Violet frowned, and her hand crept up to her frizzy blond locks. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
Jo-Jo speared her with a hard look. “Nothing a hot-oil treatment and some deep conditioning can’t take care of.”
Violet’s confused frown deepened, but I grabbed her arm and pulled her off the porch before she could think too hard about her split ends. Finn followed us, and we walked out to his car. Since we were going to be tooling up into the mountains today, Finn had decided to drive his oh-so-rugged Cadillac Escalade instead of his Aston Martin.
Violet stopped in front of the SUV and looked at us.
“What about my car? Did you guys drive it somewhere last night?”
Finn and I exchanged a look. Driving Violet Fox’s car to a safer location had been the last thing on my mind.
“We had to leave it in the parking lot,” I said. “We were more concerned with getting you patched up than what to do with your car.”
Violet’s face paled. “You mean — you mean you left it there in that Southtown parking lot? All night?”
Her concern was more than warranted. Leaving a car in that neighborhood was just begging for trouble. By now, the vehicle had probably been stripped of everything but the cigarette lighter. Hell, somebody had probably taken that too. Barracudas couldn’t pick a corpse any cleaner than the white trash and gangbangers in Southtown.
“It might be okay,” Finn replied in a hopeful tone. “It’s just a Honda. Several years old at that. It’s not like I left my Aston Martin down there.”
He shuddered at the thought. Violet chewed her lower lip.
“You have insurance, don’t you?” I asked.
Violet nodded.
“Then you can worry about your car later. Right now we need to go see your grandfather. You still want us to help the two of you, right?”
Violet nodded again. “Of course. Like I said, the Tin Man was my only hope. Now you’re my only hope.”
Only hope? How very Star Wars. I grimaced. But I didn’t tell Violet Fox how misplaced her trust in me was, how misguided, how laughable, even. That I only brought death to people, not hope. That I was doing this rare, pro bono good deed out of my own fucking insatiable curiosity more than anything else.
“Come on,” I said, opening the door on the SUV.
“Let’s go.”
——
Finn steered out of Jo-Jo’s subdivision and headed north. Following Violet Fox’s directions, we left the suburbs behind and drove through the heart of Northtown, where the rich, richer, and richest lived. People didn’t have mansions in Northtown — they had estates. If not for the driveways, iron gates, and tasteful brick walls that could be seen from the streets, you might have thought the area was deserted.
Because nobody with real wealth, magic, or power was gauche enough to let their home be seen from the road.
We drove on, still heading north. The terrain became rockier, more rugged, as the rolling hills of the lowlands gave way to knobby ridges and pine-covered mountains.
Houses began to appear on the side of the road, although they were far less grand than the hidden McMansions that populated the Northtown estates. The road narrowed from four lanes to two and twisted back on itself in a series of switchbacks that would give most folks nausea.
Instead of sleek sedans and chrome-covered SUVs, we began to pass dump-and coal trucks on the road.
After about thirty minutes of driving, Violet pointed out the windshield. “That’s it, just up ahead at the crossroads.”
Finn slowed, turned into a gravel lot, and parked. I peered out the window at the structure before us. The two-story clapboard building might have been a home or perhaps a hunting cabin, once upon a time. Although it was obviously old, the building sported a fresh coat of white paint, with the shutters trimmed in a pale green.
Smaller, matching outbuildings squatted next to the main structure, connected to it by short, covered walkways.
Wooden steps led up to a front porch that was even wider than Jo-Jo’s. The porch ran the length of all three buildings. Rocking chairs lined either side of the front door, along with barrels topped with checkerboards. The tin sign mounted above the main entrance gleamed like a new nickel in the sun. Country Daze, it read in green paint that matched the shutters. The roofs of all three buildings were also tin, the kind that made a slow, steady rain sound like a classical sonata.
The parking lot — if you wanted to call it that and not just loose gravel, curved around the store like a crescent moon. A stop sign squatted off to the right, and the road came to a T, forcing you to go right or left. One of the road signs pointed the way back to the interstate and declared that this stretch of pavement was part of some scenic, tourist-trap highway. The other sign featured an arrow and the words Dawson No. 3. Less than a mile away. Interesting. I might have to go check out the coal mine, after I met the illustrious Warren T. Fox.
We got out of the car. Underneath my boots, the parking lot gravel vibrated with the sounds of traffic and tires continually rolling across it. A low growl that told me the stones had seen a lot of people and cars go by in their time. Nothing sinister, just the everyday facts of life.
A smile brightened Violet Fox’s face and softened her eyes, chasing away some of the lingering shadows from last night.
“You really love this place, don’t you?” I asked.
She nodded. “My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather took me in and raised me. I’ve been helping him with the store ever since. It’s like my second home, you know?”
Violet Fox and I were more alike than she realized, because I did know. Because I felt the same way about the Pork Pit. That’s why I’d reacted so badly, so defensively, when Jonah McAllister had come calling today — because he wasn’t just threatening my business, my livelihood, he was threatening my home as well. A piece of my heart. The last piece of Fletcher Lane that I had, since the old man was dead and gone and had left me nothing else but riddles to solve.
Violet started to walk ahead to the store, but I grabbed her arm.
“Stay behind me.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Just do it, all right?”
Finn stared at me over the hood of the SUV. “You think there’s going to be trouble inside, Gin?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But if this is such a popular place, why aren’t there more cars here? It’s lunchtime. Folks should be packed in here, getting a sandwich or a cold drink.”
Finn’s green eyes flicked over the gravel lot. Only one other car was parked in it, an anonymous navy sedan. His eyes drifted out to the road. A steady stream of traffic came and went at the crossroads, but none of the drivers looked at the store, much less pulled into the lot. Finn’s face tightened.
“It’s been quiet since Dawson started sending his men over to harass us,” Violet explained. “People don’t like to stop somewhere there might be trouble. Sometimes, we’re lucky if we get five customers in eight hours. It’s probably just a slow day.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go find out.”
I led the way, with Finn behind me and Violet bringing up the rear. As we crossed the parking lot, I palmed one of my silverstone knives. If there was trouble inside, I’d be the first one to see it — and I wanted to be ready to deal with it.
The porch stairs didn’t creak under my weight. They were too smooth and well-worn to do that. I walked up them, opened the front door, and stepped inside.
Country Daze was exactly what I’d expected. Scarred, ancient wooden floors. Displays of tourist T-shirts, key chains, and other doodads. An odd assortment of tools and outdoor equipment. Barrels full of rock candy, saltwater taffy, and cellophane-wrapped sugary pralines. A couple of coolers filled with old-fashioned glass soda bottles.