The town was abuzz with excitement, as well as opinions, about the old mill restaurant project. In fact, Grayson couldn’t go into Honey Ridge for lunch or gasoline without encountering curious and friendly townsfolk. So it was no surprise when he and Devlin arrived on the construction site one morning to a small gathering.
“We have company.”
Grayson stopped the Jeep behind a trail of pickups parked at angles along the edge of a road leading into the mill. Grabbing his tablet and a clipboard, he hopped out.
Devlin handed him a hard hat and grabbed another for himself. “Our very own welcoming committee.”
“Or a lot of supervisors.”
Devlin laughed. “They do have opinions in this town.”
That they did. From the first time he’d eaten lunch at the Miniature Golf Café, he’d gotten an earful of advice from the group Valery called the good old boys, an ever-evolving hodgepodge of five or six men who didn’t seem to do much of anything except sit around and talk. Only one, thankfully, shared Valery’s opinion that he should restore the building to a working mill.
“I guess they’ve come to watch the show.”
“Big boys like big toys.”
They trod the gravel path, more of a trail than a road at this point, toward the noise of heavy equipment and the group of people standing above the falls.
He glanced up at the window, but he’d had no repeat of that first, creepy morning when he’d thought he was being watched. Their intruder must have been a kid, gone now that work had begun. The bottle tree, however, remained intact, blue bottles hanging upside down, according to superstition, to capture the evil spirits from the mill.
The backhoe, like a long-necked dinosaur, chomped its steel teeth into the earth around the mortar and stone footing of the two-hundred-year-old foundation. A pair of men with shovels worked down inside the resulting ditch. So far, only a few areas of the stone required repointing, a testament to strong construction.
Valery would be pleased to hear that. And the way Grayson looked at it, construction saved was money saved. The less they had to replace, the better. There was plenty to do as it was.
Work to shore up the basement was also underway inside the mill, and Grayson felt the old itch to get his hands on some tools and get involved. He and Dev could both swing a hammer or a pickax or anything else the job required, but a team of contractors could work faster, so for now he let them. He would have plenty of opportunity to get his hands dirty.
“Good morning.” He spoke to the gathered crowd, a few of whom he recognized from town.
Poker Ringwald, co-owner of the Miniature Golf Café, sipped at his portable camo coffee cup and nodded his greeting. A pack of playing cards poked out of his shirt pocket. “Me and Mr. B. thought we’d take a run out and size up the competition.”
Grayson smiled. “We’re a long way from opening for business, Poker.”
“And even when we do,” Devlin grinned his amiable grin, “we’ll never match your wife’s biscuits and gravy.”
Poker laughed and toasted the air with his mug. “Ain’t that the truth? Don’t be trying to steal her away when you get this shindig up and running.”
“You better raise her salary,” Dev joked. “Grayson goes after the best cooks.”
Mr. B., the local mortician with an unpronounceable last name, wagged his jowls back and forth, expression sorrowful. The man was legend, Grayson had learned, for pessimistic comments. He braced himself not to laugh. Mr. B. was not one to joke around.
Suddenly, a workman appeared in the open doorway and interrupted the conversation. Squat and strong and built like a wall with his clothes covered in dirt and damp with sweat, the man’s face was white as plaster. “Mr. Blake?”
Simultaneously, Grayson and Devlin answered. “Yes?”
Grayson stepped away from the onlookers, already frowning. “What is it, Billy? A problem?”
Devlin moved up beside him, sotto voce. “Problems are part of the business, Gray. Don’t get antsy.”
The workman took off his hard hat and rubbed a forearm over a sweaty head. “I think you better come in here and see for yourself. Both of you.”
The odd request ratcheted up his concern. “Is someone hurt?”
Billy tilted his head to one side, mouth twisted. He was still whiter than wall plaster. “I guess that’s a matter of opinion.”
The crowd hanging around the falls surged closer, listening. Grayson didn’t ask any more questions. He’d worked with Billy before. He trusted the man. He’d never gone pale on a job site. Injuries happened, but Blake Brothers was highly safety conscious and had never suffered anything serious. From Billy’s expression, their good luck may have run out.
Alarmed, he and Devlin, with their usual synchronicity, exchanged glances and then strode into the building to follow Billy down the steps into the dim basement area. Portable shop lights that dangled from overhead bracing barely dispelled the gloom, and nothing could dispel the dank smell.
The wood flooring, disintegrated badly from time and moisture, had been cleared away along with a fifteen-hundred-pound millstone. Moist dirt, evidence of digging by hand and machine, was piled in the center of the large open space.
Hands on his hips, Billy stood at the precipice of a long trench dug along the interior walls. “Over here.”
Grayson stepped up next to the workman.
He heard Devlin’s sharp inhale. “Is that what I think it is?”
Grayson went to a crouch, reaching into the ditch to brush away more dirt. He glanced up at his brother, and as their gazes collided, he nodded grimly.
“Bones,” he murmured. “And I think they’re human.”