True Believer Page 9

  But if you didn't feel any passion for your husband, could you really expect that? She wasn't sure. Doris, of course, had a ready answer. "Trust me, honey, that passes after the first couple of years," she would say, despite the fact that, to Lexie's mind, anyway, her grandparents had the kind of relationship that anyone would envy. Her grandfather was one of those naturally romantic men. Until the very end, he would open the car door for Doris and hold her hand when they walked through town. He had been both committed and faithful to her. He clearly adored her and would often comment on how lucky he was to have met a woman like her. After he passed on, part of Doris had begun to die as well. First the heart attack, now worsening arthritis; it was as if they'd always been meant to be together. When coupled with Doris's advice, what did that mean? Did that mean Doris had simply been lucky in meeting a man like him? Or had she seen something in her husband beforehand, something that confirmed he was the right one for her?

  More important, why on earth was Lexie even thinking about marriage again?

  Probably because she was here at Doris's house, the house she'd grown up in after her parents had died. Cooking with her in the kitchen was comforting in its familiarity, and she remembered growing up thinking that she would one day live in a house like this. Weathered planking; a tin roof that echoed the sound of rain, making it seem that it was raining nowhere else in the world; old-fashioned windows with frames that had been painted so many times that they were almost impossible to open. And she did live in a house like that. Well, sort of, anyway. At first glance, it would seem that Doris's home and hers were similar--they were built in the same era--but she'd never been able to replicate the aromas. The Sunday afternoon stews, the sun-dried scent of sheets on the bed, the slightly stuffy smell of the ancient rocker where her grandfather had relaxed for years. Smells like those reflected a way of life worn smooth with comfort over the years, and whenever she pushed through the door here, she was flooded with vivid childhood memories.

  Of course, she'd always imagined that she would have a family of her own by now, maybe even children, but it hadn't worked out. Two relationships had come close: there was the long relationship with Avery, which had begun in college, and after that, another involving a young man from Chicago who was visiting his cousin in Boone Creek one summer. He was the classic Renaissance man: he spoke four languages, spent a year studying at the London School of Economics, and had paid his way through school with a baseball scholarship. Mr. Renaissance was charming and exotic, and she'd fallen for him quickly. She thought he'd stay here, thought he'd grow to love the place as much as she did, but she woke up one Saturday morning to learn that he was on his way back to Chicago. He never even bothered to say good-bye.

  And after that? Not much, really. There were a couple of other flings that lasted six months or so, neither of which she thought about much anymore. One had been with a local physician, the other a lawyer; both had proposed to her, but again, she hadn't felt the magic or thrill or whatever it was you were supposed to feel to let you know that you didn't need to look any further. In the last couple of years, the dates had been fewer and further apart, unless you counted Rodney Hopper, a deputy sheriff in town. They'd gone on a dozen or so dates, one every other month or so, whenever there was a local benefit that she was encouraged to attend. Like her, Rodney had been born and raised here, and when they were kids, they used to share the teeter-totter behind the Episcopal Church. Ever since, he'd been pining away for her and had asked her a couple of times to accompany him for drinks at the Lookilu Tavern. Sometimes she wondered whether she should just take him up on his offers to date her regularly, but Rodney . . . well, he was a little too interested in fishing and hunting and lifting weights and not quite interested enough in books or anything going on in the rest of the world. He was a nice guy, though, and she figured he'd make a fine husband. But not for her.

  So where did that leave her?

  Here at Doris's, three times a week, she thought, waiting for the inevitable questions about her love life.

  "So what did you think of him?" Doris asked, right on cue.

  Lexie couldn't help smiling. "Who?" she asked, playing innocent.

  "Jeremy Marsh. Who did you think I was talking about?"

  "I have no idea. That's why I asked the question."

  "Quit avoiding the subject. I heard he spent a couple of hours at the library."

  Lexie shrugged. "He seemed nice enough. I helped him find a few books to get him started, and that was about it."

  "You didn't talk to him?"

  "Of course, we talked. Like you said, he was there for a while."

  Doris waited for Lexie to add more, but when she didn't, Doris sighed. "Well, I liked him," Doris volunteered. "He seemed like a perfect gentleman."

  "Oh, he was," Lexie agreed. "Just perfect."

  "You don't sound like you mean that."

  "What else do you want me to say?"

  "Well, was he charmed by your sparkling personality?"

  "Why on earth would that matter? He's only in town for a few days."

  "Did I ever tell you about the way I met your grandfather?"

  "Many times," Lexie said, remembering the story well. They'd met on a train that was heading to Baltimore; he was from Grifton and on his way to interview for a job, one that he would never take, choosing to be with her instead.

  "Then you know that you're most likely to meet someone when you least expect it."

  "You always say that."

  Doris winked. "That's only because I think you need to keep hearing it."

  Lexie brought the salad bowl to the table. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm happy. I love my job, I have good friends, I have time to read and jog and do the things I love."

  "And don't forget you're blessed with me, too."

  "Of course," Lexie affirmed. "How could I forget that?"

  Doris chuckled and went back to sauteing. For a moment, there was silence in the kitchen, and Lexie breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was over, and thankfully, Doris hadn't pushed too hard. Now, she thought, they could have a pleasant dinner.

  "I thought he was quite handsome," Doris opined.

  Lexie said nothing; instead, she grabbed a couple of plates and utensils before moving to the table. Maybe it was better if she simply pretended not to hear her.

  "And just to let you know, there's more to him than you think there is," she went on. "He's not what you imagine him to be."

  It was the way she said it that gave Lexie pause. She had heard that tone many times in the past--when she'd wanted to go out with friends in high school, only to have Doris talk her out of going; when she wanted to take a trip to Miami a few years back, only to be talked out of it. In the first instance, the friends she'd wanted to join were involved in a car accident; in the latter, riots had broken out in the city and had spilled into the hotel where she'd been planning to stay.

  Doris sometimes sensed things, she knew. Not as much as Doris's own mother had. But even though Doris seldom explained further, Lexie was fully aware that she always sensed the truth.

  Completely unaware that phone lines were buzzing all over as people discussed his presence in town, Jeremy was lying in bed under the covers, watching the local news while waiting for the weather report, wishing he had followed his initial impulse and checked into another hotel. He had no doubt that had he done so, he wouldn't have been surrounded by Jed's handiwork, which gave him the willies.

  The man obviously had a lot of time on his hands.

  And a lot of bullets. Or pellets. Or the front end of a pickup. Or whatever it was he used to kill all these varmints. In his room, there were twelve critters; with the exception of a second stuffed bear, representatives of the entire zoological species of North Carolina would be keeping him company. No doubt Jed would have included a bear as well if he'd had an extra one.

  Other than that, the room wasn't too bad, as long as he didn't expect a high-speed connection to the Internet, or to war
m the room without use of the fireplace, order room service, watch cable, or even dial out on a push-button phone. He hadn't seen a dial phone in what? Ten years? Even his mother had succumbed to the modern world on that one.

  But not Jed. Nope. Good old Jed obviously had his own ideas of what was important in the way of accommodations for his guests.

  If there was one decent thing about the room, though, it did have a nice covered porch out back, one that overlooked the river. There was even a rocking chair, and Jeremy considered sitting outside for a while, until he remembered the snakes. Which made him wonder what sort of misunderstanding Gherkin had been talking about. He didn't like the sound of that. He really should have asked more about it, just as he should have asked where he could find some firewood around here. This place was absolutely freezing, but he had the funny suspicion that Jed wouldn't answer the phone if he tried to call the office and ask. And besides, Jed scared him.

  Just then the meteorologist appeared on the news. Steeling himself, Jeremy hopped out of bed to turn up the volume. Moving as quickly as he could, he shivered as he adjusted the set, then dove back under the covers.

  The meteorologist was immediately replaced by commercials. Figures.

  He'd been wondering whether he should head out to the cemetery but wanted to find out if fog was likely. If not, he'd catch up on his rest. It had been a long day; he'd started out in the modern world, went back in time fifty years, and now he was sleeping in the midst of ice and death. It certainly wasn't something that happened to him every day.

  And, of course, there was Lexie. Lexie whatever-her-last-name-was. Lexie the mysterious. Lexie who flirted and withdrew and flirted again.

  She had been flirting, hadn't she? The way she kept calling him Mr. Marsh? The fact that she pretended to have sized him up almost immediately? The funeral comment? Definitely flirting.

  Wasn't it?

  The meteorologist came on again, looking fresh out of college. The guy couldn't have been more than twenty-three or -four and was no doubt working his first job. He had that deer-in-the-headlights-but-enthusiastic look about him. But at least the guy seemed competent. He didn't stumble over his words, and Jeremy knew almost immediately that he wouldn't be leaving the room. The skies were expected to be clear throughout the evening, and the man mentioned nothing about the possibility of fog tomorrow, either.

  Figures, he thought.

  Six

  The following morning after showering under a lukewarm trickle of water, Jeremy slipped on a pair of jeans, sweater, and brown leather jacket and made his way to Herbs, which seemed to be the most popular breakfast place in town. At the counter, he noticed Mayor Gherkin talking to a couple of men dressed in suits, and Rachel was busy working the tables. Jed was seated on the far side of the room, looking like the back side of a mountain. Tully was sitting at one of the center tables with three other men and, as could be expected, was doing most of the talking. People nodded and waved as Jeremy wound through the tables, and the mayor raised his coffee cup in salute.

  "Well, good morning, Mr. Marsh," Mayor Gherkin called out. "Thinking of positive things to write about our town, I hope?"

  "I'm sure he is," Rachel chimed in.

  "Hope you found the cemetery," Tully drawled. He leaned toward the others at his table. "That there's the doctor I was telling you about."

  Jeremy waved and nodded back, trying to avoid getting corralled into a conversation. He'd never been a morning person, and on top of that, he hadn't slept well. Ice and death, coupled with nightmares about snakes, could do that to a person. He took a seat in the corner booth, and Rachel moved to the table with efficiency, carrying a pot of coffee with her.

  "No funeral today?" she teased.

  "No. I decided to go with a more casual look," he explained.

  "Coffee, darlin'?"

  "Please."

  After flipping the cup, she filled it to the brim. "Would you like the special this mornin'? People have been ravin' about it."

  "What is the special?"

  "A Carolina omelet."

  "Sure," he said, having no idea what was in a Carolina omelet, but with his stomach growling, anything sounded good.

  "With grits and a biscuit?"

  "Why not?" he said.

  "Be back in a few minutes, darlin'."

  Jeremy began nursing his coffee while perusing yesterday's newspaper. All four pages of it, including a big front-page story on a Ms. Judy Roberts, who'd just celebrated her hundredth birthday, a milestone now reached by 1.1 percent of the population. Along with the article was a picture of the staff at the nursing home holding a cupcake with a single lit candle atop it, as Ms. Roberts lay in the bed behind them, looking comatose.

  He glanced through the window, wondering why he'd even bothered with the local paper. There was a vending machine out front offering USA Today, and he was reaching into his pocket to look for change when a uniformed deputy took a seat directly across the table from him.

  The man looked both angry and extremely fit; his biceps swelled the seams of his shirt, and he wore mirrored sunglasses that had gone out of style . . . oh, twenty years ago, Jeremy guessed, right after CHiPS went off the air. His hand rested on his holster, right atop a gun. In his mouth was a toothpick, which he moved from one side to the other. He said nothing at all, preferring to simply stare, giving Jeremy plenty of time to study his own reflection.

  It was, Jeremy had to admit, sort of intimidating.

  "Can I help you?" Jeremy asked.

  The toothpick moved from side to side again. Jeremy closed the newspaper, wondering what on earth was going on.

  "Jeremy Marsh?" the officer intoned.

  "Yes?"

  "Thought so," he said.

  Above the officer's breast pocket, Jeremy noticed a shiny bar with the name engraved on it. Yet another name tag.

  "And you must be Sheriff Hopper?"

  "Deputy Hopper," he corrected.

  "Sorry," Jeremy said. "Have I done something wrong, Officer?"

  "I don't know," Hopper said. "Have you?"

  "Not that I know of."

  Deputy Hopper moved the toothpick again. "You planning to stick around for a while?"

  "Just for a week or so. I'm here to write an article--"

  "I know why you're here," Hopper interrupted. "I just thought I'd check it out myself. I like to visit with strangers who are planning to hang around for a while."

  He put the emphasis on the word "stranger," making Jeremy feel it was some sort of crime. He wasn't quite sure that any response would diffuse the hostility, so he fell back on the obvious.

  "Ah," he said.

  "I hear you intend to spend a lot of time at the library."

  "Well . . . I guess I might--"

  "Mmm," the deputy rumbled, cutting him off again.

  Jeremy reached for his coffee cup and took a sip, buying time. "I'm sorry, Deputy Hopper, but I'm not exactly sure what's going on here."

  "Mmm," Hopper said again.

  "Now, you're not hassling our guest, are you, Rodney?" the mayor called out from across the room. "He's a special visitor, here to drum up interest in the local folklore."

  Deputy Hopper didn't flinch or turn his gaze away from Jeremy. For whatever reason, he looked downright angry. "Just visiting with him, Mayor."

  "Well, let the man enjoy his breakfast," Gherkin chided, moving toward the table. He waved a hand. "Come on over here, Jeremy. I've got a couple of people I'd like you to meet."

  Deputy Hopper scowled as Jeremy rose from the table and made his way toward Mayor Gherkin.

  When he was close, the mayor introduced him to two people; one was the almost emaciated county lawyer, the other a heavyset physician who worked at the local medical clinic. Both seemed to evaluate him in the same way that Deputy Hopper had. Reserving judgment, as they say. Meanwhile, the mayor was going on about how exciting Jeremy's visit was for the town. Leaning toward the other two, he nodded conspiratorially.

  "Might eve
n end up on Primetime Live," he whispered.

  "Really?" the lawyer said. Jeremy figured the guy could easily pass for a skeleton.

  Jeremy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Well, as I was trying to explain to the mayor yesterday--"

  Mayor Gherkin slapped him on the back, cutting him off.

  "Very exciting," Mayor Gherkin added. "Major television exposure."

  The others nodded, their faces solemn.

  "And speaking of the town," the mayor suddenly added, "I'd like to invite you to a little get-together dinner this evening with a few close friends. Nothing too extravagant, of course, but since you'll be here for a few days, I'd like to give you the chance to get to know some of the folks around here."

  Jeremy held up his hands. "That's not really necessary . . ."

  "Nonsense," Mayor Gherkin said. "It's the least we can do. And, remember, some of these people I'm inviting have seen those ghosts, and you'll have the chance to pick their collective brains. Their stories might even give you nightmares."

  He raised his eyebrows; the lawyer and the physician waited expectantly. When Jeremy hesitated, it was all the mayor needed to conclude.

  "Say about seven o'clock?" he said.

  "Yeah . . . sure. I guess that's fine," Jeremy agreed. "Where's the dinner going to be?"

  "I'll let you know a little later. I assume you'll be at the library, right?"

  "Probably."

  The mayor raised his eyebrows. "So I take it you've already met our fine librarian, Miss Lexie?"

  "I have, yes."

  "She's quite impressive, isn't she?"

  There was just a hint of other possibilities in the way he phrased it, something akin to locker-room talk.

  "She's been very helpful," Jeremy said.

  The lawyer and the physician smiled, but before the conversation went any further, Rachel came slithering by, just a little too close. Holding a plate, she nudged Jeremy.

  "Come on, darlin'. I've got your breakfast right here."

  Jeremy glanced at the mayor.