Part 4 (1/2)
”There may be more,” Barbara acknowledged, ”but I phoned a few friends in town, and those were all we could come up with on such short notice.”
”Let me get something to write these down on,” I said, diving into my bag for a pen and a piece of paper. They were there in case any good puzzle ideas-or, more likely, snippet thoughts-came to me while I was out. I couldn't build a puzzle in my mind any more than I could play three games of chess at the same time, but it was impossible to predict when creativity would strike.
I looked at the paper in my purse and saw that I'd scribbled, Compare autumn with computers in next snippet. What in the world could that possibly mean? I flipped the paper over and looked expectantly at Barbara.
She'd been watching me, and before she spoke, she took another full ten seconds to study me. ”Remember, no one can know that I've fed you this information. Agreed?”
”Not even Zach?” I asked.
”No, I'm sorry, but this has to be between the two of us alone.”
”My husband was the chief of police for Charlotte, North Carolina,” I said with a little more stiffness than I intended. ”Trust me when I tell you that he knows how to keep a secret.”
”I'm sorry, but I insist,” she said. I could tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn't going to back down, so anything I said would just be a waste of good breath.
I put the paper and pen back in my bag and stood. ”Then I'm sorry I bothered you. I do appreciate the thought.”
”Where are you going?” Barbara looked absolutely startled by my reaction to her demand. I doubted that many folks had told her no before.
”If I can't tell my husband, I don't want to know anything you've got to say. It's as simple as that.”
Barbara frowned, clearly in uncharted waters. ”Even if it means not finding the real killer?”
”Even then,” I said as I headed for the door.
Barbara snapped out, ”You can't bluff me, Savannah; I'm too good at reading character for that to work.”
”I wouldn't dream of trying to make you back down. I know better. That's why I'm just going to give up and start digging around town myself.”
”No one's going to talk to you,” she said in a threatening voice as I headed for the back door.
”Maybe not. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.”
I was at the door when she said with an air of finality, ”You'll be back.”
I turned to face her, and it took every ounce of energy I had to keep smiling. ”Barbara, if there's one thing in my life that I stand by, it's my relations.h.i.+p with my husband. I'm sure I could get along fine without him, and he could probably do the same, but there's something magical about life when we're together, and I wouldn't do anything to risk that, ever, not even if my very life depended on it.”
I left her with that, and as I closed the door, the frown on Barbara's face was obvious. She'd tried to back me down on one of the few things on earth that I would never budge from, and she'd lost. I'd probably pay for my disobedience, but if that meant that my reputation around town would take a hit, it was worth it.
I'd meant every word I'd said. There was nothing more important to me than my marriage, and I would never do anything that might harm it in the slightest way. The sooner folks around town realized that, the better off we'd all be.
MY PRINCIPLES WERE ALL WELL AND GOOD, BUT THEY weren't going to help me find a killer and clear my name. Now that I'd lost my first and best chance of putting together a list of folks who might want to see Joanne come to harm, I'd have to formulate a backup plan. I returned to my car, but I made no attempt to start the engine until I had a specific destination in mind. As I went over all the people I'd met in Parson's Valley over the past few years, I thought of-and just as quickly discarded-most of the people I'd ever met there. Sure, there were plenty of folks I'd share a seat with at the Sat.u.r.day night buffet on Town Square, and some I'd even share a secret or two with, but I was just beginning to realize that the ones I could trust, and I mean really trust, were few indeed. I started getting depressed about it until I realized that in all the years we'd lived in Charlotte, I could still just produce a similarly small list, a few friends I could call in the middle of the night who wouldn't ask why, instead just how they could help. It was probably like that for most people, if they were ever to honestly a.s.sess the relations.h.i.+ps with the people they came into contact with from day to day.
In the end, I managed to come up with two names of people I knew that I could trust. It was no surprise that Barbara's wasn't one of them. I suddenly realized that I'd been going about it all wrong. Certainly Barbara Brewer knew more about the activities in our little town than nearly anyone else, but that didn't mean she'd share what information she had with me; at least not without a price I refused to pay.
The two I had left would do that, and more.
And now I knew exactly where I needed to go.
It was time to get some help from a real friend.
I WAVED TO ROB HASTINGS WHEN I WALKED INTO HIS HARDWARE store. The owner was selling a middle-aged man some exotic wood from the section of his store devoted to woodworkers. It would have surprised a lot of folks back in Charlotte that one of my best friends in Parson's Valley was the heavyset widowed owner of the town hardware store, but sometimes there's no accounting for how people make a connection. When we'd first moved into our old cottage, Zach and I had discovered that there were a thousand things that needed fixing, and we soon learned that Rob had all the answers, and on those rare occasions when he didn't, he had a good idea of exactly who in our area might. Since Zach's consulting business was just starting to take off, my husband had to go where the crime was. At times, he was gone more often than he was at home, so I'd turned to Rob for help, and we'd soon developed a friends.h.i.+p. What had sealed it, at least for him, was the sourdough bread I baked every week, with one loaf earmarked especially for him. His late wife had made the same subtle sourdough that I did, with a hint of the flavor instead of the overpowering blast that many starters yielded. We'd soon worked out an arrangement that both of us were happy with: his advice for my bread.
After Rob rang up the man's sale and helped him to his car, he smiled at me and said, ”There goes a man who appreciates history.”
”What were you two discussing?” I asked.
”Wood,” he answered, looking surprised by my question. ”You saw us over there, didn't you?”
”I'm probably going to regret this, but what's historic about those particular boards he just bought?”
Rob retrieved another plank from the pile-one about eight inches wide, four feet long, and an inch thick. ”Savannah, how heavy would you say this board is?”
I looked at its bulk. ”It looks like it weighs a lot.”
Then he handed to me. ”Now what would you say?”
”It's surprisingly light,” I admitted.
”But it's stronger than you'd ever imagine. How about the color of the wood? Does it look familiar?”
I studied the board in my hand. It was a game we sometimes played, identifying wood species, and I'd gotten to be pretty good at it over the past few years. Even Rob admitted that it was getting harder and harder to stump me. ”The grain pattern looks like it could be some type of oak, but I've never seen anything in that species that color before. It's a cross between blond and b.u.t.ter, if I had to categorize it.”
He laughed at my description.
”What's so funny?” I asked.
”I've just never heard it described that way before, but I think you've nailed it perfectly. So, are you ready to guess?”
I looked at it again, and then handed the board back to him. ”Not today. I'm afraid you've beaten me. I give up.”
He didn't gloat; I had to give him credit for that. ”Don't take it too hard. There are woodworkers who've been at it for decades who've never held a piece of this in their hands. It's authentic American chestnut, harvested a hundred years ago and cut with a water-powered saw blade.”
”Okay, I see the history of it,” I acknowledged. ”What does it cost?”
”It's ten dollars a board foot,” he said. ”I'd say that was cheap for a piece of history, wouldn't you?”
”I would,” I said as I took out my purse and put a ten dollar bill in his hand. ”I'll take it.”
”That's per board foot, not per board,” he said as he handed the money back to me.
”Then how much does this piece in particular cost?”
He took a few measurements, entered them into a calculator, and came up with a total, but before he would tell me, he looked at me and asked, ”Do you really want this piece, or are you just making one of those points you like to make from time to time?”
”Does it matter?”