Killer in the Carriage House by Sheila Connolly

Author:Sheila Connolly [Connolly, Sheila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2020-10-12T10:52:11.774386+00:00

16

Carroll and I ambled through the center of town, but the choices for lunch were limited, and I wasn’t in the mood for fast food. “You know,” I said, “there’s a soda shop along here, that’s been here since I was a kid. We can get something to eat there and finish our survey of the town.”

“I’m game,” Carroll said.

I found the place, and we sat at a table and ordered iced teas and hamburgers. While we waited, I studied the place. It wouldn’t fit my Victorian model, but it still suggested what had been a small town where everyone knew each other to chat with, that was relatively clean, with low crime.

I looked up to see the owner, Ted, delivering our plates. He was smiling at me. “You’re Ted, right?” I asked.

“Sure am. You used to come in, back in the day. I remember your face, but not your name.”

“I’m Kate Hamilton. Yes, my folks used to live in town, but they moved a few years ago. And this is my friend Carroll, who’s never been to Asheboro before. Ted, I’d love to talk to you about the changes in Asheboro, but I think I’d have to come back for that,” I said.

“Anytime you like, young lady. I’m always here.”

“Next week, then, I hope.”

When Ted had walked away, I checked my phone again: no calls or messages from Beverly or anyone else.

Beverly didn’t call until late Saturday afternoon, and said we could plan to move on Sunday. By then Carroll and I had checked out the entire town center (not that it took long, given there were only four full blocks of it) and scribbled a lot of ideas on scraps of paper, so our time wasn’t wasted. No way could we use all of the ideas, but at least we had choices, and I really appreciated having a second set of eyes thanks to Carroll.

Toward the end of our stroll I realized that I recognized one of the stores from my childhood. It was fairly large, with a surprisingly high ceiling, although it was only one story high. Currently it appeared to be an odd mishmash of a hardware store, which was clearly not its intended use, but some of the shelving appeared to be original, and I really wanted to know what lay under the dingy tiles that covered the ceiling. When we walked in, and I stopped and almost sniffed the air: it felt old, despite the modern additions.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Coming, coming…,” a man’s voice called out from the back of the store somewhere. It took him at least two minutes to appear, shuffling his feet along the worn floorboards. “What can I help you lovely ladies with?” he asked.

I didn’t answer immediately because the man looked familiar, and I was running through my mental database trying to place him. “Mr., uh, MacDonald?”

The man’s bright eyes focused on me, and I saw a spark of recognition. “You’re the Hamilton girl, aren’t you?”

“Not a girl anymore, but yes, I’m Kate Hamilton.

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