Chapter Thirty-Nine Ashley
THIRTY-NINE ASHLEY
A sea of men in work clothes filled the pub, their talk a loud droning that drowned out Ashley’s thoughts. She stared in disbelief at Cheryl’s empty glass, the ice cubes melting.
She took a sip of her tepid, bitter coffee. The pub was suddenly too loud, too warm. There were too many suspicious eyes on her. She needed air. And she needed to confront Josephine.
As she stood to leave, a glittery flash off to her left caught her attention.
Jack St. James was sitting at the end of the bar, in about the same spot Sad Willy had been yesterday.
He was wearing a black-and-red-checked flannel shirt, and the flash came from a gold pocket watch he held, spinning it on its chain, staring at it like he was trying to hypnotize himself.
Ashley made her way through the crowd and took a stool to his right.
“Miss Flanders,” he grunted, not taking his eyes off the watch. It had stopped spinning and was now swinging like a pendulum.
“Beautiful watch,” she said. Up close, she could see that it was the same watch Mini had shown her just this morning. Frankie’s watch.
He was quiet for a beat. “Family heirloom,” he said at last, not looking at her. Denise came over behind the bar and set a mug of beer in front of him.
“Everything okay here, Jack?” she asked, giving Ashley a cold look, clearly ready to kick her out of the place if Jack said he was being disturbed.
“Yeah, Denise. We’re fine. Thank you.”
She nodded and went back to serving the crowd of men, taking orders for the lunch special, burgers, sodas and beers. The men were talking, some of them in hushed voices as they looked her way.
Jack set the pocket watch down on the bar, monogram side up. He reached for the mug of beer and took a long sip, wiping the foam from his lips, staring straight ahead as if Ashley wasn’t there.
Ashley thought of her mother: of all the true crime shows she watched and books she read, the online forums she joined to try to solve cold cases with other amateur sleuths from all over the world.
How she’d spend hours making notes, sifting through clues, turning the old cameo ring on her finger while she puzzled over the evidence.
Her mother would know what to say, how to question Jack without being too obvious.
But maybe there was something to be said for being direct.
“So, Jack. I suppose you noticed the painting on my room door?”
He looked down at his watch, gleaming in the light.
The country music hummed. Someone lit a cigarette even though Ashley knew full well smoking indoors was illegal in bars in Vermont—even in Boone’s Ferry. She looked at the painting above the bar: Lorelei’s misshapen blue-eyed deer stared back at her coldly.
“Oh, I noticed all right,” Jack said at last.
“Care to tell me what it means?” she asked, feigning ignorance.
“It means”—Jack scooped up the watch and clicked the case open with his thumb, holding it up to show the second hand ticking in a circle; his tight mouth worked its way into a grim smile as he turned to face her—“you’re running out of time.”