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My smile was gentle as I tapped my glass against his. “Cheers, friend.”
“Cheers. One of these days we’re going to manage to have a conversation that doesn’t wind up being deep.” He picked up his drink. “We’ll talk about stupid irreverent shit that requires no soul searching and doesn’t matter. In the meantime, how about a game of pool?”
“Sounds good,” I said. “But be warned. They’re respecting your privacy and keeping their distance while we’re in this booth. If we go out there, however, I can guarantee everyone is going to want to meet you. Are you ready for that?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let’s find out.”
The inevitable happened Monday morning at a quarter past ten. A woman around my age with cool bangs and a designer purse came into the general store with an amiable smile on her face and her cell in her hand. “Hey there. I’m looking for a friend of mine named Garrett. He moved to the area recently.”
“Oh,” was my super-smart reply.
“I was just passing through and thought I’d stop by. But my cell isn’t working and I can’t find his address,” she said. “It’s such a small town. I don’t suppose you know where he lives?”
“You were just passing through?” I asked with some skepticism. Which was valid given the town was located right smack bang between nowhere and nothing.
“That’s right.”
“Garrett, did you say?” Linda kept right on shuffling her tarot cards. “Have you heard of anyone by that name, Ani?”
I shook my head and feigned much sadness. “No. Sorry.”
“Damn,” said the stranger. “Are you sure? I heard he was here.”
Emma wandered in with a Bloody Mary in her hand. “Sorry about the wait, Linda.”
“Thank you, sweetie. Much appreciated.” Linda didn’t always start the day with a pot of tea. It depended on her mood and the amount of red wine consumed the night before. She took a bite out of the decorative celery stalk. “So you said you’re a journalist? How wonderful. That must be a fascinating career.”
“What?” The woman’s brows arched. “No. I never said that. I mean—”
“I could have sworn I’d seen you on one of those celebrity gossip shows,” mused Linda.
Emma cocked her head. “You really do look familiar. Are you sure you’re not a reporter?”
All trace of the smile disappeared. “I know he’s here. You might as well just tell me.”
“Who were we talking about again?” I asked.
“Garrett from The Dead Heart,” our visitor ground out through clenched teeth. “How much do you want?”
“You mean like money?”
“Yes. I need his address. What’ll it take?”
I shook my head. “If someone famous was in town, don’t you think I’d already have his face on tea towels and coffee mugs ready to sell to tourists?”
“And like maps to his house,” enthused Emma. “I bet we could sell those for at least a couple of bucks apiece.”
“I don’t know if you noticed, but this town is kind of dying,” I said. “We definitely couldn’t afford to pass up an opportunity like that.”
Doubt crossed the reporter’s face.
“What have you been told, exactly?”
“I wish he had moved to town. Nothing ever happens around here,” said Emma with a dramatic tug of her black braid. “It’s how I got pregnant. There was nothing better to do.”
“Things have been a little slow around here for the last fifty years or so. That’s true. But I’m sure it’ll pick up any day now.” Linda sighed. “I don’t know why you think this Garrett fellow might be here, but I’m afraid you’ve been misled. You’re right, this is a small place. And someone new and exciting like that would not escape my notice.”
I gave my own braid a tug. “It would be nice to have something new to talk about. Rehashing the events of the fire of 1921 is getting a bit old.”
“But he sent me pictures of him jogging down Main Street.” The woman frowned, reaching for her cell. “I suppose they could be fake.”
“Who is he?” I asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
She didn’t even hesitate. So much for not revealing sources. “He said his name was Christian.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Christian?”
“Oh, that boy,” said Linda. “He’s always causing trouble. Just last year he got caught tipping cows. And at the age of twenty-nine, if you can you believe it?”
“Then there was the time he drove a tractor into the river,” I added helpfully.
Emma nodded. “Mr. Carmichael is still furious about that.”
The woman’s brows crept higher and higher.
Josh walked in and held up two fingers. I got busy making his coffee.
“You haven’t met anyone new in town by the name of Garrett, have you?” asked the reporter. “He’s the lead singer from the band The Dead Heart.”
Josh took off his cap and smoothed down his mullet. He really was proud of his hair. “A rock band?”
