The Arsenic Box by G. H. Fryer

Author:G. H. Fryer [G. H. Fryer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pickett & Prose Publishing, LLC
Published: 2022-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter seventeen

Parish, Colorado, was a perfect little town out of place and time with the rest of the Front Range. Nestled against the Rocky Mountains, twenty minutes north of Fort Collins, it was postcard perfect. The mountains offered a cyan backdrop to the picturesque little town during the summer and a brilliant cascade of ambers and golds during the upcoming autumn. It was a small town with one church and a tiny post office. Main Street was lined on either side with giant elm trees that had grown together to form a canopy of branches and leaves. White picket fences and colorful gardens bordered the quaint streets.

Christopher was glad to be home. His shop was right on Main Street, and he parked his car in front. It had been a long day, but the entertainment had been worth it. Unlike Fort Collins, there was no push toward modernization here. Also, everyone here knew each other. It was hard to keep a secret in such a small town, so he had decided a long time ago that he would have to be particular about what secrets were worth keeping. In the end, business matters won out, and he would have to put his sexuality on display.

He’d struggled with his sexuality for most of his life until his father died. He buried his father, along with his father’s judgment, his rules, and the hate he had bestowed on Christopher because his son’s sexuality didn’t match what he thought constituted that of a man. It was more likely that he was embarrassed to be judged by standards he didn’t understand, or maybe that he was just a horrible, frightened little man. After that, he’d never actively tried to hide the fact that he was a gay man, but he didn’t go around pointing it out either. He managed to find himself the occasional lover every now and again and, for the most part, didn’t feel so alone. Well, that’s what he kept telling himself.

The hot sun beat down against the back of his neck as he unlocked the door to his shop. He loved his shop. The large picture windows and rustic trim showcased his public collection of rare books and vintage trinkets. The oak sign swinging above the door to his shop had been lacquered in black and the lettering carved in relief, Blackwood’s Attic: Rare Books & Unique Collectibles, was painted in gold. It is all very classy, much like me, he thought.

He opened the glass-fronted door, and the silver bell above the door jingled merrily. The late summer heat in Colorado was oppressive, so he left the front door propped open with a brass doorstop in the shape of a rabbit. The shop was warm, and he desperately needed a glass of iced tea. His shop wasn’t filled with random junk gathered from local flea markets and garage sales; rather, it was a curated collection. The folks in town often saved their earnings to buy items from his shop. Books

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