up the accents and vocabulary of people around me. Someone once told me it's a sign of confidence when you do that, a way to build rapport. For me it's just something I do without even thinking about it. Send me to London and I'll be talking loos and mums within the week.
I pulled a barstool out from the end of the bar and wedged myself into the corner. I must've been a gunslinger in a past life, because I always want to sit in the back corner of a room where I have a good sight line on everyone else. Drives me nuts to sit with my back to people.
Turns out my drinking choices were cheap beer number one and its lighter cousin or cheap beer number two and its lighter cousin. No soda. No water. I could also choose whiskey or vodka if I were so inclined.
I chose cheap beer number one, although, honestly, I'm not sure I would've known the difference between the four choices. The bartender handed me a thirty-two-ounce Styrofoam cup, full to the brim. Last time I'd had beer from a big Styrofoam cup had been at some dive bar in New York City that had a bunch of bras hanging from the ceiling. (Never did know the name of the place. A friend of mine's cousin owned it, so I always knew it as "My Cousin's Bar".)
"Cheers." I toasted her and took a sip. (Yes, it was seven in the morning and I was drinking beer, but that kind of beer hardly qualifies.)
She leaned against the bar near me, showing no interest in cleaning the place even though it could've definitely used it. Then again, given the clientele, I figured the dirt and smell of old beer were all part of what made it appealing.
"So, Mark Fletcher comes here a lot?" I asked.
"Daily."
"What's a rich guy like him doing spending his days drinking cheap beer in a place like this? No offense."
"Eh. When people fall, they all fall to the same place. His mom might've been rich. He isn't. He's just a lousy drunk." Left unsaid was the "just like the rest of them".
I wondered what brought a woman to work in a place like this. Did you just over time become more and more of a certain type so that your choices narrowed in on you until you couldn't escape them? Was life just some gigantic funnel and we were all clinging to our place on the sides trying not to fall to the bottom?
(What can I say? Don't give me beer to drink first thing in the morning or you get bad philosophizing.)
The woman leaned closer. "Wait. I know who you are."
"You do?"
"You’re the woman who pushed Mark's mother down a flight of stairs, aren't you?"
"No. I'm the woman accused of pushing his mother down a flight of stairs. I didn't do it. Wanted to. Even thought about it for a second, but I didn't do it." I took another sip of beer.
She laughed slightly. "Yeah, you and half the town. And Mark. I doubt there was a person that woman met who didn't want to see her dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs."
I sat up straighter. "Do you think Mark could've done it?"
"Mark? No. He's a pathetic wretch. Weighs one-twenty soaking wet. Plus he's a coward. No way he'd hit her in the head with a frying pan and throw her down a flight of stairs."
"You certainly seem to know all the details."
"Coroner's assistant likes to come in here after work. Chatty fellow."
"Ah." I sipped my beer some more. One of the regulars stood up and sauntered our way, clearly intent on saying hello.
"Turn it around, Jim." The bartender pointed him back towards his spot in the far corner. "This lady has no interest in the likes of you."
"No one should drink alone," he slurred, even though he'd just been doing that exact thing.
"She's not alone. We're talking. Girl talk. Go away."
He swayed in place for a second and then turned back towards his table.
"Wow. He got an early start."
"Jim hasn't been sober in at least a decade." She leaned her elbows on the counter. "So what do you want Mark for anyway?"
"He inherited some land when his mom died. I want to see if he'll sell it to me. Mason Maxwell and his family are looking to buy it and if they do they'll probably tear up my store."
"You better move fast."
"Why?"
"Mark's desperate enough he'll sell to the first person who makes an offer."
"I've heard that a few times now. Why's he so desperate for money? Bar tab?"
"Nah. What he owes here is nothing compared to what he owes his bookie."
"There are bookies in the Baker Valley?"
She laughed. "Of course there are. But this one's a Vegas guy. Plays by Vegas rules." She nodded to the clock. "If Mark isn't here by now, he may not be in today. Some days he doesn't muster the energy. Only lives across that lot, but you know how it is."
"Then I guess I'll swing by and see if he's around." I placed a ten dollar bill on the counter even though the early bird special was just a dollar and scrawled my phone number on a napkin. "You see him, you mind giving me a call?"
She took the money. "Sure, I can do that."
"I'm Maggie, by the way."
"Marla."
We shook hands and I left. Call me crazy, but I kind of liked Marla. She was exactly what she was and that's sometimes really refreshing to see. Not that I was going to go back to her fine employer anytime soon. Definitely not my kind of place.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There was a cluster of mobile homes just across the lot that I assumed included Mark Fletcher's home. It was close enough I figured I could just walk it. I'd get there sooner than driving around the block.
There were six mobile homes total scattered in a sloppy half-circle around a dead-end dirt road. The cars and trucks parked around them had to be at least thirty years old if a day, and I would've bet at least half of them were broken-down. The car I walked past to reach the center of the mobile homes had two flat tires and a busted up windshield. The truck parked behind it was rusted through in a half dozen spots and taped up with duct tape in another dozen.
The sounds of some Sunday morning preacher blared from the mobile home at the far end, but it wasn't the one I was looking for. The one I was looking for was a faded beige mobile home with what had once been white curtains covering the small front window, their edges now brown from years of cigarette smoke.
I glanced around but saw no one. The place was as sad and dying as the bar. Another place people went when they'd slid too far down to come back up.
I should've left right then. I didn't know who else lived there. I didn't know anything about Mark Fletcher other than the name of his mother, the fact that he was a degenerate drunk, and that he had gambling debts.
But I had to get to him before Mason Maxwell did. If he was that desperate for money he wasn't going to hold out for other offers or refuse to sell ou
t of respect for his family feud. I moved towards the metal steps leading up to the front door and froze.
On the ground, right there next to the stairs, was a man's footprint. It had two large circles on the sole. Did it belong to Mark Fletcher? Or had Mason Maxwell already been by?
I knocked on the door but no one answered. Determined, I knocked harder, which set a nearby dog to barking, but still didn't bring an answer. Finally, I knocked a third time and the door popped open. It swung slowly inward to reveal a living room as dingy as the curtains I'd already seen.
(I should note here that some mobile homes are absolutely beautiful inside and my description of Mark Fletcher's should in no way be seen as a general opinion on mobile homes. As a matter of fact we used to live in a very nice double-wide when I was younger that you couldn't have told from a house once you were inside. It's all in how you choose to live under the circumstances you're given. But I digress.)
I was about to grab the door and slam it shut and get out of there, because the place was definitely giving me the creeps, but then I heard a soft moan from the direction of the kitchen. I stepped one foot inside and peered around the door. I couldn't see anyone yet, but what I did see was a pool of blood near the kitchen table.
I should've run. I should've run right back to that bar and called the cops. I mean, I didn't know what had happened there. And my memory of being at Janice's house with a possible killer lurking in the shadows waiting to see what I'd do were still pretty fresh. But clearly the guy was still alive. And the last thing I wanted to do was explain to the cops how I'd heard some guy moaning in his kitchen, seen a pool of blood, and just left. I'd already used up my quota of cold-hearted disinterest, you know?
I took another step into the mobile home and paused, listening for any sound that might indicate I wasn't alone. But the only sound I heard was the soft moaning coming from the kitchen and a loud series of meows from the back of the house. I sneezed as I wondered if Mark had inherited his mother's love for feline companions.
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