The Crossroads by Chris Grabenstein Read Free Book Online

grandmother on the top of her head. He sometimes wondered why he bothered coming out to visit the old woman, but the answer was simple: Mee Maw was the only family he had.
    Except, of course, for my son.
    But his ex-wife, Sharon, wouldn’t let Billy anywhere near Aidan—no matter how many times he went over to where she worked to beg.
    And Billy hated going to that place.
    Spratling Manor gave him the creeps.

Tuesday afternoon, Judy drove to the North Chester Public Library. It was a two-story redbrick building with a small schoolhouse steeple. It looked like it had been built sometime after the war. The Revolutionary War.
    Judy loved the aroma of libraries: the scent of copy-machine toner peppered with just a pinch of plastic from crinkly dust jackets.
    â€œMs. Magruder?” A sweet little lady with curly white hair and bright purple reading glasses was standing behind the front desk. “My, you look exactly like the photograph inside your book jackets!”
    â€œAre you Mrs. Emerson?”
    â€œYes, dear. Kindly wipe your feet.”
    Okay. Maybe she’s more feisty than sweet.
    â€œI’m Jeanette Emerson,” the librarian said. “No relation.”
    â€œTo Ralph Waldo?”
    â€œIs there another? I was delighted to hear that you and Georgie have moved back to town.”
    â€œGeorgie?”
    â€œThat’s what I called him when he was a bluebird.”
    â€œGeorgie was a bluebird?”
    â€œYes. Four straight summers. The bluebirds always won. Read far more books than either the sparrows or the parakeets. That’s why I wanted to meet you.”
    â€œYou want to talk about birds?” Judy asked.
    â€œWe could do that if you like. I, however, was much more interested in ascertaining whether you might be available to read your latest book to this year’s flock of Summer Library Campers.”
    â€œI’d love to.”
    â€œExcellent. We start up in a few weeks. July, actually.”
    â€œMy July is wide open.”
    â€œWonderful. So, where are you and Georgie living?”
    â€œRocky Hill Farms. We’re right near the intersection of these two highways.”
    Mrs. Emerson nodded. “Route 13. Highway 31.”
    Judy remembered George’s little landmark. “We’re in the corner where the tree is.”
    â€œI see. But as you may have noticed, there are several trees on all sides of that particular intersection.”
    â€œWe’ve got the one with the white cross.”
    â€œAh, yes. Miss Gerda Spratling’s
descanso
.”
    â€œGerda…”
    â€œSpratling. The family is of German descent. Gerda, I believe, means ‘protector.’ Her family, the Spratlings, ran the clock factory here for ages. Ran the town, too.”
    â€œWhat’s a
descanso
?”
    â€œSpanish word for roadside memorial. In the early days of the American Southwest, funeral processions would carry the coffin out to the graveyard for burial. From time to time, the pallbearers might set the casket down by the side of the road and rest. When the procession resumed, the priest would bless the spot where the deceased’s soul had tarried on its final journey. The women would then scatter juniper flowers and stake a cross into the ground to further commemorate the site.”
    â€œSo someone died behind our house? What was it? A car wreck?”
    Mrs. Emerson hesitated.
    â€œMs. Magruder, might I be frank?”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œThat cross has been hanging on that old oak tree so long, I doubt if even Miss Spratling remembers why she hung it there.”
    â€œWell, that’ll be my second investigation,” Judy said.
    â€œAnd your first?”
    â€œDiscovering why the town clock stopped.”
    â€œAh, yes. There are several interesting stories about that. I’d tell you now, but I have to read Mother Goose to the children. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

    The storm started about eight