Pine Hollow

 

Maura picked up AA Highway east and followed it up into the Ohio River watershed for forty-five minutes. An unnumbered, unnamed road led south deep into a narrow valley. At the intersection with another unnumbered, unnamed road, she pulled into the parking lot of the Pine Hollow General Store.

The dandruff of old peeling paint clung to the siding of the hundred-year-old wood building. A broad porch fronted the store with a line of empty rocking chairs separated with whiskey barrels for tables on each side of the entrance. The clouded display windows revealed little of the contents of the store.

Mac’s Garage sat catty-cornered from the store. Two-story houses flanked each business, one of which had been converted into the Uptown Beauty Salon, complete with a flashing neon “Open” sign in the window.

“A teeming metropolis,” Griff said as they got out of the Jeep.

“Don’t be snobby.” Maura climbed the steps to the front door.

“No. It’s a lot like home. Only greener. And more…deciduous.” Griff followed her up and in.

“Hey, Cap!” Maura hollered out.

“That you, Maura?” An elderly gentleman came out of the office behind the counter. He smiled at her, then noticed Griff. He moved quickly beside the twelve-gauge shotgun leaning next the cash register.

“It’s okay, Cap. He’s with me.” She waved Griff forward. “He looks ornery—and acts it, too—but he’s pretty much harmless. Besides I just fed him, so he should be pretty docile.”

“I’m Griff.” He extended his hand, but it hung unanswered over the counter.

Cap sized Griff up, then grunted. “Is he going to buy something or just be another looky-loo?”

“Need some ammo, Griff?” Maura asked.

“Nah. I’m good. Load my own.” Griff looked around the cluttered five-pound-sized store stuffed with eight pounds of hardware, groceries, and sundries. “Been looking for a brass spittoon. Happen to have one?”

“I might. Don’t take credit.”

“Well, let’s have a look, Cap.”

Cap shuffled out from around the counter and dove directly into his inventory, knowing exactly where the item was located. He brought it back and set it on the counter. “A little spit polish should bring her back to life just right—”

“So to speak.”

Cap growled out loud. “Two hundred dollars.”

Griff smiled at Maura, then scowled at Cap. He inspected the spittoon from all sides. “Can’t help but suspect you might be taking liberties with the tourist trade, sir.”

“That thing’s older than me by a long shot. Genuine antique. Early American. Two hundred’s fair for a piece of history.”

“No doubt George Washington himself spat there. Well, I make it a policy never to pay full retail. I’ll give you one ninety-five, that is if you can make change for a couple of Franklins.”

Maura looked at Griff in disbelief.

He winked back at her. “It’s a write-off.”

Before Griff could look back at Cap for an answer, the old man was holding out a five-dollar bill.

Griff peeled off two hundreds, handed them over, and pulled the five dollar bill out of Cap’s fingers with some difficulty. He picked up the spittoon. “Hope you have room for this in the Jeep.”

“Pleasure doing business with you. Come back anytime, Griff.”

“Any mail in the box?” Maura asked.

“Yupper. And that package, too. I’ll fetch it.” Cap disappeared into the back office.

Maura went over to a wall of antique post office boxes. She spun the combination to one of them, retrieved a handful of mail, and slammed it shut.

“A tad heavy,” Cap said, hauling out a small moving box. “Good thing you got this feller here to help. Where’s Dewey?”

“Sitting on a runner’s mom’s place over in Hillsboro. Where’s the box from?”

“California. Los Angeles.”

“Now, isn’t that interesting,” Griff said, taking the box from Cap. It was heavy. “From the Hornet Investment Group. We know them, don’t we? And—whadda ya know—addressed to me in care of Blue Wing, LLC.”

“Small world, huh?” said Maura, sorting through the mail.

“Been the same size for a real long time,” Griff answered.

“Got any root beer, Cap?” Maura asked. She turned to Griff. “You want a sarsaparilla?”

“Sure.”

“Make it two, please.”

Cap scowled at Maura.

“Now, Cap. He just paid you two hundred dollars for a worthless old hunk of brass.”

“One ninety-five.”

“Cap…”

“Oh, bother.” Cap pulled two bottles of Stewart’s Root Beer from a noisy, old, red Coca-Cola cooler behind the counter. He popped the tops and handed them over to Maura.

Griff followed her outside, carrying his box and his new old spittoon. They sat in the rocking chairs on the porch to watch the Pine Hollow afternoon traffic.

“So, what’s in the box?” Maura set Griff’s soda on the whiskey barrel between them.

Griff shrugged his shoulders. He put the box down beside his chair with the spittoon on top, then grabbed his root beer. He sipped and rocked. “Is this why you invited me along today?”

“Well, Cap’s curiosity was roused up good over who this Griffith Crowe feller was and why he was getting packages sent here.”

“Yeah. So, what’s the deal with Mr. Cap and all?”

“Papa Johnny has me come down here every two weeks to collect the mail. That’s all. Been doing it for years.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know my grandfather very well. You can ask him anything you want, and he won’t take offense. Just don’t expect him to necessarily answer.” Maura sipped her soda. “Just for the record, I never bothered to ask. It was for Papa Johnny. Good enough for me.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Well, who’s it from anyways?”

“You’re kind of nosy.”

“Hey, I chauffeured you down here and all.”

Griff looked up and down the road that brought him into the fringes of the Cumberland plateau. “Kind of peaceful here. I like it.”

“Yeah? How might you be planning to get yourself back to civilization?”

“Donald Wallace sent me this box.”

“Who’s he, exactly—besides a fellow Marine?”

“Never asked your grandfather about him?”

“Never had the occasion.”

“Donald Wallace is dead. Recently passed.”

“What? Was he old or something?”

“Murdered.” Griff took a long drink of root beer.

“Oh…”

“What’s the connection between Cap’s place here and the diner?”

“He’s just the post office in town. That’s all. Johnny figured you knew Helena’s roots were here abouts.”

“I did.”

“And you wanted to see for yourself, didn’t you?”

Griff nodded. “I did.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“So…What's in the box? Aren't you gonna open it?”

“Are we working together?”

Maura shrugged her shoulders. “Another thing I ain't asked Johnny. Just naturally curious, I reckon.”

“I’ve found uncompensated curiosity to be something of a liability.”

“Come on, Griff, you’re killing me here. What’s in the box? Open it already now.”

Griff set the spittoon aside, sliding the box in front of him with his foot. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and, with a quick flick of his wrist, snapped out the blade. “If this is what I’m thinking it is…”

“What?”

Griff cut through the packing tape on the top flaps and opened the box. “Yup. Journals.”

“Journals? Like diaries? What the hell. That sounds boring.”

“He knew.”

“Who knew? What?”

“Wallace. He knew.”

“Now you’re just being annoying about all this mysteriosity.” Maura slouched down in her chair and pouted.

“Looks like me and Papa Johnny should have a conversation.”

“Well, not for a few days. He’s in Louisville on business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Now who’s the nosy one?”

“Professional curiosity.”

“Well, ain’t that special.”

“Drive me back?” Griff savored Maura’s mask of Shirley Temple-like consternation. “Please?”

“You’re buying me dinner—and not no greasy spoon fare neither.”

“Sure thing.”

Maura launched herself out of the rocking chair and pulled open the door to the store. “See ya next time, Cap.”

“Tell Johnny, Oorah!”

“Should have known—another jarhead,” Griff said to himself, as he picked up his box and spittoon to follow Maura down the steps to her Rubicon.

 

***~~~***