The western sky laid bare the loveliest shade of tangerine with streaks of pale pink and violet blue as Deena and I drove back toward town, away from Ranker’s Garden Center. Willie Nelson crooned a ballad on the radio, and Deena and I spoke little. After a couple of minutes, she pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and checked her phone.
“My parents will be expecting me for dinner by seven o’clock,” she said.
“I need to pick up Gus from Dumbbells and check on things at Flower House.”
“It won’t be completely dark ’til after nine,” she said.
“I can leave Gus with Calvin.”
“Maybe we should take my car,” said Deena. “This orange thing is bright as a beacon.”
I glanced over at her and smiled. “Good idea. Pick me up at Flower House?”
“I’ll be there by quarter after nine.”
Two and a half hours later, give or take, we were once again on Rural Route One, this time with Deena behind the wheel. The minute I’d told her we actually had a way into Abe’s house, her curiosity returned and she was on board with our snoop mission. She’d apologized for snapping at me earlier and said she was only scared. I understood. I was scared too—which was all the more reason, I realized, we should be extra cautious. The last thing we wanted was for nice old Ben to notice my car still in the lot and come looking for us. If we were really going to search Abe’s house, we needed to leave and come back after dark.
Part of me expected Deena to back out. Heck, I thought about backing out myself. Yet here we were, dressed in black jeans, dark sweaters, and leather gloves like a couple of amateur cat burglars. Deena pulled her car slowly into the lane leading to Abe’s house and parked close to the barn, out of sight of the road. She cut the engine, leaving us immersed in darkness.
“I guess nobody’s home,” I said, in a lame attempt to be funny.
Deena craned her neck to look around. A glow of outdoor lights emanated from the garden center but didn’t reach Abe’s property. In the distance, dots of orange light across the fields indicated the nearest neighbors were miles away.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said.
I pocketed my phone and a small flashlight and left my purse in the car. Deena did the same, and together we ran toward the trees at the side of the house. It was a breezy, moonless night, the only sound the rustle of willow branches trembling in the wind.
With one last look toward the garden center, we scurried to the basement window. Squatting down, I slipped my fingers under the sash and gave it a push upward. It slid open with little effort. Shining my flashlight inside, I saw what appeared to be a laundry room. Directly beneath the window was a dryer, piled high with a jumble of clothes and towels—which would explain why anyone in the house might not have noticed that the window was open.
I handed Deena my flashlight, and she lit my way as I crawled in the window and hopped from the dryer to the floor. She passed me my flashlight, and I did the same for her. She jumped down more gracefully than I had, but we’d both knocked laundry to the floor.
“We’ll pick it up on our way out,” I whispered.
“Where should we start?” she asked.
“Upstairs. Office, if there is one. Bedroom, kitchen. I don’t know. We’ll be like the bear who went over the mountain.”
“What?” She looked at me as if I were speaking in riddles.
“You know. See what we can see.”
There was just enough light for me to see Deena rolling her eyes. I laughed nervously. The adrenaline was making me giddy.
We left the laundry room and took a quick walk around the finished basement. It seemed to consist largely of an unused rec room, dominated by a pool table, which was now being used for storage. I shined my flashlight into an open cardboard box and saw that it contained a tangle of Christmas lights.
Upstairs, the house was messier than I expected, with clothes draped over the living room furniture, shoes jumbled by the front door, and dishes piled in the kitchen sink.
“I guess his sister didn’t have time to get started in here,” I said.
“And he obviously didn’t have a cleaning service,” said Deena, her flashlight illuminating a layer of dust on the console behind the sofa.
Finding nothing of interest on the first floor, we made our way upstairs, where we found three bedrooms and a bathroom. The master bedroom featured an unmade bed and matching oak dressers, the tops of which were covered with loose change and assorted men’s jewelry. Deena pulled open the folding doors of a closet, while I carefully rifled through the dresser drawers. The only thing we uncovered was the lingering scent of Abe’s overpowering cologne, which was simultaneously off-putting and sad.
A faint creak made me pause. I glanced over at Deena, who was looking toward the window.
“It was only the wind,” she said, quietly.
“Yeah. I figured.”
For some reason, I recalled Granny’s theory that Abe’s spirit wasn’t at rest. What had she said I should do? Bury something belonging to him … inside a potato?
My eyes slid to the dresser covered in change. Would a penny be personal enough?
“There’s nothing in here,” said Deena, moving to the door.
I shook myself. What was I thinking? I knew better than to fall for Granny’s superstitions. I followed Deena to the next room, which appeared to be used for storage. It contained a bed covered with miscellaneous boxes and books, an exercise bike covered with a winter coat, and a giant CRT television, gathering dust in the corner.
We continued on to the last bedroom, which was clearly a home office, considering the desk, filing cabinets, and a card table stacked foot high with papers, booklets, and binders. It was also apparent that the police had confiscated Abe’s computer, as there was an empty space on the desk and a mousepad with no mouse. As we stood looking around, trying to decide where to start, the room brightened, as a car zoomed down Rural Route One.
“Alright,” I said. “You take the filing cabinets, and I’ll tackle the table.”
Deena nodded, and we continued our search, not knowing what we were even looking for. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the table was a catchall. Evidently, it had become a repository for everything from board meeting notes and business proposals to paid bills and junk mail. After a couple of minutes of silent snooping, Deena reported that the filing cabinets contained garden center receipts and statements.
“I’m sure the police have already looked through all this stuff,” I said, frustration mingling with disappointment. “But from what you heard, Bill and Flo thought the cops wouldn’t think anything of … whatever it was they gave to Abe. What could they have given to him?
“I don’t know,” said Deena. “But I don’t want to be here much longer. I think we’re pushing our luck.” She moved to the window and peered outside, as another vehicle rumbled down the road past the house.
“This would be easier if I didn’t have to hold a flashlight in one hand,” I complained.
“I’ll help.” Deena came over and took my flashlight, allowing me to use both hands to shuffle through papers.
I flipped through binders, keeping an eye out for anything that could be connected to the Morrisons. Picking up the last binder, I uncovered a bulky manila envelope that had been smashed underneath.
“What’s this?” I said, undoing the clasp on the envelope.
Deena directed the light as I reached inside and pulled out some of the contents—which turned out to be brochures and pamphlets.
“What are those?” asked Deena, angling her head to see. “Restaurant brochures?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling a twinge of hope. I had a feeling we were finally on to something. I read some of the brochure titles out loud. “‘Western Ghost Town BBQ,’ ‘Fabulous Fifties Musical Soda Shop and Burger Joint,’ ‘Blue Lagoon Pig Roast and Hula Show.’” I looked up into Deena’s frowning face. “They’re all theme restaurants.”
“Ew. How tacky.”
“Or fun,” I countered. “They sound kind of fun to me.”
I turned over the envelope and dumped the rest of the contents on the table. It was more of the same: informational cards and brochures describing theme restaurants all around the country. But then I saw something else. Caught between two pamphlets was a folded piece of paper. I opened the paper and held it under the flashlight’s beam.
“Bingo! Look at the top of this stationery: ‘Bread n’ Butter Bakery, Aerieville, Tennessee.’ This proves Bill and Flo must have given this package to Abe.”
“So, they want to build a theme restaurant?” said Deena. “That’s their big secret project?”
“I guess so,” I said. “But I don’t get why it should be a secret.”
“Well, not everyone would support something like this,” Deena pointed out. “A theme restaurant seems more appropriate for a tourist town, such as Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge. Or Nashville, even.”
“That’s true,” I said. “If they plan on putting it where their bakery is, that could be kind of obnoxious for the neighbors.” I imagined what it would mean for a tourist attraction to open up on quiet old Oak Street. More cars, for sure. Parking would be a nightmare. Suddenly, I gasped, as another realization hit me. Turning to Deena, I said, “They probably want to tear down Flower House and build a parking lot!”
“Could be,” said Deena. “So, what does the paper say?”
I held up the stationery and squinted to read the scrawled handwriting. I had to read it twice before I understood. It was the name of the restaurant Bill and Flo wanted to open.
“Oh, Deena,” I whispered. “It’s so much worse than we imagined.”
“What does it say?” she demanded.
I gulped, hardly able to say the words aloud. “It says … ‘Bill and Flo’s Hillbilly Hootenanny: Down Home Cookin’ and Jug Band Music.’”
“Oh, no,” said Deena, aghast. “Why? Why would they use that word?”
I shook my head, feeling disgusted and betrayed. In Appalachia, the word “hillbilly” was a loaded term. While some folks might own the label as a point of pride, no one would want it exploited. In my opinion, it was derogatory and outdated, representing an awful stereotype so many Appalachians had worked hard to overcome.
“I’d be fine with folk music and down home cookin’,” I said. “But it sounds like they plan on exploiting the old unsophisticated, backwoods portrayal of mountain people. No one in Aerieville would ever go for this.”
“It might attract out-of-towners, though,” said Deena. “People who don’t realize how offensive it is.”
A loud crash made us both jump. Deena grabbed my arm. “What was that?”
“It sounded like something fell,” I whispered. “I think it came from downstairs.” I quickly stuffed the brochures and papers back into the envelope and replaced it beneath the binder where I’d found it. Then we tiptoed to the hallway and listened. There was nothing to hear.
“Maybe it was the wind again,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Deena.
When we got to the foot of the stairs, I paused, as a strange feeling came over me. The back of my neck prickled. I turned toward the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?” asked Deena.
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “Does it feel colder in here to you?”
“I may be shaking,” she said, “but it’s not because of the temperature. Come on.”
Ignoring Deena, I crept into the kitchen and looked around. It didn’t take long to spot something out of place. A broom lay in the center of the floor, in front of the open door of a closet pantry. We had peeked in the pantry before, but I couldn’t remember if we’d closed the door behind us.
“Here’s the source of the noise we heard,” I said.
Deena came up behind me. “Weird. Should we put it back?”
I picked up the broom and replaced it in the closet, using my flashlight to make sure I propped it securely in the corner. For the heck of it, I then raked my light along the shelves. One row held boxes of cereal and crackers. The next row up held cans of soup and vegetables. The top shelf held paper towels, packages of batteries, light bulbs, and … something that made my breath catch in my throat.
“What’s this?” I said, reaching for the small object. “A cell phone?”
Deena shined her own light on the phone in my hands. “Abe had his cell phone with him at Flower House,” she said. “Maybe this is an old one.”
“Or a backup. Or one he used for work.” I pushed the power button on the side, and the phone lit up.
“It’s charged?” Deena sounded surprised.
“Ten percent,” I said. “It could die anytime. Maybe we should take it. We can always buy a charger.”
“No way! We can’t take it. That would be stealing.”
“Don’t you want to know what’s on here?” I touched the phone’s screen, amazed it wasn’t password protected.
“Come on, Sierra. Be smart. How would you explain it if someone found out?”
I bristled at the idea I wasn’t being smart, but I knew she was right. “Let me at least look at his most recent messages,” I said, touching the email icon at the bottom of the screen.
“Please hurry. We already found what we were looking for, and we’ve been here way too long.”
“Just a minute.”
I scrolled quickly through the messages, hoping something would jump out at me. There were a few mundane exchanges with colleagues on the zoning board and some routine appointment reminders. I got excited for a second when I saw Valerie’s name, but it was only a brief exchange in which Abe asked her to meet him at Nell’s. She replied with one word: “Fine.”
I sighed, about ready to give up, when my eyes fell on another familiar name: Richard Wales. It was an email exchange from about a week ago.
“Oh, man,” I whispered. “Check this out.”
I scrolled to the top and held the phone so Deena could read the messages too.
Abe: It’s time for another installment.
Richard: Don’t email me.
Abe: LOL. Same time, same place.
Richard: Stop this. Please. You’re bleeding me dry.
Abe: I beg to differ. I think you’re doing quite well.
Abe: Richard? Please confirm.
Abe: Do I need to remind you of the consequences if you miss a payment?
Richard: No. I’ll come up with the money.
Abe: Good boy.
“What the—?” said Deena. “What is this? Did Richard borrow money from Abe?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “This sounds like something else.”
A roar of wind rattled the kitchen window, followed by the sudden pattering of raindrops. “Jeez!” said Deena, her hand at her heart. “I can’t take much more of this.”
I closed the email app and turned off the phone, then replaced it where I’d found it in the pantry. I was still tempted to take it, but, as Deena said, I needed to be smart. The police already had Abe’s computer and other cell phone—which meant they already knew about these messages. It was probably why they were so interested in Richard.
Spurred on by the sound of pelting rain against the windows, we hotfooted it down the basement stairs and back into the laundry room. We both knew we needed to get out of there before the ground became muddy. We didn’t want to leave behind perfect imprints of the soles of our shoes.
Deena grabbed up the clothes we’d knocked to the floor and hastily folded them, before returning them to the top of the dryer. I stood immobile, distracted by the whistling wind—and a nagging question about how in the world I’d found Abe’s backup phone. What made the broom fall?
“Give me a hand?” said Deena.
I ran over to spot her as she climbed onto the dryer, careful not to disturb the laundry. We had left the window open a crack. She pushed it up the rest of the way and crawled through. I started to follow, then stared for a moment at the laundry. It consisted mainly of towels, undershirts, and handkerchiefs. Once again thinking of Granny Mae, I snatched up a handkerchief and stuffed it in my pocket. Housebreaker, kleptomaniac. What’s next?
Before I could change my mind, I scrambled onto the dryer—and then froze. There was a piece of torn cloth, greenish in color, stuck to the inner window frame. Had it ripped from Deena’s clothes? Or mine? I hadn’t noticed it before, but, then again, it was pretty dark.
“Are you coming?” hissed Deena, her face appearing at the window above me.
I plucked the piece of cloth from the edge of the window and added it to my pocket. Then I accepted Deena’s outstretched hand and crawled through the window.