Chapter 19
I’m immediately swarmed by Southern people who have smelled a tragedy and need to sink their teeth in.
Hands grasp my shoulders and pat my arms. I’m told my grandmother was a spitfire, a saint, a beauty, a character.
I’m told I look like her, the spitting image, how didn’t they notice?
I’m told that Arcadia Falls has been waiting for me.
A few people, however, Joyce included, keep their distance, whisper behind their hands, and look me up and down like I might secretly be a reptile.
“Can’t believe she never told us! And you weren’t at the funeral!” the caftan lady mutters indignantly, like it’s somehow my fault.
“They didn’t know each other,” Colonel shoots back. “I only found out a few weeks ago when Riley tracked down the prodigal granddaughter. Now let the poor girl breathe!”
It gets awkward after that, once all the condolences have been condoled and the monster cookies monstrously devoured.
I swiftly make my exit, glancing around the room in hopes that I can avoid either of the Blakelys.
Of course, in the crush of people navigating the furniture-strewn lobby of the inn, I manage to end up at the door at the same time as Hunter.
The look he gives me is resentful, but I guess I deserve it.
He stands back. “Please. Go ahead.”
And I’d argue, but I want out of here. So many new people, so much to keep up with, so many eyes on me.
I’m not accustomed to being the center of attention, but I’m learning that being the new girl in a small town is like being a chicken nugget in a flock of pigeons, especially after Joyce’s truth bomb about my ancestry.
I nod and murmur my thanks, aware of him waiting to follow me out.
The night air has a welcome coolness, and I exhale a big breath and close my eyes for a moment, grateful for the space.
The scent of late summer rides the breeze, heavy with jasmine and camellia, their glossy leaves rustling prettily behind the inn’s white picket fence, and when I look up, it seems like the stars are closer than usual.
“You never mentioned you were a Kirkwood,” Hunter says.
I take a deep breath. “That’s because I’m not a Kirkwood. I’m a Wolfe. I never met my grandmother. My mother hated her and left this place to escape her. So whatever beef you have against her has nothing to do with me. I’m sorry she left y’all angry.”
“You don’t understand,” Maggie starts, but I give the backpack a slight shake. This moment feels important, a make-or-break thing between Hunter and me.
He looks around, buying some time to think. “Angry doesn’t quite cover it, but that doesn’t mean it’s your fault—or that it’s safe for you to walk around at night by yourself. Can I see you home? That alley is dark, and you’re the only person going back there tonight.”
He’s right. I own the next three properties, so they’re all empty, and the candy store closes early.
There’s no reason for anyone else to be in that alley, which means that if they are, it’s not good.
And I’m pretty sure Big John and Buttercup would be of no use in case of an attack.
Hell, they’d probably wring their little raccoon hands and bide their time to eat my corpse.
“Sure. Thanks.” We start walking, and, not gonna lie, it’s awkward.
I slip out of my blazer, let the breeze hit my shoulders and flutter my silk shell.
“Speaking of which—would it be really expensive to make an interior staircase that goes directly into the store? Or even just a ladder. Or a fireman’s pole?
I don’t like the idea that if I heard something down there in the middle of the night, I’d have to go all the way around the alley first.”
Something about him softens. He’s relieved, I think, to have something to talk about besides our whole Romeo-and-Juliet vibe.
“There actually is a stairwell already. Maggie had me wall off the door upstairs. She liked her privacy. So really, I’d just cut out the drywall and reframe the door in the apartment. ”
I try to imagine where a hidden door might be and, failing that, try to remember any spare doors in the actual store.
A wave of guilt sweeps over me as I realize that I, the business owner, have only set foot in my store for a combined total of five minutes, maybe.
I just assumed Abraham would be running it, or not running it, as usual.
Since he didn’t contact me at all and Maggie didn’t suggest I talk to him, I kinda forgot all about it.
So far, I am not the ideal entrepreneur.
As we reach the square, I squint across the darkened street and note that the lights are still on at the Arcadia Falls Video Emporium & Boiled P-Nut Palace.
Then again, I guess people with a hankering to rent Mannequin Two on VHS don’t want to wait until the morning.
I haven’t seen hours posted anywhere, but that fits in with everything I’ve seen so far of my grandmother’s business.
The best time to peruse twenty-year-old VHS tapes is clearly when an entire town of old folks is already asleep.
“Will you show me where that door is—in the store?” I add this last part hastily because I don’t mean to imply that I’m inviting a good-looking single man up to my apartment two days after meeting him, even if I’m definitely thinking about it.
We haven’t spoken of the fact that he asked me out and then never texted, and I’m too embarrassed to bring it up.
I have to find out what Maggie did to the Blakelys before I can truly untangle everyone’s feelings, including my own.
Hunter nods and holds open the glass front door for me, and I step inside to the scent of possibly overboiled boiled peanuts.
I don’t see a single person—no one browsing the stacks and no Abraham sleeping in his usual chair.
I have inherited the world’s emptiest store, filled to the brim with the world’s least viable product.
He points to the far door on the left. “That one goes into a shared storage room with the hardware store next door. Lot of good space in there, but it’ll need some cleaning out if you want to use it.
Bathroom door is marked, of course.” He points to a door on the right.
“And that one has the stairs.” He nods at Abraham’s lawn chair.
“Huh. That’s weird. He’s usually asleep in that chair about this time. ”
A small but persistent alarm bell begins to ring in my head as a chill strokes up my spine. This doesn’t feel right.
“Where does Abraham live?” I ask nervously. “I know he just abandons the store sometimes….”
“No idea. He’s a private guy.”
I move the backpack around front and gently bounce it. “I wish someone around here knew more about Abraham,” I say.
Maggie shakes herself awake. “Abraham? He’s my uncle. Never married. I was his only family, which is why you have to keep paying him.”
“But where is he, I wonder,” I continue.
She perks up and presses a beady red eye against the screened front of the bag. “He should be in that chair, sleeping. He usually wakes up and locks the door around ten.”
“Does anybody know where he lives?” I ask again.
“Maggie might’ve. She knew him better than anyone,” Hunter says, oblivious to my private, half-telepathic conversation with a sleepy parrot.
We’re both still standing just inside the front door as if something is holding us back from venturing farther within.
“Abraham?” I call.
No answer.
“Sometimes he sleeps in the stairwell,” Maggie admits.
Fine, then. This is my business, he’s my employee, and I’m going to check the stairwell.
I walk a circle of the entire store first, just to make sure he isn’t curled up in a corner or using the restroom.
He’s not behind the counter, and the only places left to look are the two doors Hunter has just pointed out to me.
Both possibilities seem equally creepy, so I head for the stairwell.
“Abraham?” I call again.
There’s no answer, not even a rustle or snore from the other side. Hunter is right behind me, his hand out like he wants to be supportive but doesn’t want to accidentally touch me. I grab the doorknob, and it’s colder than it should be.
When I open the door, we find Abraham, right where Maggie said he would be.
But he’s not asleep.
He’s dead.