The newcomer was about Grant's age, maybe a year or two older than Cassie. “We were just having a chat about nothing,” Grant said. “I'm new in town.”
“That right?”
Grant nodded, unsure where to go from there. “My dad died recently. He was a local here.”
“That right?” the stoner said again.
Grant couldn't repress a slight smile. Such witty repartee! He held out a hand. “I'm Grant. Grant Shipman.”
The stoner's eyes narrowed. He shook hands, though without any real conviction. “Carl. You Andrew Shipman's boy? He died recently.”
This guy was a real Sherlock Holmes. “That's right. Did you know my dad? I didn't know him well at all.”
“You need to leave my girlfriend alone. C'mon, Cassie.”
Cassie shook his arm off as he tried to turn her around. “Carl! I can't go anywhere, I'm watching the girls.”
Carl seemed to find the situation suddenly difficult, his face twisting into a confused frown. Grant swiftly sized things up. If Carl felt like his authority was being tested, he looked the sort to react badly to it. Cassie couldn't go anywhere, so Grant would need to break the tension. He clenched a fist, tempted to break the tension by breaking this loser’s nose, but bit it down. His temper was another thing that stressed Suzanne out.
“Anyway,” he said quickly, “I'd better be off. Gotta lot of stuff to do up at my dad's old place. That's where I'm staying for now.”
He gave Cassie a reassuring smile, sneered at Carl, and strode off across the scrubby park without waiting for a response. There was something very uncomfortable between those two and he didn't want to get Cassie in any kind of trouble. And if Carl was anything other than stupid, it was trouble. Frustrated, he headed back to where he'd parked his Camaro, wondering what kind of answer Cassie would have given about the photo if they hadn't been interrupted.
Chapter 4
A soft knock at the door rattled Grant from dark thoughts. He hesitated, then decided anyone who meant him ill probably wouldn't announce their presence so boldly. Then again, who could tell with these locals?
He drew back the curtain just far enough to peer outside. A woman of middle years stood on the doorstep holding a cardboard box packed with food. Silver streaked her blonde hair, and wrinkles creased her forehead and the corners of her eyes. She saw him and smiled.
“I'm so sorry to drop in unannounced like this,” she said while the door was still opening, “but Andrew turned off his home phone years ago and we didn't know any other way to reach you.” She bustled in like an expected guest, chattering as she headed to the kitchen. “I'm Mary Ann Stallard, Pastor Edwin's wife. The sheriff told us you were in town, and we wanted to make sure you were welcome. Have you had supper yet?”
Grant caught a whiff of fried chicken and his stomach answered the question for him.
“You just have a seat then.” Mary Ann pulled out a chair for him and started unloading her box. Grant sat down and watched, a little uncomfortably, as she laid out fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits, green beans, corn, and a jar of sweet tea. In typical southern fashion, she apologized profusely for what she claimed was meager fare.
“It looks delicious. I can't remember the last time I had real home cooking.”
“Well, you just enjoy yourself then. I'm going to take a little walk.” She patted him on the shoulder and turned toward the front door.
“Do you want to join me?” Grant asked. “I doubt I can eat all this by myself.” He didn't relish the thought of making small talk with his unexpected visitor, but it would have been rude not to offer.
“I'll be fine.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Take your time.”
When the front door closed behind her, he chuckled and set to his meal. The chicken was the best he'd ever had- crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. The biscuits were perfect, and the green beans and corn were fresh, though seasoned with a little too much salt and bacon grease for his liking. He could almost feel his arteries clogging with every delicious bite. By the time Mary Ann returned, he was working on his second plate. She nodded in approval and started wandering around the living room.
Grant did his best to ignore her as she hovered about, looking in turn at the paintings on the wall and his dad's old musket. As he stuffed the last bite of biscuit and gravy in his mouth, he noticed her kneeling beside the boxes where he'd been sorting his dad's books. Her back arched strangely, her fingers curled like claws, the nails jet black and far too long. Her face seemed stretched back, drawn tight and angular across her skull. She seemed to be growling deep in her chest. Grant gasped, his chair scraping back as he stood.
Mary Ann turned, her soft, middle-aged face curious, her hands resting on the edge of a box. Grant shook his head, blinked. What the hell was that? He swallowed, took a swig of tea, and cleared his throat.
“Did you want to borrow a book?” He kept his tone easy. “Dad had plenty of them. I figured I'd donate them to the library. I'm more of an e-book guy myself.” He wondered if she even knew what an e-book was.
“Oh, no.” The smile that suddenly spread across her face was so unlike her expression moments before that he found the change unsettling. “My husband lent your daddy a book. It isn't valuable, but it belonged to Edwin's great grandfather, and he'd love to have it back in his library.” She rose unsteadily to her feet.
Cold suspicion trickled down his spine. “What was the title?”
“Oh, it didn't even have a title. Just a wrinkled old leather cover, kind of light brown in color. The pages are old and wavy and the words aren't even English. It's just a curiosity that was passed down through the family.”
He relaxed a little. He'd assumed she was referring to Demonology and The Bible.
“Sorry, but I definitely haven't seen anything like that, and I've been through all the books.”
“Are there any in the back rooms?” she asked. “I could go check for you.”
Grant shook his head. “Nope, I've checked every nook and cranny, but I'll definitely let you know if it turns up.”
Her face tightened and, for a moment, he thought she would protest, but she nodded. “Thank you kindly. I'll leave you our number, but you can find us at the parsonage. It's right by the church, and somebody's most always home.”
She insisted he keep all the food he had not eaten, telling him he could return the dishes any time he liked. He thanked her and promised again to keep an eye out for the book. He stood in the doorway as she drove away, and didn't go back inside until her taillights vanished in the darkness.
He supposed her hospitality should warm his heart, but he felt cold inside. There was something wrong about this town.
A freaking iron key. That was the only thing his dad had left in his safe deposit box at the First National Bank of Wallen's Gap. Grant wondered why he'd even bothered to make the trip into town, enduring another round of dull stares and angry mutters from the local fauna. He'd kept an eye out for Cassie, but hadn't seen her. He was still convinced she knew something about his dad. Maybe she even knew something about the book the pastor's wife had been so interested in finding.
He'd searched every inch of the cabin, including the attic and the crawlspace, and was satisfied there was no lock the iron key would fit. He now stood on the front porch, twirling the key around his finger and thinking. Why put a key in a safe deposit box? The reasons were obvious. While the key itself might not have any intrinsic value, it must unlock something that did. His dad was keeping the key safe, keeping it away from someone else, or both.
Slapping his palm with the cold iron, he looked around. There was nothing out front except an old dog house, its roof sagging like an aged horse. He stepped down off the porch and circled the house. On the back side, the land sloped upward toward the peak of Clay Mountain far above. The pine forest that covered the mountainside was fast encroaching, casting the land in a dull hue of dark green. As Grant gazed up the hill, he caught a glimpse of weathered, gray wood. He climbed up the slope, heading directly toward it, nervous energy buoying his steps. Something told him he'd found what he was looking for.