Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing by Morgan James Read Free Book Online Page B

Alfie’s paw prints from his clean jeans. His attempt at a smile was too tight to be friendly. “I’m Shane Long. Susan told me to come by about the burned barn,” he explained in a flat North Carolina twang. Both hands went up to push the blond waves behind his ears, exposing a long, tanned face, pocked with acne scars. The sparse goatee did nothing to fill out his almost nonexistent chin. I was struck by how unfair Mother Nature had been to this young man— to give him hair some women would kill for, and then pair it with a face more homely than handsome.
    “Ah, yes. The contractor. Right? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
    “I was heading out this way already, so I took a chance you’d be home.”
    “Well then. Glad I got back when I did.” I realized there was no truck in the drive. Surely he didn’t walk. “How did you get out here?”
    He motioned with a hitchhiker’s thumb to the back of the house. “I rode my new Harley. Had to park it around back on the concrete apron to the rear porch, on account of the kickstand wasn’t holding here in the dirt and gravel. I could pour you a cement walk up to the kitchen steps on this side of the house while I’m here fixing the barn, if you want.”
    I nodded my approval of his idea, and we walked around the house to the rear yard with Alfie trotting along side, drooling and smiling as he followed. Yes, there was, indeed, a large, incredibly shiny blackmotorcycle parked close to my rear porch steps. The behemoth spoke power, arrogance, and a don’t- mess-with-me attitude. I would bet, as it traveled the twisting mountain roads, the dazzling silver exhaust pipes screamed like the baritone voices of hell. No wonder Alfie was barking his head off when I drove into the drive. The dog was probably scared half to death by the noise.
    Shane looked at me expectantly, perhaps waiting for a compliment on the motorcycle. I don’t know a Harley from a hairnet, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Wow. Very impressive. You must be very proud.”
    Now he really smiled—a large sincere grin, his eyes a luster of rhinestones—a pleasant face, after all. “I am proud. That’s fact.” He ambled over to give the Harley a loving rub with a clean white handkerchief from his hip pocket. “Been saving my whole life for this big beauty. She’s my dream come true. Everybody needs a dream. Don’t you reckon?”
    A dream? How wonderful to be young and think of dreams as events happening down the road rather than episodes of sleep disruption. I’d gladly trade my own nighttime dreams, peopled with restless souls traveling eternity, for daytime wishes and wants.
    We left the motorcycle and walked to the burned patch in the goat yard. I held the dummy end of the tape for Shane to measure and record the dimensions of the barn in his pocket-sized spiral notebook. We discussed siding the new structure with Hardi-Plank, a concrete based material he assured me was immune to curious goats with a habit of chewing anything within reachof their cute little mouths, and settled on a new dark green metal roof. Within fifteen minutes, he promised to call me the next day with a price for the barn, and was riding away on his rumbling two-wheeled dream.
    Alfie and I went inside to check on Cat and Junior. They were both asleep on top of the dryer, food bowl empty, and water bowl turned over onto the utility room floor. “All right, Mister,” I admonished Alfie, “if you want the luxury of sleeping in front of the kitchen fireplace while I’m out, no eating the cat food, and no dumping over the water bowl.” The hound tugged on one end of the towel as I wiped up the mess. “Come on, I forgot to buy dog food while I was in town. You can ride with me, instead of staying to watch the kitties.”
    I made a quick survey of the fridge contents and snapped on Alfie’s red leash, a stylish match to his new collar. “Auntie Susan brought you this. She’s a thoughtful person.” I’m