by Carol Miller
“Sure is.”
“I thought the initials were for a person,” Beulah said.
“So did I,” Daisy agreed.
“But Tightsqueeze is a town. Why would a town have a chip?”
Daisy gazed at Connor curiously. “Does it belong to a place in Tightsqueeze? Do you and Duke do plumbing and electrical work for them?”
“I don’t go there no more,” he replied. “The missus doesn’t like it.”
“She doesn’t approve of gambling?”
Conner frowned. “Gambling?”
“Gambling.” Daisy held up the chip as evidence.
“There’s no gambling.”
It was her turn to frown.
“It’s not a counter,” Connor explained. “It’s a marker.”
“A marker?”
“That one’s for a jar.”
Daisy’s mouth opened in astonishment. “You mean it’s a—”
“White’s a drink. Red’s a jelly. And blue’s a canning.”
“How patriotic,” Beulah sneered.
Patriotic indeed. Daisy could only shake her head. A patriotic nip joint.
CHAPTER
6
“So are you going?”
“Where?”
Beulah drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know that you’re thinking about it. You’ve been thinking about it ever since Connor told you how to get there.”
Daisy answered with a shrug.
“You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t go, Daisy. Those places can be scary.”
“And you know this because you’ve been to so many nip joints in your life?”
“I read the news!” Beulah protested. “Last summer they tried to shut one down over in Lynchburg, and three people ended up dead.”
“That wasn’t a nip joint,” Daisy corrected her. “It was one of those slapdash painkiller clinics.”
“Close enough.”
“Moonshine isn’t a prescription drug.”
“It is according to Aunt Emily.”
That made Daisy laugh. Aunt Emily had a gift for creating superior brandies—particularly her gooseberry brandy—and she loved to refer to them as medicine. In her mind they could cure almost any ailment, at least temporarily if you drank enough of them.
Beulah swerved around a group of vultures clustered along the edge of the highway. “It’s not the likker that worries me, Daisy.”
“I know. It’s the people who might be there.”
She nodded. “If you’re right, and that chip did come from the man Brenda stabbed—”
“Then the other men—his friends—could be at the nip joint.”
“Is it really worth the risk? Sure, you might get some information about them, but you could also meet them!”
“Except I wouldn’t know them if I saw them,” Daisy countered. “I don’t even know if they’d know me.”
“We have no idea if they know any of us,” Beulah said.
“Rick thinks it was planned—the men wouldn’t just randomly come into the bakery during the middle of the day. So I have to assume that they did some sort of surveillance in preparation. They knew how to get in the back door and about the cream cheese.”
Beulah clucked her tongue. “Don’t get me started on the stupid cream cheese.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter right now anyway. The nip joint will have to wait. We’ve got a geocacher barbecue to go to.”
“I wonder,” Beulah clucked her tongue again before turning into the entrance of the campground, “if any of those geocachers are single.”
Fuzzy Lake Campground wasn’t actually adjacent to Fuzzy Lake. The two were separated by a mountain and several hundred acres of dense forest. There weren’t many campgrounds in Pittsylvania County, primarily because there weren’t many tourists, and for the most part the locals already lived in the middle of nature. Recreational vehicles weren’t allowed. Neither were campers or trailers. Visitors could choose between a dozen sites to pitch their own tent and twenty rustically outfitted cabins. To some, the amenities might have been considered primitive. There was no swimming pool or media room, and the nearest sit-down restaurant was a solid forty-five-minute drive. But it was a pretty campground—with long paths through pine-scented woods, meadows covered in rainbow carpets of wildflowers, and lots of outstanding opportunities for bird-watching and other wildlife viewing.
Laurel had chosen well. It was a good place for the geocachers to stay during their hunt. They obviously enjoyed being outdoors, and the campground was much better situated than any of the area motels, which were even farther away than the restaurants. Daisy now also understood why the group had been frequenting her bakery since their arrival. Sweetie Pies was without a doubt the closest spot for a hot cup of coffee.
They drove slowly down the stony, snaking road, occasionally catching a glimpse of a red or yellow tent through the trees. The low rays of the setting sun didn’t have much strength left. There were more shadows than light.
“It’s going to be a pain coming back this way later,” Beulah groused. “I hate these pitch-black places at night.”
“I hope that Bobby doesn’t go walking around here after dark. With his rotten sense of direction, he could easily get turned around and make it halfway over the mountain before dawn.”
“But then Laurel could come and rescue him.” Beulah tittered.
Daisy laughed with her. “Maybe that’s how they met. He was roaming around the countryside in his camouflage—rifle in one hand, jelly jar in the other—drank too much, got miserably lost, and all of a sudden there she was. An angel in hiking boots to help him find his way home.”
“So instead of love at first sight, it was actually drunken fatigue!”
“We should really ask her about it. It might be an awfully good story.”
“Do you think Bobby will be here?” Beulah said.
“Probably.”
“And the weasel?”
“Aw, jeez.” Daisy groaned. “I forgot all about Rick.”
As they reached the center of the campground, where the cabins were situated, she looked at the vehicles parked along the side of the road. To her relief she saw neither Rick’s nor Bobby’s pickup.
“Laurel wasn’t kidding.” Beulah pulled the car onto an open patch of grass. “They have taken over the place.”
Ahead of them was a group of about fifty people gathered loosely around a blazing fire pit. Blue and amber flames leapt upward, crackling and popping from exploding pine sap. It was a splendid night for an inferno. The air was damp and chilly, and the sky was clear, with the first few stars just beginning to show themselves. As she and Beulah approached the others, Daisy recognized some of their faces from the bakery. He liked buttermilk doughnuts. She was fond of macadamia nut cookies. They were all eating, mostly hot dogs and hamburgers while passing around mammoth bags of potato chips. There were also a lot of beer cans and what appeared to be wine in translucent plastic cups.
“Oh, good.” Beulah sighed. “It’s relaxed.”
“It’s a barbecue at a remote campground on the edge of Appalachia. What did you imagine they would have? Baby quiches and cucumber sandwiches on silver salvers with doilies?”
“No.” Beulah scrunched up her nose indignantly. “But I’ve never been to a party with geocachers before—”
She was interrupted by Laurel, who emerged from the crowd holding a wine bottle in each hand and two plastic cups hanging from the tips of her pinkies.
“Hooray! I’m so happy you came,” she exclaimed. “Red or white?”
Daisy took a cup of the red, while Beulah took a cup of the white.
“There’s plenty of food over there.” Laurel motioned toward a rickety folding table piled with plates, buns, and condiments. “And somewhere…” She glanced around. “There he is! Chris? Chris!”
A man turned at her shouts. The family resemblance was immediately evident. He had the same long legs as Laurel, th
e same black hair—although cut short—and the same warm, friendly smile.
As he walked over to them, he bestowed the smile on his sister. “You bellowed?”
“He loves to pick on me,” Laurel said to Daisy and Beulah. “It’s the price one pays for having a big brother.”
Introductions were made. Chris Page was as polite and well mannered as his sister. Daisy found him just as easy to like.
“Laurel told me that she met you today and you were coming tonight.” Chris’s smile grew as he spoke. “I have to confess I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.”
Daisy chuckled, understanding full well what he meant. For all he knew, she and Beulah might have looked like a couple of scruffy goats wandering down from the hills too. “Is Bobby here?” she asked.
Laurel shook her head. “He had to help Rick with something this evening.”
Silently, Daisy cheered. Now she could relax.
Chris also shook his head but for a different reason. “I’m having a hard time believing that you and those Balsams come from the same zip code.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Daisy drawled.
“Oh, it’s most definitely a compliment,” Chris returned suavely.
Beulah gave her a surreptitious nudge with her elbow, and Daisy felt her cheeks flush. If she needed an excuse, she could always blame the heat from the fire.
“Please don’t start picking on Bobby.” Laurel’s tone was one of weary exasperation. “Not tonight, Chris. Not again.”
“But he doesn’t do anything.” Chris shook his head once more, sternly this time. “He just sits around all day in that broken-down trailer, playing with his dogs and cleaning his guns. At least his brother has a job. It may be making illegal hooch, but it’s still a business. Or sort of a business—”
Eager to avoid the subject of Rick and his hooch, Daisy interjected, “What do you do for a living, Chris?”
Laurel glanced at her gratefully.
“I teach history at a college up in Maryland.”
“You’re a professor?” Beulah raised an eyebrow at Daisy. It carried an unmistakable message: Pay attention to this one! A reputable college professor is a heck of a lot better than a rough-and-tumble moonshiner.
“What type of history?” Daisy asked, genuinely interested.
“American. Nineteenth-century mostly. I did my graduate work on the Civil War.”
Beulah coughed. “You mean the War of Northern Aggression?”
With a grin, Daisy added, “Or the War for Southern Independence?”
“The War Between the States,” Chris answered diplomatically.
“Have you been to Danville?” Daisy said. “It’s not far from here, and as I’m sure you know, it was the last capital of the Confederacy.”
“Has he been to Danville?” Laurel moaned. “That’s all he ever wants to do—drive around endlessly in search of old things. ‘Look!’” she cried, parodying her brother in the manner of a bookish archaeologist. “‘This is the outline of some long-forgotten building. Over there is the spot of a teeny-tiny unmarked battlefield. And here’s one crumbling stone left from a ruined monument’—”
“Thanks, sis. You make me sound about as interesting as sawdust.”
“But it is interesting,” Daisy replied. “At least I think so. When I was little, I used to love driving around on Sunday afternoons with my daddy. He was a big fan of historical markers, and he turned it into a game for us, to see how many we could find. We stopped and read every single one. I didn’t understand what half of ’em were talking about, of course. When you’re eight years old, every military regiment and semi-famous statesman’s gravesite seems pretty much the same.”
Chris smiled at her so warmly that Beulah nudged her again. For all of Beulah’s cynicism regarding love at first sight—and every other form of love, for that matter—she was still an inveterate matchmaker.
Topping off their cups with her bottles, Laurel smiled too, giving Daisy the distinct impression that she had a bit of matchmaker in her as well.
“Are there a lot of historical markers in this area?” Chris asked. “I’ve only seen one. It was for a tavern.”
Daisy laughed. “Throughout every century—regardless of world events—the citizens of Pittsylvania County have always enjoyed raising a glass.”
He laughed with her. “I would be interested in seeing some of the other markers.…”
She took the hint as he hesitated. “I’d be happy to show them to you.”
“Would you? I’d really like that.”
“My bakery closes at two during the week. Any time after that is fine by me.”
“How about Tuesday?” Chris looked over at his sister. “Do we have anything on the schedule for Tuesday afternoon?”
Laurel’s nose twitched. “Nothing that can’t happen without you.”
He turned back to Daisy. “Tuesday then?”
She nodded in agreement.
Shifting slightly closer to her, Chris gestured toward a hewn log bench that was set away from the group. “It’s kind of warm so near to the fire. Would you like to go over there?”
Nodding once more, Daisy glanced at Beulah, but she was already sashaying in the direction of several agreeable-looking men. Equally quick to catch a hint, Laurel was also in the process of disappearing into the crowd.
They sat together on the bench for a long time—talking, admiring the night sky, thoroughly enjoying each other’s company. When Beulah finally came over and told them that the party was breaking up, it was much later than Daisy had originally planned on going home, but she didn’t mind. Spending a pleasant evening with a pleasant man was well worth being a little more tired the next day.
As he walked them to Beulah’s car, Chris put his arm around Daisy’s shoulders and told her how much he was looking forward to Tuesday. She was looking forward to it too, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, Daisy felt a touch of gratitude toward Bobby. If he hadn’t met Laurel, then she would never have met Chris.
CHAPTER
7
Daisy found herself whistling along with the teakettle song of a Carolina wren as she unloaded a heap of supplies from her trunk the following morning in the parking lot of the bakery. The little bird was merrily singing its heart out even though it was barely dawn, and she felt equally auspicious toward the approaching day. There would be plenty of geocaching customers. There would be a delivery of new cream cheese. There would be … a strange man standing in front of the bakery door.
Her whistling stopped with a startled squawk. The man was about as wide as the oversize refrigerator in the kitchen. His expression was about as steely too. In his black shirt and black jeans, he looked like one giant, bulging, formidable muscle—the type that ate an entire pound of bacon along with half a dozen lard-fried eggs for breakfast, not one of her petite, heart-healthy blueberry bran muffins.
“Um…” Daisy’s brow furrowed. He didn’t appear to be waiting for Sweetie Pies to open, but she could think of no other legitimate reason for him to be on the premises. “Are you here for the bakery?”
“No, ma’am.”
She breathed a small sigh of relief. Although his tone was too stiff to be affable, it wasn’t threatening either.
“Can I help you with something?” Daisy asked politely.
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you need directions somewhere?” She glanced around for his vehicle but didn’t see it.
“No, ma’am.”
It was the third time that he had given her the exact same answer, and Daisy was starting to get irritated.
“What do you want then?” she said, less courteously.
“Nothing, ma’am.”
At least that was a slight variation, albeit an uninformative one.
“Well, I own this place—” Daisy began.
“I am aware of that, ma’am.”
“So if you have no business here, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
; “I can’t do that, ma’am.”
She frowned at him. “You can’t do that?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Would you care to tell me why not?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’d rather have me call the sheriff instead?”
It was his turn to frown, just faintly. “I wouldn’t recommend that, ma’am. Mr. Balsam wouldn’t like it.”
Daisy’s irritation promptly swelled like a helium balloon. It wasn’t difficult for her to guess which Balsam he was referring to. Bobby never commanded that much respect.
“What’s Rick got to do with it?” she snapped.
“I’m only following Mr. Balsam’s orders, ma’am.”
“His orders?”
“I was told you need protection, ma’am.”
She blinked at him in surprise. “I need protection?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Protection from what exactly?”
“Mr. Balsam didn’t specify, ma’am.”
In an effort to restrain herself from calling Rick one of several names that her momma took strenuous objection to, Daisy drew a deep breath. Then she reminded herself that it was far too early in the day to get so exercised about a Balsam brother.
“You can go,” she said after a minute. “I don’t need protection.”
The man didn’t respond.
“You can go,” Daisy repeated, more sharply. “I don’t need protection.”
Still no response. She growled.
“You’re really beginning to get on my nerves.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I would much rather have you angry at me than Mr. Balsam.”
He spoke with such gravity that Daisy knew there was no point in her arguing any further. She could have begged, bribed, cried, and threatened, and it wouldn’t have done her a lick of good. Rick not only commanded respect, he could also be extremely intimidating.
“Mr. Balsam directed me to give these to you.” The man handed her a ring of glossy gold keys. “He put new locks on the doors and windows last night.”
For an instant, Daisy was inclined to throw a fit, but then it occurred to her that perhaps she should be appreciative instead. Laurel had said the reason Bobby didn’t come to the barbecue at the campground was because he had to help Rick with something. If she had been spared their company and spent a lovely evening with Chris free from the Balsam brothers’ annoying antics as a result of them installing better locks on the doors and windows of her bakery, she had no cause for complaint.