Web of Lies (Page 35)

The parking lot – if you wanted to call it that and not just loose gravel, curved around the store like a crescent moon. A stop sign squatted off to the right, and the road came to a T, forcing you to go right or left. One of the road signs pointed the way back to the interstate and declared that this stretch of pavement was part of some scenic, tourist-trap highway. The other sign featured an arrow and the words Dawson No. 3. Less than a mile away. Interesting. I might have to go check out the coal mine, after I met the illustrious Warren T. Fox.

We got out of the car. Underneath my boots, the parking lot gravel vibrated with the sounds of traffic and tires continually rolling across it. A low growl that told me the stones had seen a lot of people and cars go by in their time. Nothing sinister, just the everyday facts of life.

A smile brightened Violet Fox’s face and softened her eyes, chasing away some of the lingering shadows from last night.

"You really love this place, don’t you?" I asked.

She nodded. "My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather took me in and raised me. I’ve been helping him with the store ever since. It’s like my second home, you know?"

Violet Fox and I were more alike than she realized, because I did know. Because I felt the same way about the Pork Pit. That’s why I’d reacted so badly, so defensively, when Jonah McAllister had come calling today – because he wasn’t just threatening my business, my livelihood, he was threatening my home as well. A piece of my heart. The last piece of Fletcher Lane that I had, since the old man was dead and gone and had left me nothing else but riddles to solve.

Violet started to walk ahead to the store, but I grabbed her arm.

"Stay behind me."

"Why?" she asked.

"Just do it, all right?"

Finn stared at me over the hood of the SUV. "You think there’s going to be trouble inside, Gin?"

I shrugged. "I don’t know. But if this is such a popular place, why aren’t there more cars here? It’s lunchtime. Folks should be packed in here, getting a sandwich or a cold drink."

Finn’s green eyes flicked over the gravel lot. Only one other car was parked in it, an anonymous navy sedan. His eyes drifted out to the road. A steady stream of traffic came and went at the crossroads, but none of the drivers looked at the store, much less pulled into the lot. Finn’s face tightened.

"It’s been quiet since Dawson started sending his men over to harass us," Violet explained. "People don’t like to stop somewhere there might be trouble. Sometimes, we’re lucky if we get five customers in eight hours. It’s probably just a slow day."

"Come on," I said. "Let’s go find out."

I led the way, with Finn behind me and Violet bringing up the rear. As we crossed the parking lot, I palmed one of my silverstone knives. If there was trouble inside, I’d be the first one to see it – and I wanted to be ready to deal with it.

The porch stairs didn’t creak under my weight. They were too smooth and well-worn to do that. I walked up them, opened the front door, and stepped inside.

Country Daze was exactly what I’d expected. Scarred, ancient wooden floors. Displays of tourist T-shirts, key chains, and other doodads. An odd assortment of tools and outdoor equipment. Barrels full of rock candy, saltwater taffy, and cellophane-wrapped sugary pralines. A couple of coolers filled with old-fashioned glass soda bottles.

A few more with sandwiches and other snacks. Tables full of honey, strawberry preserves, and apple butter. A revolving rack of cheap sunglasses. Nicer arrangements of quilts, baskets, and other, more expensive handmade items.

A large counter filled with silver jewelry formed a solid square in the middle of the store. An old man stood behind it, one hand resting on a large shotgun with a scarred wooden stock.

What little there was of his wispy white hair stuck up over his forehead as if it had been shocked upright by my appearance. His eyes were dark and shiny, as though two chocolate caramels had been stuffed in his face. He was about my size, stooped with age from his original, taller height. His skin was a dark, burnished brown, marking him as having some Native American heritage, most likely Cherokee in this neck of the woods. Deep lines grooved his face around his pinched mouth, as if he frowned a lot.

But perhaps most unsettling was the fact he wore a blue work shirt that could have come straight out of Fletcher Lane’s closet. His dark eyes held the same fierce determination that Fletcher’s had always had, and I could tell by his proud stance that this store was his life, his kingdom, and meant as much to him as the Pork Pit had to Fletcher. The man in front of me didn’t look anything like my murdered mentor, but in some ways, he was a mirror image of Fletcher. It unsettled me – and made me feel a softness toward him that he’d done absolutely nothing to earn.

I didn’t need Violet to tell me this was her grandfather, Warren T. Fox. A crotchety old coot who’d probably just as soon cuss as look at you. I knew the type. I’d been raised by one.

But Warren T. Fox wasn’t alone.

There was another man with him, someone who needed no introduction, either. Someone I already knew all too well.

Detective Donovan Caine.

Chapter Fifteen

Now I knew whom the sedan outside belonged to. It had cop car written all over it. I just didn’t realize it belonged to my cop.

The two men turned at the sound of my footsteps on the worn floor. Warren T. Fox frowned. Surprise filled Donovan Caine’s golden eyes.

"Gin?" the detective asked. "What are you doing here?"

"You know her?" Warren Fox asked. His voice was high, thin, reedy, like someone whistling through a broken flute.

"Yeah," Caine said in a low voice. "You might say I know her."

Well enough to sleep with me. Well enough to want to do the same again. Despite the fact I’d killed his former partner.

I opened my mouth to respond when Finn and Violet entered the store behind me. The girl walked around me, went straight to her grandfather, leaned across the wooden counter, and hugged his neck tight.

The old man’s face softened for a moment, and the sheen of moisture dampened his eyes. Then he scowled and pulled away from the younger woman.

"Where have you been?" he snapped. "I’ve been worried sick about you."

Violet sighed. "I called you last night, Grandpa, remember? I told you I was staying with Eva."

The old man’s brown eyes narrowed. "Yes, you called, and you sounded peculiar. But I wasn’t really worried until Eva called here this morning. She said you two were supposed to have breakfast, and you didn’t show."

Violet’s face pinched up into an oh-shit-I’ve-just-beencaught look.

"I tried your cell phone to clarify the matter," Warren continued. "No answer."