Altered to Death Page 6

  Six

  Cheryl insisted I dig into the boxes in the employee lounge, now converted into the storage room for Eden’s history, and leave the inventory for later. She might even give our most vocal and growing-on-us customer, Darlene Johnson, a call to see if she wanted to work at Scrap This today. Darlene and I had an extremely rocky start to our relationship, as neither of us liked the other, but we came to an understanding and a tolerance, if not outright appreciation, for the characteristics we each possessed that annoyed the heck out of the other one. There’s something about a killer holding you and an arch enemy at gunpoint that forms a bond.

  I forced myself into a stroll, my heart thumping loudly, as I knew the first thing I planned on doing when I reached the room had nothing to do with the boxes. I was either making a brilliant, strategic move or one of the top twenty dumbest decisions I’ve ever made. Marrying Adam, Steve’s cousin, ranked forever as number one. I was hoping this would land lower on the list, fifteen or below.

  Shutting the door, I snuck my cell from my pocket and used the web browser to look up the number for the law firm Steve’s dad owned in Charleston, West Virginia. It was a large firm. Huge. I scanned the list of offices. Interesting. The Eden branch office wasn’t listed. How recently had it opened?

  Taking in a deep breath, I dialed the number for the main switch board. My heart raced, and I released the breath I was holding and tried to draw in small breaths to calm myself. It wasn’t working. My hands were shaking and sweating. Why was I so scared of making a simple phone call?

  Because I had no idea what reaction I’d get or what I was stepping into. Usually when I made a brash decision, I had some idea if it was good or bad. This time I was clueless.

  “Thank you for calling the law firm of Davis, O’Neil, and Associates, how can I direct your call?” A smooth, buttery male voice inquired. I wanted to hang up and redial to hear the greeting again.

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Davis, please.”

  “I’ll connect you right now. Thank you for calling Davis, O’Neil, and Associates.”

  I heard a buzz then the phone rang twice before it was answered.

  “This is Malcolm Davis’s office. How may I help you?” This voice was female, a little surly and brisk, not the smooth, relaxing tone of the male receptionist. I wished I could speak to him again.

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Davis, please.”

  “Your name?”

  “Faith Hunter.”

  I heard her tapping away on a keyboard. “I don’t see your name listed on my call list nor as a client of his. If you’ve been referred to Mr. Davis, I can schedule you for a consultation.” More clicking. “His first availability is three weeks from today at nine a.m. or an afternoon appointment at three p.m. I’d advise you to take the morning appointment as the afternoon one might need to be rescheduled due to other pressing issues that might arise during the day. Or there is another—”

  I broke in. “He doesn’t have anything sooner? I have an important matter to discuss with him. Time sensitive.”

  She let out an aggravated sigh. “I’m sure it is. Currently, I don’t have any cancellations, but I can put you on the waiting list.”

  “How long is the list?” A waiting list at a law firm? Steve’s dad sure was sought after. Or he spent a lot of time in court and on phone calls suing people.

  Like the town of Eden, the thought sprang into my brain.

  “You’re number four. I’d advise you to take one of the appointments I offered. It’s rare for clients to cancel an appointment with Mr. Davis. Also, the consultation is for one hour. The fee is three hundred dollars.”

  “Three hundred dollars?”

  “Mr. Davis can waive that fee if he chooses, but I’m instructed to advise all potential clients of his hourly rate.”

  I wasn’t going to pay three hundred dollars to talk to Steve’s dad. “I just need to speak to him for a moment.”

  “Everyone says that.”

  I didn’t want to have to pull out the gratitude card with his receptionist, but I didn’t think I’d get to talk to him any other way. “When Mr. Davis visited me at the hospital after I saved his son’s life, he told me if I ever needed anything to contact him.”

  Okay, it wasn’t in those exact words, but it was close and would work. Or at least, I hoped it did.

  “Which son?” She asked.

  For a moment, I was at a loss for words. Did she need to know which one before she decided if I deserved to speak with Malcolm right now? “Steve. I also wanted to see if it was possible I could get a job in his satellite office that opened in Eden. I’m prior service.” The last two sentences erupted from me. Where the heck had they come from? That was why I liked having a plan in me, my spontaneous combustion moments always created havoc in my life.

  “Hold for one moment.”

  Instrumental music played in my ear. If I wasn’t mistaken, there was confusion in her voice. Was it someone calling about Steve perplexing her, or the mention of the Eden office? To stop myself from pacing around the room, I started going through the box that was dropped off this morning.

  The first layer was crumbled up newspaper. I smoothed out a few pieces and checked the date. Recent news. Nothing historical. I tossed them into the trash. Carefully, I searched through the box for anything of interest. Pens. Notes on a car repair and estimate of the cost. A calendar. A locked diary. This looked promising. The leather was scratched, and the binding was showing wear. I turned the diary to look at the top of the pages. The paper was thick, a faded beige with a scrap of ribbon as a marker. A thin slip of blue paper was poking out. I could make out the top of the letters for the word receipt. Gently, I tugged it out. It was a bill for the Pancake Storage Unit. Storage locker twenty-five, ten by ten feet. Thirty dollars a month.

  The music stopped and Mr. Davis’s assistant started speaking. I tucked the bill back into the diary and placed it to the side. “Mr. Davis would like to schedule a lunch date with you for tomorrow.”

  There was no way I could get to Charleston in time for lunch. It was over a four-hour drive, one way. I was supposed to be working. Plus, Ted would be suspicious about a lunch meeting if I ran down to Charleston for the day. I had never made an impromptu trip there before.

  “Tomorrow?” I wanted to speak to him today. “Is there a way I can meet with him tonight?”

  “No, he’s leaving for court soon and already has an evening obligation. I’m already in the process of rearranging and rescheduling tomorrow’s appointments so he can meet you for lunch. Mr. Davis would like to meet somewhere just on the outskirts of town. He’s willing to go through so much trouble for you.”

  I could tell by the tone of her voice not only was this unusual for him but not something she approved of. “I appreciate that.”

  “As you should.” She was typing away. “It doesn’t appear there are many eateries down that way.”

  “We have limited options.”

  “Well there is a city about thirty minutes from you with a Buffalo Wild Wings. Would you be able to meet Mr. Davis there? He’d prefer to meet somewhere away from Eden while he speaks with you about what his son is up to.”

  I tried to decipher the comment. I wasn’t sure if “up to” meant he was going to tell me about the case Steve was working on, or if he wanted to know what I was talking about. Malcolm Davis was known for taking on cases of underdogs and when government and other big pockets were trying to hurt the “little guy.” With the limited information I knew, it appeared that the Davis firm was trying to help an heir get their inheritance. Would my poking around interfere? “Yes, I can meet him there tomorrow.”

  “It’s all arranged.”

  I hung up. My gaze drifted over to all the sorted documents I placed in archival organizers. Could there be an answer in there about who said they had a claim to the house? Had there b
een a family cemetery plot, or had something sinister happened at the Everton house? My lists of questions were piling up and there was no way I’d be able to find all the answers myself.

  But I could talk to the right person. Ruthann Pancake had been a high school history teacher for thirty years. She had retired right before Karen and I had entered the ninth grade. Ruthann was elected president of the historical society because her memory was filled with a lot of the details of our town. She had told me many of the stories I had included in the town’s scrapbooks. I put the diary and my cell phone into my purse.

  It was time to find out about if she had omitted some tales.

  After letting my grandma know I was going to talk with Ruthann, I walked out the back door and froze. The driver side door of my car was opened. A person wearing blue jeans and a tattered red and black plaid shirt was stretched across my front seat, sticking their hand into the glove compartment.

  Anger coursed through me. Before I knew it, I was at my car, clamping my hand onto the man’s shoulder. “What the—”

  The man elbowed me in the gut. I stumbled backward, a startled squeak coming out of me as all the breath rushed from my body.

  Using his left arm to cover his face, the man ran down the back road, heading in the direction of Home Brewed. I stumbled after him, wishing enough breath had returned so I could run and scream. I yanked out my cell phone, fumbling with it while I snapped some pictures. I didn’t think I’d be able to identify the man from his rather ordinary backside, but it was something.

  A van drove around me. Wyatt. He pulled past the man, whipping the van to block off most of the end of the road. Wyatt stepped out of the vehicle, feigning to the left and right as he set himself up for a tackle.

  The man yanked the flannel shirt over his head, shielding his face as he switched directions, aiming toward me. If I had a choice of getting past Wyatt or myself, I’d go for me too. Briefly, I debated about using my body to trip the man up, giving up the idea when common sense and self-preservation kicked in. The man wasn’t carrying anything with him, not that there was anything of value in my car to steal. It was best to get out of his way rather than risk getting seriously hurt. I had no idea if the man had a knife or gun on him, and I’d rather not find out.

  I clambered into the safety of my car, locking the door. The man continued running down the back road. The taillights of Wyatt’s van brightened and then the vehicle reversed, stopping right behind me. I pulled up a note app on my phone and jotted down a description of the man’s clothes and his approximate height and weight. Just in case. Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen the man’s face.

  A few moments later, Wyatt tapped on my window. “You okay?”

  Rolling down the window, I swiveled to the right and examined the items on the passenger seat. Car registration. Charging cord. Coupons for oil change. “I’m fine and everything’s here. I wonder what he was looking for.”

  Hunching over, Wyatt crossed his arms then propped himself up on the sill. “Loose change. Anything he could sell. There’s a sleeping bag and fast food bags at the end of the road near Home Brewed. My guess is he’s homeless and hangs out behind Home Brewed for the leftovers and decided to check if any of the cars were unlocked.”

  My face flushed. “I left my window open to air out my car. The quilt stunk.”

  “I noticed that. My ma will know how to get the stench out of the old quilt. She’s good at things like that. Wayne and I had a habit of getting sprayed by skunks when we were kids.”

  “Mistook them for cats?” I shooed Wyatt before opening my door. I popped open the trunk, making sure to roll up the window and lock my door this time.

  “No, Wayne and I liked to see who could hold onto one the longest.” Wyatt lifted the trunk.

  How did Gussie survive their childhood? And how had they made it through youth relatively unscathed? “Neither of you learned a lesson the first time?”

  “The first time I won. Wayne wasn’t going to leave it at that. He needed a chance to beat me. Then I had to make sure I held onto a skunk longer so I was ahead.” Wyatt stood to the side on the driver’s side of my car, hunched over the trunk, like he wanted to block my view from what he was doing.

  I rose on my toes and peered over his shoulder. He was shoving the coat into a corner of the trunk, a place I wouldn’t be able to reach unless I practically crawled inside the space. I wobbled and bumped into him. His head thunked against the trunk.

  “What the heck are you doing?” Wyatt straightened, rubbing his head.

  “Me? I’m not the one trying to hide a coat in your car.”

  His shoulders sagged. “You saw it.”

  “It came unwrapped when I went to put the quilt back here. What’s going on?” I leaned as far into the trunk as I could without getting inside. I snagged a corner of the item in the far back and tugged on it. It was a sleeve of an olive green light jacket or shirt.

  Wyatt slipped the tip of the sleeve from my grasp, pushing the garment back into the dark recess of the trunk. “Faith, please let it go.”

  “I can’t do that.” I crossed my arms and fixed my fiercest glare at him. “Especially when you’re leaving the item in my car. Either tell me what’s up, or I’m telling your mother.”

  That got him. He blanched. “She can’t know.” His voice shook, and the quilt quivered in his hands.

  Nervousness raced through me. Wyatt was scared. Truly terrified. The man jumped off roofs, even a bridge once on a dare, and tangled with pretty much every living thing in Eden, and this was the first time I had seen him petrified.

  “Wyatt, what’s wrong?” I softened my voice.

  “I found that old Army coat up in the attic.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to get into any more trouble taking it than we are the quilt and whatever you said was carcasses.”

  “But that jacket has a name on it. Harbaugh.” Wyatt looked at me expectantly, as if the name would click something into place.

  It didn’t. I rummaged around in my memory for it. It whispered in my head, fleeting. I was sure I’d heard it here and there as a child, but it was always quiet. Hidden. Why?

  “Harbaugh was my dad’s last name.”

  Wayne and Wyatt had their mother’s last name. Gussie hadn’t given them their dad’s last name because he hadn’t wanted to marry her at the time, and Gussie refused to give the boys his name if he refused to give it to her. Or at least that was what I had heard growing up.

  Wayne and Wyatt hadn’t cared about not having their father in their life. He had left town when the brothers were young children, before either of them were in kindergarten. Ollie Harbaugh was in Eden one day and gone the next.

  Gussie had been heartbroken for a few days, but she pulled herself together to raise her boys alone. She didn’t talk much about the man who fathered her children except to say she didn’t want a man who didn’t want her boys.

  “I don’t want my ma to know until I can figure out why it was up there. I’ve heard the gossip all my life. Everyone said Ollie Harbaugh just up and disappeared off the face of the earth. They think he did it so my mom couldn’t track him down for child support or to kick his ass. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe someone took him from us.”

  A deep sadness filled Wyatt’s eyes. “Or he done killed someone. I need you to help me find out the truth, Faith. I can’t let my father break my mother’s heart again.”

  Seven

  If Wyatt’s father had been in the Everton house that meant others might have been as well. My mind spun with theories. Did someone else get into the trunks and take items out—like Esther’s diary? Had Edward told Georgia the truth about where he found the diary? If he had lied, why? Had he been trying to make his family heirs? “Why would your father have been at the Everton house?”

  Wyatt’s gaze ping-ponged around the area. He stepped closer to me. “My fathe
r was on a crew hired to do maintenance on the grounds. Kids had vandalized it pretty bad. Windows needed replacing, and the columns up front needed to be braced as kids tried knocking them down. There were some puddles, and since it hadn’t rained, the town thought a pipe had leaked. So they were also asked to fix or replace it.”

  “Who else was on the crew?”

  “Whoever worked for Hank’s grandfather at the time. I know my dad picked up work from him, along with a couple of his friends. It’s how he met my mom. She had her own cleaning business and cleaned the office for Hank’s grandfather.”

  “You’re sure your father was hired to work on the house?”

  “Yep. Wayne and I saw his name on one of the documents we got from the assessor’s office.”

  “Do you still have them? We might be able to find something about his death in them.”

  “They’re at our office. I’ll pick them up on my way to get the stuff from the Everton mansion. Do you want me to bring the items to your house or here?”

  “Pick them up?”

  “Mitchell was following me so I figured I should act like I was telling the truth about the carcasses. I took everything to old man Graves. He likes using old animal bones to make art.”

  Or more like a “security system” that kept children of all ages off his property. Graves, no first name ever given, lived in a rundown shack about two miles from the Everton mansion. The place he squatted at had once been used by hunters as a trapper shack in the winter. Rumor had it that Graves made his money from selling moonshine and other illegal items. The bones hanging from trees and staked around the property kept most people far away from him and his property. It worked on me. Graves didn’t have a telephone. Or running water. He liked being off the grid and treated everyone like a trespasser.

  Except the Bufords. He liked them. I guessed it was because most of the town looked down on them, and that made them all right in his book. Graves arrived in town one day carrying a duffel bag, half his face was disfigured from what we guessed was a horrible burn. He never said, and no one asked the gruff hitchhiker. Since he couldn’t get a ride out of town, he holed up in the abandoned shack a few miles from the Everton mansion, fixing it up and tending to any stray animals dumped near the property. He left everyone alone, so the residents paid him no mind.