“She has more important things to do,” his mom replied.
“I bet,” he said.
Sarah Rae Scott was younger than his mom, but tried to look much older, playing up the granny witch stereotype. She had been running one con or another since she was a teenager, when her grandmother had taught her to do cold readings. But his mom was right, she didn’t look well. In fact, she reminded him a little of the guy who had put a bullet in him not so long ago—sallow, sweaty face and tiny pupils. Sarah was either on something or really ill or both.
“You can scoff, Sheriff Moser,” Sarah said in her raspy old lady voice. “But your father told me who was stealing those innocent babies and—”
“Oh, wow, let me use my powers to ask Dad who that might be,” Jake said, putting his hand to his head. “I’m getting a vision. It’s a lollipop…a sucker. No, wait. It’s just one of Sister Sarah’s customers.”
“Jacob Moser!” his mom shrilled. “This is not some kind of joke.”
“No, mom, it isn’t. You let this piece of work drag Dad’s memory through her personal—” he pointed to his temple, “—garbage dump.”
Sarah shouldered her way forward to stand in front of him, hands on hips. He could see the powder she put on her face to highlight the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. But he could also see that her skin was yellow beneath it.
And her hand, not nearly gnarled and misshapen enough to belong to the crone she pretended to be, shook as she pointed a finger at him.
“They’re planning something involving a baby. As soon as that Woodruff spawn is born—”
“You are not going to stand in my store and call Grace Woodruff’s baby ‘spawn,’” Jake said in a hard voice, taking a step toward Sarah. He could’ve sworn he heard her hiss. “I can’t believe you let this charlatan say these things,” he said to his mom, ignoring Sarah.
“I told you, Marilyn. He’s under their control,” Sarah said. “Annie knew that mountain like the back of her hand. There’s no way she got lost—”
“Out!” Jake drowned out the rest of Sarah’s drivel and took another step forward forcing her right out the door. Sarah and Annie had been thick as thieves for a long time. That was strange enough, since Old Annie was a bit of a recluse. Sarah had always insinuated that there was some conspiracy involved in Annie’s disappearance—something about a secret that they were hiding up on Woodruff Mountain.
Of course, Old Annie had been the one hiding secrets—a hidden lab her sons had used to produce meth, a secret those boys had tried to kill to protect.
He watched Sarah scurry back to her shop, looking over her shoulder as if waiting for his mom to follow. Business was slow in town. Almost everyone was down at the river exploring the festival grounds so the sidewalks were relatively quiet. He was thankful that no one had heard the exchange.
But if those two kept spreading this garbage about the Woodruffs getting rid of Old Annie, he was going to bring them both up on charges. At least neither his mom nor Sarah knew enough about social media to try and libel anyone online.
He turned back to his mom, still furious. “The only good thing I can find to say about this situation is at least you’re not drinking.”
The remark hit home. She turned away to follow Sarah. He should be past feeling guilty for telling the truth, but he didn’t want to push her away. He moved to stop her.
“I’m sorry. Look, would you like a cup of coffee, Mom? Rita just made fresh.”
She hesitated and he pulled the chair out from behind the counter to put it next to his stool. She stared at it a moment then walked over and sat down with a sigh.
Despite what he knew about co-dependency and all the emotional weapons his mom had at her disposal, he still wanted to talk to her, to see if he could reason with the mother he remembered—who was still in there, somewhere.
And he did know how she liked her coffee. He made both of them mugs and carried them back into the front of the store. Handing her one, he settled down on his stool and picked up the notes he had made about all the projects he needed to work on—an abundance of new business.
“Our performance went well today,” he said. “Got lots of orders.”
“So you’ll be quitting as sheriff then.” It wasn’t a question.
“Probably. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. The timing seems right,” he said. “I’ll likely never be rich doing this, but I’ll be happy.”
She laughed without humor. “You’d never be rich as sheriff neither.”
“Pardon?” he said, raising his eyebrows at her lapse into mountain speak.
“You are too good.”
“Too good… What do you mean, Mom?”
She pointed the mug at him. “I mean you aren’t willing to take all the payoffs and kickbacks and whatnot that come with the job.” She sipped at her coffee.
“What?”
She looked at him. “Are you trying to tell me they never approached you?”
“Well, no. I mean, yes.” He peered at her. “Shit, Mom, are you telling me Dad did?”
“No need to swear, Jacob.” She stared at her caramel-colored brew. “You think we were rich?” Her voice sounded different—more contemplative, less accusatory.
He had to stop and think about that. “No, not really.” He took a long sip. “But we weren’t poor either.”
“They approached him. And they never really stopped,” she said in a soft voice. “It was a constant thing. He got so depressed.”
“It can be discouraging,” he agreed, thinking of the sly innuendos and subtle offers. Then there were the less-friendly shoves that forced him to shove back. Greed and dishonesty were the default in government, big or small. But his father had never shown any signs that kind of thing was going on, never sharing that part of his experiences. Jake wished he had. He might have reconsidered running for the office.
Jake stared out at the oncoming dusk, a sudden suspicion icing through his veins. His dad had never really recovered from Becca’s death. Add the pressures of the job to his mother’s alcoholism and maybe his death hadn’t been the stupid accident that they always thought it was. Maybe he had walked into that bullet.
“You’re a lot like him, you know,” she said.
The thought made Jake shudder.
“Those people who kept asking me about you coming back to the job?”
He nodded.
“The Millers. You remember them?”
He had a flash of a little girl—big brown eyes, soaked to the skin—who he had found with her foot wedged between two rocks in Little Mine Creek in the pouring rain. “Kaitlyn.”
She nodded. “They aren’t too happy about you stepping down.”
“Hmmm.”
“And Marsha Wilhoit?”
Jake remembered the terrified woman with the bruised face, held against her drunken husband’s chest with the barrel of a pistol digging into her ear. He had talked the man down and talked Marsha into filing charges—eventually.
“Yeah.”
“She cornered me at church and made me promise to ‘talk to you about leaving’.” She put prim quotes in the air.
The thought of anyone “cornering” his mother made Jake chuckle. “Is Trip still…uh…”
His mom nodded. “Going to the meetings regular. And going to church…” She smiled. “Not so regular.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“That’s what kept Ron going. Those people.” She sipped her coffee. “I understand you wanting to get out, though.” Her voice was faint. “I know I’ve said otherwise, but I understand.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He heard the slightest sound from her and found her eyes watering.
“You’ve always been good.” Her voice shook. “You were always a good boy. That’s why I’ve always worried about you.”
He tensed, expec
ting something about the Woodruffs.
She took another sip of the coffee. “Because of what I can see.”
“Mom—”
She waved her hand. “This isn’t about the Woodruffs.”
That stopped him short.
“It’s about me,” she said. “Something that happened when you were a little boy.”
She took a longer sip of the coffee. Jake could tell she wished it was something stronger.
“I don’t really know exactly when it happened.” She looked at him and took another sip of coffee. “But I-I started seeing these flickers around people.”
Jake saw the vulnerable look on her face, the sheen of unshed tears. This wasn’t her usual delusions, this was something else.
“What do you mean by flickers?”
She took another gulp of coffee. “Lights. Like flames.”
“Around who, exactly?”
Just then they heard the refrain of Thea’s gorgeous “For The Woodsman” playing from his workroom, sounding a bit tinny. It was clearly a recording.
Jake jumped up. The workroom only had one door and it had been in his line of sight the whole time. He knew what sound he would hear next.
“Jake?” his mother asked as he dashed to the workroom.
The moment the notes of the song went off, he heard the wavering whimpers of another baby.
Chapter Eleven
Although you could hear the music from where they were, the sound was muted and the crowds were smaller. There were still a few people who, like Thea and Greg, were exploring the grounds of Patton Springs Resort and Spa. Hot tubs full of the famous mineral water were scattered in various open-air shelters along the river and around the main building.
Greg sniffed. “Personally, I have never seen the appeal of getting into a tub full of hot water that someone else has used.”
Thea bit her lip for the thousandth time—by now it should have had a hole in it—as they headed back to the festival grounds.
“This area has a lot of interesting history, mainly because of the hot springs,” Thea explained. “They were discovered during the Revolutionary War and the road through town was heavily traveled.”
Greg looked surprised. “That long ago? Why would they come through here?”
“It was the major route for driving livestock south and the town sat on what was basically the superhighway heading south from the east coast at the time. Then there are the hot springs, which a lot of people believe have healing properties. There has been a hotel of one kind of another on these grounds ever since. In the nineteenth century, it was a very fashionable resort to visit, well known around the world.”
“Fashionable?”
It really wasn’t a good thing to let her frustration build up like this; she might hurt him. The thought did give her some satisfaction, though.
“Very. It was the place for the social elite of the South to come in the summer. They had golf, bowling, tennis, horseback riding and a ballroom with an orchestra playing every night.”
Greg looked at the modest building that stood on the grounds now. “Really?”
“Yes. It burned down three…no, four times, I think, and was always rebuilt. During World War I it served as a kind of internment camp for Germans who were stranded here when German luxury liners and merchant ships were seized,” Thea finished. “That story is amazing in itself. The place has a fascinating history.”
“Why is the town so small now?”
“The interstate highway system eliminated the traffic that used to come through this part of the mountains. But those of us who live here like the size of the town as it is and so do the tourists. It’s a relaxing place to visit. You can enjoy the hot springs and the spa, or go white water rafting, or take plant walks and learn about the ecosystem of the mountains. The Appalachian Trail goes right down Patton Street. And there are all the shops, the antiques and, of course, the music.”
“You sound like a PR rep for this place, yet you stayed away for a very long time,” Greg retorted.
Thea frowned. She needed to get rid of this guy. She wouldn’t let her family or friends to poke at her like this and she didn’t have to put up with Greg doing it.
“I love this place,” she said. “And, as I said before, every day that I had to spend in Philadelphia was torture.”
Greg stopped before they reached the row of vendor tents and turned to her. “I still have trouble believing you. Are you really going to leave corporate law?”
“Yes,” she said.
“There are people who would hand over their firstborn for a position like the one you fell into at Hartford.”
“Fell into?” I dropped out of Curtis. Gave up my music for pre-law. Suffered through law school. Missed the last few years I could have had with my Pops. “You know, when you put it like that, it does sound totally crazy.” She started down the row of tents toward town.
He hurried to catch up with her. “I didn’t say it was crazy,” he huffed.
“You didn’t?” Messing with him was fun, but she really needed to come clean and get Greg to head home. This was ridiculous.
“No, but you have a lot of talent. It seems a shame to toss it away on…on whatever it is that you think you’re…” He trailed off, a lawyer without a brief.
“Thea!” someone yelled from a booth. “Al, it’s Thea Woodruff.”
She turned to see Marty Croate waving her over to the Dreaming in Clay booth. She was happy to oblige.
“I have to thank you for that performance you put on this afternoon,” Marty said. “We nearly sold out of ocarinas.”
A man with black hair braided back into a long tail came from the rear of the booth to join her. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Al Croate.” Al was probably short for something in Cherokee.
“This is Greg Whitehead, a business colleague of mine,” she explained as they took turns shaking hands.
“We had tons of kids dragging their parents over here to buy one of our ocarinas so they could learn to play like ‘that pretty red-haired lady’,” Al said.
Thea grinned. “I think that’s about the best compliment anyone could give me. Thank you!”
“It was amazing. The festival has an impact on so many kids. You wouldn’t believe how many get interested in learning an instrument after listening to the bands. But seeing you two perform with such passion—that really made them think,” Al said. “They connect the dots and see that music is magic.”
Thea smiled. “Perhaps a few of them will stick with it when they find out about the practice part of the magic.”
Al smiled and nodded. “I can understand why people were flocking to buy those polished wood and chrome beauties of Jake’s. They’re as much art as they are musical.”
“From what I heard, he sold almost everything he had today,” Marty said.
“That’s great.” At least Jake’s business had gotten off to a good start.
“I told him he needed a booth out here, but I guess he didn’t,” Al said.
“How’s Emmy doing today?” Thea asked.
Marty’s smiled faded. “About the same. Aaron does something to set her off and that makes her symptoms worse and it just cycles.”
“I plan to sit down with Grace and work out something for her. Try to hang in there,” Thea said.
“Something that doesn’t involve any more of the poison that caused all this, I hope,” Al said, fire in his eyes.
“No more prescriptions. Strictly herbal. I promise.”
Al nodded solemnly and hugged his wife as Thea walked away from the booth.
“What was all that about?” Greg asked.
Thea sighed. “Their daughter has tardive dyskinesia as the result of taking antipsychotics. I’m trying to help them out with an alternative treatment.”
He was silent for a long mo
ment. “Why did you really go to work for Hartford, Althea?”
“I told you. I needed a job. And as you so kindly pointed out, nepotism opens doors,” she said. “And that big bonus check there at the end didn’t hurt.”
His voice took on an unusual edge. “I’m curious. You never really supported anything Hartford, or your father, stood for, did you? You seem to be all about alternative medicine—that herbal stuff your sister produces.”
Thea tensed, but she knew he was fishing. He was hurt and he was trying to understand why. She turned to face him. “What are you insinuating, Greg?”
He took a step back, looking around at the crowd. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to them. “Nothing, really. It’s just… You seem so different here.”
Greg had never known the real Thea. And, to be honest, she hadn’t made it easy for him to. “I told you. I keep my business and personal life separate—”
“But we were dating. That’s as personal as it gets.”
“We were not dating, Greg. I made that pretty clear in Philly. I’m sorry if you somehow got the wrong impression.”
He made a tentative movement, as if to take her by the shoulders, but she started walking back down Patton Street in the direction of the parking lot. He trotted after her.
“What do you think will happen to the settlement—to all those pending civil lawsuits—if they find out an attorney on the case was compromised?”
“Compromised?” She spun around. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
Greg shrank back. “All this seems very important to you—your grandfather, the family business, this mountain of yours. Your father walked away from all of it. He turned his back on your grandfather, on the business.”
Greg’s obsession with her father frankly bordered on the creepy. Thea laughed and shook her head. “Seriously? You think I would risk that big bonus, my license, my reputation, on some kind of sentimental revenge? You really don’t know me at all. Business is business.” She continued down the sidewalk toward Patton Street. Maybe Greg knew her better than she thought, but he was still guessing.
Making Magic: Books of the Kindling, Book 3 Page 19