The wheels of the cart squeak as I trail Maggie to the front of the store, her shawl fluttering over an unreasonable number of layers. Walt reads the paper behind the counter, muttering under his breath while Poe surveys the scene from a crooked shelf above. Walt often mutters like this when he reads theFoggy Hollow Gazette, bemoaning the slow, pitiful death of real journalism.
It’s Saturday morning, and while I’m not technically on the clock, I don’t mind making myself useful while I wait for Twig.
Maggie comes to an abrupt halt and peers down her nose, through her reading glasses, at the book in her hand. The spine reads:Lacework for the Recently Bereaved, and I can’t help but marvel at the vast and peculiar universe of books.Somewhere out there, someone grieved a loved one and thought, “You know what would help? Needlework.”
The newspaper crinkles as Walt turns a page.
I glimpse the headline.
Echoes of the Past? Halloween Disappearances Stir Memories of Vandenberg Tragedy.
Maggie must glimpse it, too, because she harrumphs. A full week has passed since Halloween night, and like most others, she’s none too pleased with the lack of progress made by the police department. According to Maggie, the last thing this town needs is another mystery.
“Looks like Callie Reese has been moved out of ICU,” Walt says, turning another page.
The news hit yesterday at school.
She’d been transferred to the neuro step-down unit.
Maggie shelves the book. “I heard something rather interesting from Birdie the other night.”
“Who’s Birdie?” Walt asks.
She sets her fists on her hips looking truly affronted. “Birdie Temple.”
Walt blinks.
“She’s the one who’s always bragging about having met Maya Angelou at a Cracker Barrel.”
Walt stares back at her, completely stumped.
Maggie shoos her hand at him. “She’s Callie Reese’s great aunt. Apparently, the kids whipped up one of those online fundraiser doodads?—”
“GoFundMe,” I say.
“—Set the goal at fiftythousanddollars, if you can believe it. Birdie nearly choked on her peppermint. Said they’d be lucky to raise fifty. But lo and behold, some anonymous do-gooder swooped in like a knight with a shining debit card.” Maggie lowers her sparse brows in my direction. “I wonder who has that kind of money.”
Jude.
He has that kind of money.
But I’m saved by the bell.
It chimes as the front door swings open.
Twig hobbles inside with a gust of cold wind, his injured foot in a boot and his arm in a sling. Still, he manages to carry a cardboard drink carrier with three coffees, a bag from Tudors, and a crossbody backpack strapped over one shoulder.
I rush to help him, although I suspect he’s growing weary of the baby treatment. Between Mrs. Calloway and Kate, he can hardly walk two steps without one of them trying to assist in some manner.
I hand Walt his coffee and nod at the headline. “Any updates?”
He covered the Vandenberg cold case back in the day. And although he’s made a few enemies between now and then, he still has connections. Which means he’s been our informant when it comes to these more recent disappearances.
“Nothing new, I’m afraid,” he says. “SometimesI think they’re more focused on shutting down the rumor mill than finding the actual truth.”
“They’re failing on both counts,” Twig says, tossing me a biscuit.
The rumors are running rampant.
