going—quite often with the emphasis on the going—is how I’ve kept my mental balance. It might work for you, too. Have you thought about taking the occasional consulting job out in the bigger world?”
I told him I had and that I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of balancing act yet. He seemed willing to talk about why I was reluctant, but by then my soup was coolenough and we’d spent more time talking about me than made me comfortable. Instead I dove into the perfect brown soup, felt like smacking my lips, and asked about his brother.
“Ambrose,” he said. “Mean as snakes. Maybe one of the reasons I left in the first place. But the farm and I are all he’s got and, except for the boat, he’s all I’ve got. I’m selling the boat, did I tell you that?” He drank the last of his wine and stared out at Main Street growing dark. “I’m sorry I missed Ivy’s funeral. I’ve definitely been away too long this time.”
I didn’t ask again how long that was. He hadn’t answered the first time, and I knew what it was like to be asked questions I’d rather ignore.
The next morning, Debbie was waiting for me at the Cat with the latest issue of the Blue Plum Bugle , hot off the press and fresh off the front stoop.
Chapter 11
I f the font the Bugle ’s editor used wasn’t called Screaming Headline, it should have been. I could have read it if Debbie held the paper up across the street. The point size left room for only three sentences on the front page. The first two were merely sensational. “Tragedy in Blue Plum” and “Motive Cloudy in Cloud Hollow Calamity.” The third was the whopper. “Gun Belongs to Missing Security Guard.”
“Has anyone ever told you your face is easy to read?” Debbie asked. “Even Ernestine wouldn’t need a magnifying glass to see the questions racing through your head.”
“Do you know this guy, Eric Lyle?” Lyle was the missing security man. He worked for Victory Paper.
“Never heard of him,” Debbie said, “but I’m ready to hear he’s guilty. I knew that gun didn’t belong to Will.”
“Why didn’t we hear about him or the gun sooner?”
“Good question,” Debbie said. “Maybe the Bugle scooped everyone else?”
“Or they don’t have a good source of insider information.”
According to the Bugle , the gun we found with the bodies, a Smith & Wesson Chief .38-caliber revolver with a two-inch barrel and holding five bullets, belonged to Eric Lyle. I pictured the reporter proudly getting thegun’s description exactly right. Eric Lyle worked as a night security guard at Victory Paper. He was thirty-two. There were photographs of all three—Shannon Goforth, Will Embree, and Eric Lyle. Smiling pictures, probably personnel shots from the company for Shannon and Eric. Will’s picture showed a younger, softer-looking guy than the man than I’d seen under the tree in the field.
“They can’t find him,” Debbie said. “Eric Lyle. He’s missing. Did you read that part? If that isn’t incriminating, I don’t know what is.”
Eric Lyle was last seen the day of the deaths, Monday. He clocked out of work at six that morning. He spoke to the day-shift security supervisor coming on duty. He waved to the man at the gate on his way out. He bought gas at a convenience store along the highway. They had a positive ID on the store’s security tape. He used his credit card for the purchase. Neither he nor the car had been seen since, and there was no further activity on the credit card.
Out of the corner of my eye the blue-gray spider’s web shawl on display near the front window appeared to ripple and Geneva shimmered into view behind it. The effect was weird because the insubstantial shawl was more solid than the ghost. Geneva yawned, stretched, and sighed as though bored beyond tears. She drifted over to see what held us in thrall.
Debbie shivered as though someone had drifted over her grave, and that was enough to get her moving and refocused
I told him I had and that I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of balancing act yet. He seemed willing to talk about why I was reluctant, but by then my soup was coolenough and we’d spent more time talking about me than made me comfortable. Instead I dove into the perfect brown soup, felt like smacking my lips, and asked about his brother.
“Ambrose,” he said. “Mean as snakes. Maybe one of the reasons I left in the first place. But the farm and I are all he’s got and, except for the boat, he’s all I’ve got. I’m selling the boat, did I tell you that?” He drank the last of his wine and stared out at Main Street growing dark. “I’m sorry I missed Ivy’s funeral. I’ve definitely been away too long this time.”
I didn’t ask again how long that was. He hadn’t answered the first time, and I knew what it was like to be asked questions I’d rather ignore.
The next morning, Debbie was waiting for me at the Cat with the latest issue of the Blue Plum Bugle , hot off the press and fresh off the front stoop.
Chapter 11
I f the font the Bugle ’s editor used wasn’t called Screaming Headline, it should have been. I could have read it if Debbie held the paper up across the street. The point size left room for only three sentences on the front page. The first two were merely sensational. “Tragedy in Blue Plum” and “Motive Cloudy in Cloud Hollow Calamity.” The third was the whopper. “Gun Belongs to Missing Security Guard.”
“Has anyone ever told you your face is easy to read?” Debbie asked. “Even Ernestine wouldn’t need a magnifying glass to see the questions racing through your head.”
“Do you know this guy, Eric Lyle?” Lyle was the missing security man. He worked for Victory Paper.
“Never heard of him,” Debbie said, “but I’m ready to hear he’s guilty. I knew that gun didn’t belong to Will.”
“Why didn’t we hear about him or the gun sooner?”
“Good question,” Debbie said. “Maybe the Bugle scooped everyone else?”
“Or they don’t have a good source of insider information.”
According to the Bugle , the gun we found with the bodies, a Smith & Wesson Chief .38-caliber revolver with a two-inch barrel and holding five bullets, belonged to Eric Lyle. I pictured the reporter proudly getting thegun’s description exactly right. Eric Lyle worked as a night security guard at Victory Paper. He was thirty-two. There were photographs of all three—Shannon Goforth, Will Embree, and Eric Lyle. Smiling pictures, probably personnel shots from the company for Shannon and Eric. Will’s picture showed a younger, softer-looking guy than the man than I’d seen under the tree in the field.
“They can’t find him,” Debbie said. “Eric Lyle. He’s missing. Did you read that part? If that isn’t incriminating, I don’t know what is.”
Eric Lyle was last seen the day of the deaths, Monday. He clocked out of work at six that morning. He spoke to the day-shift security supervisor coming on duty. He waved to the man at the gate on his way out. He bought gas at a convenience store along the highway. They had a positive ID on the store’s security tape. He used his credit card for the purchase. Neither he nor the car had been seen since, and there was no further activity on the credit card.
Out of the corner of my eye the blue-gray spider’s web shawl on display near the front window appeared to ripple and Geneva shimmered into view behind it. The effect was weird because the insubstantial shawl was more solid than the ghost. Geneva yawned, stretched, and sighed as though bored beyond tears. She drifted over to see what held us in thrall.
Debbie shivered as though someone had drifted over her grave, and that was enough to get her moving and refocused
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