A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

After the fire, I was able to keep the store open, though Duane’s hammering and sawing made the whole store rattle and buzz, making life pretty unpleasant for me and my customers. (They, at least, got to leave after a while.) A few things walked over the edge of the shelves from all the vibrations. Most were cans, though a couple of broken mayonnaise jars splattered an oily mess over the floor and nearby groceries.

I knew Vester and Abit were hovering around Duane in the back, giving him unwanted advice, but I wasn’t about to tell them to go home. Let Duane fight his own battles. And I was grateful that they’d contained the fire. I couldn’t even think about what would have happened if Vester hadn’t pissed off Abit. That chair out front should be elevated to a throne!

Community hadn’t figured much in my life. Sure, I had friends, but everyone was always so busy. And neighbors? Forget it. We barely said hello as we passed in the hallways or at the front door. Not to mention I had a creepy security guard who kept asking me out and following me around. Abit was the best security guard I could ever have.

When Duane broke for lunch, I enjoyed the relative quiet and pulled together a meal for myself. I was getting tired of eating things that hadn’t sold, so I splurged and opened a new smoked trout, which I ate with pickled onions and French bread. When I finished, I took a couple of mugs of coffee out front. I’d seen Abit’s cowlick through the plate glass window.

I handed him his mug and sat on the bench next to him. “I can’t do this anymore,” I told him.

“What? All the noise and hammering? Yeah, it must sound like a freight train coming through the store,” he said, sipping his coffee.

“No, I mean the search for Lucy’s killer. This is way out of my skill set.”

“No it ain’t. Isn’t. We’re just about there. We can do this.”

“That’s what scares me most, Abit. We. You could have been hurt or even killed by the arsonist—or the fire itself. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you and your father saved the store, but I’m done. I just want to do what I came here to do. Live a simpler life, sell some groceries and beer, talk with you and the customers, like now.” 

I thought that would please him, but instead, his face turned a deep red. “What are you talking about?” he shot back. “You were the one—I heard you say this more than oncet—that you had to do this. You couldn’t not help that poor girl.”

“But I can’t help her. She’s gone. Just like my neighbor.”

Abit looked confused by my last comment, but that didn’t stop him from shouting, “But we can find the asshole who did it. And what about Gregg?”

“He’s got an attorney. Let him do his job. We can’t help him anymore. And even if we could, what if you or your father or me or Jake got hurt in the process?”

“That’s not what you’ve been teaching me. Not even close!” Abit stood up so fast the chair clattered to the ground. He stormed up the steps to his house.

I knew I was doing the right thing, and I thought he’d get over it. His folks would tell him he was out of line, youthful enthusiasm without understanding the consequences, and so on. I righted his chair and went inside.

But two days later, he still hadn’t come down to sit in his chair.

When I closed up that night, I felt shattered. I told Jake that we needed a drive and a dinner of excellent food and attentive service. The word “drive” sent him into pirouettes on his hind legs. I fed him first, then we loaded into the truck and took a slow drive up the Blue Ridge Parkway. I hadn’t been back to the Inn at Jonas Mountain since I went with Alex and Abit, and I was looking forward to someone else taking care of me. It was always cool enough up there to leave Jake in the truck with the windows cracked.

I grabbed my purse and a book I’d been meaning to read and headed inside the inn. On the way up, I’d already figured out my order—a reprise of broiled rainbow trout—so I didn’t even open the menu when the hostess seated me in a smaller dining room, just off the main one. While I waited for my dinner, I took in the spectacular view. The sun had begun its descent behind the mountains, shooting out rays that reminded me of a proud male turkey, showing off his gorgeous fantail. The sun was definitely strutting its stuff that evening.

Off to my left, someone with long blond hair caught my eye. She was leaning over her table in an exaggerated way, either telling a secret or whispering sweet nothings. When she leaned back, I dropped my book on the floor. Kitt Scanlon. Talking to Alex Covington. The bastard was at it again.