by Eve Fisher
“Well, that’s because you’re not doing it often enough.” Georgia sighed and handed Kate her receipt. “I swear, these young’uns.”
Kate raised an eyebrow.
“Evelyn’s five minutes younger than I am, and you’d think it was five years, considering how she carries on sometimes. So what’s new?”
“How about LuAnne Matthews’ truck,” Evelyn croaked. “Isn’t that something?”
“It is nice,” Kate said. “Are you thinking of buying a new car?”
“Not hardly,” Georgia replied.
Evelyn said scratchily, “It’s just that she didn’t finance it through us—”
Kate knew that by “us,” Evelyn meant the bank.
“Evelyn!” Georgia snapped. “That’s nobody’s business but hers.”
Evelyn ducked back to her side of the teller’s counter. “Sorry about that.”
Kate thought swiftly. These two women knew almost everything that went on in town, and they obviously seemed to know about any unusual financial transactions. So she decided to take a risk. “Does either of you know anything about someone who was going around town this winter—”
“A stranger?” Evelyn interrupted, gasping.
“I’m not sure,” Kate said. “He was running some sort of investment scam, and some people gave him money. Not cash, but checks written to cash. Large checks.”
“How large?” Georgia asked.
“A few thousand,” Kate said, watching their faces carefully.
Georgia shook her head. “Nothing like that crossed this counter.” She glanced at Evelyn, who shook her head.
“Nobody around here’s written a check to cash for more than fifty dollars. Well, maybe a hundred. And I haven’t seen any strangers, either,” Georgia said regretfully.
“Well, it was just a rumor. You know how those things get started. By the way,” Kate said lightly, hoping it sounded like she didn’t care all that much, “is Mr. Lawson in?”
“Oh, he’s back there...Don’t you dare sneeze all over me!”
Kate jumped, but then realized that Georgia was talking to her sister.
“No one’s with him,” Georgia said, turning back to Kate.
“He’s originally from Asheville, North Carolina, isn’t he?” Kate asked. “I was talking to his father Friday night.”
“Junius?” Evelyn asked.
Kate nodded.
“Such a wonderful man,” she croaked. “And what a good dancer!”
“And such a conversationalist,” Georgia added. Then she lowered her voice and said, “He must be so disappointed in his son.”
Kate looked at her quizzically.
“About as interesting as watching paint dry. But they do say he’s good at what he does.” Georgia shrugged. “Hard to believe, considering.”
“Considering what?” Kate asked, hoping God would forgive this wholesale dive into gossip.
“Well,” Evelyn chimed in with a hoarse whisper, “he had his own investment firm in Asheville, and somehow or other it went belly-up.”
“But he’s doing well here,” Georgia added.
“That’s good to know,” Kate said. “Would it be okay if I went back to see him for a minute?”
“You go right on back, Mrs. Hanlon,” Georgia said. “He’s not doing a thing he can’t stop for a minute.”
“Thank you,” Kate said and walked back to the office.
Matt’s door was open, and he was sitting straight up at his desk, looking at his laptop. His face looked more alert, more interested than Kate had ever seen it, she thought as she knocked on the doorjamb. She had to knock twice before he looked up. His face lost all its animation the minute he saw her.
“Matt? Could I speak to you for a few minutes?” Kate asked.
“Oh, of course,” he said without standing up.
He was wearing a brown suit with a white shirt and a beige tie. Kate had noticed that his outfits were always monochromatic.
“Come in.”
Kate walked in and shut the door behind her.
“How can I help you?” he asked as she sat down. “Investment questions?”
“In a way,” Kate said. She was holding her purse tightly on her lap, and she made herself set it down on the floor beside her. “I was visiting with Ada Blount on Friday, and she mentioned that someone has been stopping by talking investments with her—something about doubling her money.”
Matt didn’t say anything. He didn’t react. Instead, he simply looked not at Kate but at a point somewhere to one side of her head. Silence hung in the air like a dark cloud. Kate finally took a deep breath and continued, “Was it you?”
There was another shorter silence, then Matt asked, with almost no curiosity in his voice, “Did I specifically advise her?”
“Yes,” Kate replied, then waited.
Matt nodded. He thought for a moment and then said, “I don’t know anything about any investments Mrs. Blount might have made. But . . .”
The pause was so long, Kate couldn’t stand it. “But you’ve spoken to her about such matters?” she asked. His blank face made it impossible for her to guess what he was really thinking or feeling.
“Of course,” Matt replied. “I talk about investments with everyone. It’s my area of expertise, advising people regarding their assets and making suggestions for their future.”
“So you’ve been advising and making suggestions to everyone you deliver meals to?”
“Of course,” Matt said, his face showing an expression for the first time: faint surprise. There was another long pause, then he asked, “Did something happen with Mrs. Blount?”
“I’m not in a position to say,” Kate replied.
Matt thought for a moment, then said, “I did talk with Mrs. Blount, but I can assure you that I know nothing at all about her investments, and I never received any funds from her. And I assure you that in the future, I won’t discuss investments with any Faith Freezer client outside of my own office. Is that what you wanted?”
“Yes.” Kate sighed. What else could she say? She picked up her purse. “You will keep our conversation confidential?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want people to—”
“Anything discussed in this office is automatically confidential.” He said it as a statement of fact, not an assurance.
“Thank you.” Matt nodded. “If I can ever help you and Pastor Hanlon with any of your financial arrangements, please let me know. Here’s my card.”
Kate took the business card, puzzled and frustrated. She walked past the teller’s counter, waving good-bye to the Cline sisters, and went outside, where she took a long, deep breath. What was it about Matt that always left her feeling as if she had literally been talking to a brick wall? His stolidity, for one. That immobile face. All the little expressions that flitted across most people’s faces didn’t flit across his.
Kate got into her car and drove to the gas station. As she was pumping gas, still thinking about Matt, it occurred to her for the first time that only half of any conversation was the actual words. The rest was in the gestures, the tilt of the eyebrows, the quirk of the lips...and Matt had none of those. Kate wondered whether he understood all those gestures and expressions in others. If not, he was missing the best part of any conversation he had. It would be like being color blind or tone deaf, only Kate thought this would be far more difficult to deal with.
She paid for her gas and went back downtown to shop for groceries at the Mercantile. Since Kate and Paul had moved to town, Sam Gorman, the owner, had taken to stocking more exotic groceries, like goat cheese and blue corn chips, and a wider array of fresh vegetables. She remembered how happy she’d been when he’d begun to carry puff pastry in the freezer, and how many questions she’d had to answer about what to do with it.
She looked around the store for Sam, but he wasn’t there. Must be off having a cup of coffee at the diner, she thought as she made her way to the produce section.
She was happy to find both leeks and red
peppers. After years of ignoring leeks as simply fat scallions, Kate had finally tried a chicken-and-leek soup that had been so delicious, Paul had raved about it for days. After that, she’d been more experimental, and that evening for dinner, she was going to try a recipe for braised leeks with lemons and chicken broth. The leeks along with baked red peppers and feta cheese, pork chops, and some whole-wheat dinner rolls would make a lovely meal.
She bagged up the leeks and peppers, shivering slightly in the chilly air. I should have brought my sweater. The image of her sweater hooked on the back of a chair in the Bixby-house kitchen leaped into her mind.
Arlene Jacobs, the part-time cashier, rang up Kate’s items, and Kate paid for her groceries. Then she returned to her car and headed back to the Bixby house to pick up her sweater.
As Kate got out of her car, she saw Martha Sinclair get in hers and drive off. At the same time, Junius came out the kitchen door. He saw her and shook his head.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” he said.
“Why not?” Kate asked.
Junius made a face. “Tell you the truth, bit of a cat fight.”
Kate walked past him and opened the kitchen door.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Amanda Bly exclaimed when Kate entered.
“Oh, don’t give me that,” Renee snapped. “Looking like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. You’re nothing but a man-chasing flirt, and you know it. You’re just the same as you were back in high school. Miss Amanda, Miss Popularity, Miss Priss—”
“Don’t tell me you’re still mad about homecoming—”
“Homecoming! How dare you speak to me about homecoming?” Renee spat.
Kate was amazed to see tears in Renee’s eyes and even more amazed to see Amanda blush fiery red.
“You knew about Charlie and me, and yet you stepped right in and—” Renee began.
“Ladies!” Kate interrupted, walking in between them. Both were quivering and flushed; Kate might have laughed if it wasn’t so sad. “What on earth are you two fighting about?”
“I’m not fighting,” Amanda managed to say, but Kate could see how upset she was. “Junius and I came by to drop off a box of containers—”
“And that’s another thing,” Renee launched forth again. “Who gave you a key to this place?”
“Martha let me in—”
“Yes, well, there’s been some mighty funny things going on around here. And no one is above suspicion.” Renee snatched up her tote, giving Kisses such an awful jerk that he whimpered. “Now look. On top of everything else, you’ve got Kisses all upset.”
She marched to the kitchen door and turned around. “A little more security around this place might not be a bad idea. And I can assure you, I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” Then she stomped out, slamming the door behind her.
The silence was deafening. “I’m so sorry,” Kate finally said.
“So am I.” Amanda looked as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. Then Kate realized that she was trying not to cry.
“It’s an old quarrel.”
“I’m sorry,” Kate repeated.
“Yes, well, no bones broken.” Amanda managed to smile, but it was shaky. “It’s just so...ridiculous. At our age!”
“Is it safe to come in now?” Junius poked his head through the door.
“Land sakes, yes,” Amanda said.
“You ready for me to take you home?” he asked.
Amanda nodded. “I’ll see you later, Kate.”
“Take care,” Kate replied.
With everyone gone, Kate took a deep breath. That scene had thoroughly upset her. She could only imagine what it had done to Amanda. To be railed at by a hysterical, obviously jealous woman. And, as Amanda had said, at their age. Kate sighed. “Anger is cruel and fury overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?”
Renee had been sweet on someone named Charlie, and Amanda had stolen him from her, or at least Renee believed she had. It was so long ago, and yet the pain was still there, still unhealed. “A wounded spirit who can bear?” Poor Renee.
Kate picked up her sweater, still hooked on the back of the chair, and looked around for her silk scarf. It wasn’t there. She looked in the sleeves of her sweater, on the chair, on the floor, on the countertops, in the corners, in the cabinets, even in the refrigerator. Her silk scarf was gone.
Chapter Five
Paul was in Joe Tucker’s battered old Ford pickup, squeezed in between Joe and Sam Gorman. They were rattling down the winding country road that Barnhill Street became once it crossed the railroad tracks, heading to the Dew Drop Inn.
“What do you two think about Hank Williams?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know any of his songs,” Paul admitted.
Sam nodded agreement.
Joe shook his head. “What’s the world coming to? Used to be everybody knew every Hank Williams song ever written.”
“That was a bit before our time,” Sam pointed out.
“I don’t know about that,” Joe said. “You should have learned a few of these back when we were roofing. I’d think you’d remember them.”
“All I remember is how steep those roofs were and how scared I was about falling off,” Sam said, chuckling.
Paul gave him a questioning look.
“I used to work with Joe back when I was in high school.”
“Roofing business?” Paul asked.
“More than that,” Joe said proudly. “Campbell’s Construction would do anything you cared to have done. We could build a house, fix a house, side a house, roof a house. We built barns, bathrooms, sheds, closets. I remember building a gazebo once. Craziest idea I ever heard of. Why not just add on a porch? But it was pretty when it was done.”
“I think every kid in town worked for them at one point or another,” Sam said. “Eli Weston worked with us for a while before he took over the antique store.”
Joe grinned. “Had to earn that date money somehow.”
“Try college money. That’s what put me through—working summers.”
“I worked there until I ran out of gas when I hit my fifties.” Joe cranked the wheel to the right to avoid a pothole.
“There’s also the little matter of falling off that roof,” Sam pointed out.
“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “Leg never did heal up properly. ’Course what can you expect at that age? So I hung up my tool belt and retired. Good to get free of it,” he said so stoutly that Paul didn’t believe a word. “And, of course, I still do a little woodworking. Keep my hand in things that way.”
Paul smiled as he watched the town go by through the windshield and thought about what they were going to attempt. A bluegrass band! A ripple of excitement, tinged with anxiety, went through him. It had been years since he’d played any music at all, either as a hobby or with a group. A pastor didn’t have much time for hobbies.
And now, here they were. Literally. Joe pulled into the rutted dirt parking lot outside the Dew Drop Inn. Paul got out of the truck, reached into the back, and pulled out a guitar case. He looked around with some trepidation. The old roadhouse was nothing but a wooden shack, its boards weathered gray and tacked all over with old signs, its windows pasted with ads for beer. The old, yellowed celluloid roadhouse sign was cracked, and the screen door was askew on its hinges. Paul would have bet that the place hadn’t been cleaned or painted since it was built.
“Come on, boys, here we are!” Joe called out, heading up the steps and into the building. The screen door slammed behind him.
“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Sam asked, holding his fiddle case against his chest.
Paul raised his eyebrows. His enthusiasm had just evaporated. He followed Sam up the creaking wood steps and blinked in the dim light indoors. A few wooden tables and chairs were set up in the open space before them. A long, heavy oak bar stretched across the left-hand side of the room, a row of stools beside it. The air smelled of stale beer, stale cigarettes, grease, and sawdust.
Paul was instantly transported back in time to when he was eighteen, just graduated from high school. He and some friends he’d been playing music with had gone down one Saturday night to the local roadhouse, more out of curiosity than anything else. They’d even had a few beers and tried to act as if they belonged there. But he hadn’t. He’d been nauseated by much of what he heard, much of what he saw, and he’d been glad to leave. The next day he’d felt awful, with a headache and a queasy stomach, but that was nothing compared to what he’d felt when his father took him aside later and asked him what he’d been doing down at the Hitching Post. He’d stammered out some excuse, and he could still hear his father’s response: “Paul, you’re a man now, and old enough to do what you please. But going down to a place like that is no way to prove it. I expect more of you than that.” Now, in his sixties, Paul still felt the guilt flooding back.
“Hey, guys!” Skip Spencer came up to them, his red hair glowing in the murky atmosphere. He was off duty and looked even younger in street clothes than in his uniform. “Come check out the stage!”
The three threaded their way between the tables. Paul could see a couple of pool tables to the right, each one with a lit lamp above it that made the green fabric the most vivid color in the whole place.
What on earth am I doing here?
He knew the roadhouse’s reputation for rowdiness. He could just imagine what people would say if word got out that he was spending time at the Dew Drop Inn. He shook his head, thinking that this was not a good idea for a pastor.
At the back was a small wooden stage, barely six feet wide by ten feet long. Joe was standing on it, talking with the largest man Paul had ever seen, both in height and girth.
“Sam, Paul!” Joe called out. “This here’s Bo Twist. He runs the place.”
They all exchanged greetings and shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Pastor,” said Bo. “Probably the only chance I’ll get,” he added.
“Well, you could always come to our church,” Paul offered. “I’m there fairly often.”
Bo shook his head. “I always sleep in on Sundays. Saturday’s my busiest night. That’s not to say I wouldn’t come if I could. I don’t have nothin’ against God, which is more than some people can say.”