| |
Brad Williams stood in the middle of the street, staring open mouthed at the retreating buggy. The delicate, luminous redhead riding away inside of it was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle.
They do grow everything better here, he thought wryly, and shook his head. Must be something in the water.
An irritable voice intruded on his amazement. “Don’t block the entryway.” An elderly shopkeeper was staring at him, hands on hips.
“Oh – oh, yeah. I was just coming in for a bite of breakfast. You do sell food, right?”
Mr. Satterwhite jerked a thumb in the direction of the counter. “In the mini-fridge to the right. I have soda and some cheese danish.”
“Coffee?”
“On the counter.”
The young man sauntered to the front of the shop and poured black coffee into a paper cup. He took an appreciative sip and looked around the store. “I’m Brad Williams from the Ledger. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the festival?” he asked.
Mr. Satterwhite picked up a broom and started sweeping the floor. “Yes, I mind.”
Brad looked at him and cracked a grin. “Have a little pity, friend. It’s a slow day.”
“And it will be until you leave,” the elderly man replied bluntly. “Folks around here don’t like reporters.”
“Oh, I don’t bite. Think about it, anyway. Free publicity.”
“I don’t need publicity, young man. My customers already know where I am.”
Brad grinned again, took a danish out of the mini-fridge, and slapped a ten dollar bill into the man’s outstretched hand.
“Now get along, you’ll hex me,” Mr. Satterwhite told him, counting out change.
Brad took a bite of the cheese danish and sauntered out into the doorway. He stood there momentarily, chewing, and so was almost knocked down for the second time that morning.
A big man in a business suit came charging into the shop, knocking him to one side. He stopped in front of the store counter and stood there, flushed and breathless. When he caught sight of Mr. Satterwhite, he demanded: “Are you the owner here?”
The elderly man gave him a withering glance. “Yes, I am,” he replied.
Brad called indignantly from the doorway: “Hey, buster, why don’t you knock me down next time?” he objected, brushing frosting off his shirt. “I should send you the cleaning bill for this!”
The man ignored him. He sighed deeply, caught his breath, and trained his dark eyes on Mr. Satterwhite. “Did you buy a clock yesterday, at an estate auction in Marietta?”
The elderly man looked at him narrowly. “My wife bought a bunch of junk at an auction yesterday,” he drawled. “I think there was a clock.”
The man stared at him intently. “Do you still have it?”
Mr. Satterwhite shook his head. “Nope. I sold it this morning.”
The man stifled an impatient exclamation and asked, “Who did you sell it to?”
Brad, who was still brushing his shirt front in the doorway, looked up at this.
The elderly man bristled. “That’s none of your business, mister,” he replied, with a straight look.
The man shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s just that the auction was for my mother’s estate, and the clock was important to me for sentimental reasons. I would be willing to pay whatever the person gave for it, and a little more. Do you know the person who bought it? Would you be willing to give them that message for me, or, tell me how to contact them, so I can ask myself?”
“I know the girl who bought it, but I’m not going to give out her name without her permission,” Mr. Satterwhite replied coldly.
“So she lives around here?”
“Look here, I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to this morning,” Mr. Satterwhite snapped. “Buy something, or get out! I have work to do.”
The man held up his hands. “All right, all right. But I’m going to write down my name and number. Can you at least give her this, and ask her to call me, when you see her again? I’d appreciate it.”
Brad narrowed his eyes and walked back into the store. He leaned against one wall with his arms crossed.
The older man appeared somewhat mollified. “I’ll take it, but I’m not promising you anything.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” The man put his pen back into his jacket pocket and glanced at Brad as he walked out.
“Sorry about the shirt,” he apologized, and hurried off.
Brad watched him as he walked down the street.
“He sure was anxious to get his hands on that clock,” he murmured, mostly to himself. He turned to Mr. Satterwhite. “That girl I bumped into when I first came in – the redhead – was that her?”
The older man shrugged, and refused to answer. Brad smiled and shook a forefinger.
“It was her! What’s her name?”
The old man lifted angry eyes. “I’m not telling you, any more than I told him! Now beat it!”
“Okay, but at least tell me where she lives. Hey, you wouldn’t give me an interview, at least help me get one for myself!”
Mr. Satterwhite set his mouth. “Okay—if it will get you out of here! She lives ten miles away from town. You take Yoder Road out to the river, and –”
“Wait, wait,” Brad interrupted, scrambling for a pen. “Okay, what again?”
“You cross the river, and take the first right on the river road. You have to look close – it’s an unmarked, dirt road. You follow it for five miles, and then take the second left – you’ll know it by the big oak tree – and her father’s farm is the third one on that road. A big house with green shutters.”
“Got it.” Brad snapped the pen and grinned. “Thanks!”
The old man nodded grimly, and watched his customer stride out and disappear into the crowd.
Then he laughed to himself, a dry, cackling laugh, and wiped his eyes.
