For a moment, I thought he'd attack me on the spot, but Craven sharply called his name and Merks froze, muscles straining toward me. Finally, he forced himself to relax.
"When this is over," he repeated, and then he turned and climbed into the SUV's driver's seat.
"See you at the Winter Festival, Shepherd," Craven said brightly, as if the incident with Merks had never happened. "We have a booth."
With that, he got into his SUV and Merks drove them to wherever they were staying, which was something else I should find out.
"Jack!" It sounded like Tess was back at the truck, so I turned and ran to meet her, pondering the crucial facts I still didn't know: What was theone thingthat was so important to Craven? The one thing that his thugs had gotten so wrong? And what were the discretionary paths?
I had a feeling the answer would tell me a great deal about what was going on in Dead End, and I was determined to find it out.
29
Tess
It had been too late to call Phin the night before, but I'd worried about the situation—and him—for hours, even after Jack fell asleep. I hadn't wanted to say anything to Jack until I'd talked to Phin, but memories from high school had come flooding back when Craven and that over-muscled minion of his had told us about the trespassing.
Phin had gotten into trouble more than a few times for tagging—spray-painting graffiti—on public buildings like the water tower. And he'd always been passionate about his support for wildlife, even telling us he was investigating the site with a statewide environmental organization. Was it possible that he had proof that the UltraShopMart excavation was threatening some indigenous animal or bird population?
But if that was the case, why hadn't he been trumpeting that fact loud and clear? Why hadn't he been at the town hall meeting to tell everybody about it?
I had too many questions squirreling around in my mind, but no answers.
Jack had left early to check in on the meeting at Mellie's bakery and pick up some donuts, and I was on my way to work. The last shopping day at Dead End Pawn was always a madhouse, and I was so tired I didn't know how I'd find the energy for it.
There were already cars parked in front of the shop when I rolled up at quarter to eight, even though we didn't open till nine. Car doors opened when I climbed out of the Mustang.
"Tess!"
"Merry Christmas!"
"Busy day ahead; any chance you can open early so we can pick up just a few things?"
My grumpy side wanted to tell them to go away and come back at nine. My business-owner side smiled and waved them in.
"You'll just have to browse and give me a minute to get some coffee going. Late night last night."
One of my regulars, Mr. Inglesson, toddled in behind me, his eyes wide behind his oversized glasses. He was maybe eighty years old and tidy in his daily uniform of black trousers, white shirt, and suspenders. He'd retired a few years back after fifty years as a snake milker who'd supplied samples of venom to scientists all over the world. To this day, he kept a menagerie of snakes in his greenhouse that rivaled the collections of the top zoos, or so people said.
I had to settle for hearing about it, because one of the very last things in the world I wanted to do was go look at a snake collection. He'd offered tours to the Dead End High science classes every year for decades, but I'd managed to be out sick from school the day my class visited.
I wasn't afraid of snakes, exactly, but I had a healthy respect for them, especially the poisonous ones, and I didn't exactly want to be neighbors with them.
They shopped, and I made and drank coffee. A few of my regulars haggled with me over prices, comfortable knowing that I was willing to bargain.
"Never list your rock-bottom price on the tag," Jeremiah had always said. "A price tag is more of an invitation to begin negotiations."
I'd been sixteen and responded with something like, "what are we, used car dealers?" but the lesson had stuck. Everybody won if the shopper could bargain me down a bit, even if sometimes I had to go close to the bone. Better to have a happy customer who'd come back again and again than a hefty profit on one particular item.
Besides, these were my friends, neighbors, and fellow Dead Enders. I wasn't going to be a Scrooge to them, especially this time of year.
"I heard you had an interesting Thanksgiving," Mr. Inglesson said, placing several items on the counter.
I groaned. "Is there anybody in town whohasn'theard that story?"
He grinned, flashing white dentures. "Maybe one or two people at the Dead End Nursing Home who haven't had their hearing aids adjusted for a while. How did you get a turkey that size stuck in the washing machine?"
"Talent, Mr. Inglesson," I said glumly, ringing up his sale. "It took genuine talent."
