A Grid For Murder by Casey Mayes Read Free Book Online Page B

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 howthey could help. It was probably like that for most people, if they were ever to honestly assess the relationships 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 friendship. What had sealed it, at least for him, wasthe 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 butter, 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, butI 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