by Ellery Adams
The other three women exchanged befuddled glances.
“Buford?” June threw her hands in the air. “Is that a person or place?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to work my usual magic, so I couldn’t get any background on the firm, the Meadows, or Neil’s role,” Estella said, pouting just a little. “The only thing I was able to do was catch a glimpse at that napkin before Renfield told me that his name was Fenton Greer and that he wasn’t my blind date. However, he also told me that although his partner would be returning from the restroom at any moment, he’d be glad to meet me on Wednesday night for a rain check on our nonexistent date.”
“Did you agree?” Hester asked breathlessly.
“Of course.” Estella looked at Hester as though she wasn’t right in the head. “How else would I learn more about these people?”
Estella had unwittingly provided Nora with the perfect segue to share the results of her Google search on Pine Ridge Properties. “I can fill in a few blanks,” she said, swiveling the computer to allow everyone a view of the screen.
The Pine Ridge Properties homepage was comprised of simple text and colorful photographs depicting a rosy vision of the American dream. There was a Hispanic woman tending a lush flower garden, a Norman Rockwell father pushing a golden-haired girl on a swing, a Labrador retriever sitting on a welcome mat, an elderly Asian couple sharing a porch swing, and, in the largest photograph, an African-American family posing outside their picture-perfect home.
“Pine Ridge Properties: We Build Dreams, One House at a Time.” June nodded thoughtfully. “That slogan has a nice ring to it. They included multiple ethnicities. And is that a link leading to more detail about their green building practices?” Her eyebrows began climbing her forehead. “This site makes them look like such a great company, but Estella described snake-oil salesmen.”
“They must be engaging in shady business practices,” Nora said. “It has to be big, whatever it is, because of how deeply Neil regretted his involvement.”
Estella waved a hand. “Someone was willing to kill to keep these practices from becoming known, so the shadiness must be ongoing. It must involve truckloads of money. Look how slick this website is.”
“The Meadows isn’t their only project.” Nora leaned over the laptop and clicked a map link. “This summer, Pine Ridge Properties plans to break ground on another dream community east of Asheville, and they’ve already begun putting up homes in a town called Bent Creek.”
“Can you click on the Meet Our Team link?” Hester asked.
Nora complied and the four women crowded even closer to the screen.
“That’s the group from the bar!” Estella exclaimed, tapping the screen with an acrylic nail. “There’s Renfield, aka Fenton Greer, followed by the token woman, Vanessa MacCavity, and Neil Parrish.” She studied the images for several more seconds. “We’re missing the hot guy. Mr. Hunk.”
“Maybe he’s listed under this.” Hester pointed at another link entitled Partners.
Nora clicked on the word and Estella immediately said, “There he is. The tan guy with the dark hair.”
“Collin Stone of Stone Construction,” Nora murmured aloud. “No wonder he’s sun-kissed. He must spend plenty of time outdoors.” She continued scanning the names and faces on the page. The other partners were investors, loan officers, Realtors, and closing attorneys in the towns of Fine’s Creek and Walnut. When Nora scrolled down, the Miracle Springs partners appeared. These included Dawson Hendricks of Madison County Community Bank and Annette Goldsmith of Star Realty.
Nora glanced at the other women. “Is Dawson related—?”
“To Sheriff Toad?” Hester cut in. “Yes, Dawson’s his older brother. There are three Hendricks boys. The youngest moved to the Midwest and rarely comes back to visit his folks.”
Estella smirked. “Can you blame him? If I ever get out of this place, I won’t come back at all.”
“Why do you hate Miracle Springs?” June asked very softly.
“It’s a long, sad story,” Estella muttered.
Nora made a sweeping gesture, indicating the bookshelves surrounding them. “You’re in good company.”
Estella rewarded her with a small smile. “I guess I am. And I’m sure my story isn’t the longest, the saddest, or the most unique. People have also been revising it and adding a shitload of fictional elements to it since I was a teenager. Whenever I hear the latest version, I want to laugh. Most folks in this town have no clue what they’re talking about when they start jawing about me.” She fixed an angry gaze on the nearest bookshelf, which featured Stephen King paperbacks and a collection of plastic Halloween pumpkins from the 1950s. “If I cared, I could set the record straight, but I don’t. Neil Parrish, on the other hand, doesn’t have a voice anymore. Who will tell the correct version of his story?”
Nora had never heard such an impassioned speech from Estella, but the words moved her. “We will.”
“How?” Hester wanted to know. “All we have are a few initials.”
“We have much more than that,” Nora said. “We have Mata Hari. She already has a date with one of Neil’s partners and will learn everything she can from him. June? Can you get close to these people if they come to the thermal pools for a dip?”
A big grin spread across June’s face. “I sure can. Sounds echo like you wouldn’t believe in the bathhouse. If any of these Pine Ridge folk so much as whisper in each other’s ear, I’ll know it.”
“Good.” Nora looked at Hester. “Tomorrow’s Monday. You and I are both off. How do you feel about visiting the model home at the Meadows? We can get a read on Annette Goldsmith of Star Realty.”
“I’m game, though it might seem odd for me to be looking at new construction, considering I already have a house.”
Nora shrugged. “So do I, but real-estate agents are always trying to up-sell people. You watch. Annette will do everything in her power to turn our curiosity into a signature and a down payment.”
“You might have to take this a step farther,” Estella said. “If you pick a house plan, you can then make an appointment with Dawson Hendricks at the bank. You don’t need to fill out all the paperwork. Just stay long enough to drop Neil’s name and observe Dawson’s reaction.”
June stared at Estella. “You’re one smart cookie. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Not really,” Estella whispered in a low voice.
Hoping to keep a firm hold on the positive energy that had been building among the four of them, Nora said, “The key to our success lies in careful listening. And secrecy. From now on, we can only trust each another.”
Hester looked dubious. She twisted a corkscrew curl around her index finger, released it, and repeated the movement. “Please don’t take this personally, but I’m way out of practice when it comes to trusting people. I like all of you. I do. But how can I know that it’s safe to trust you three?”
Estella and June murmured in agreement.
Nora was silent for a long time—so long that the other women exchanged nervous glances.
Tracing the puckered edge of one of her scars, Nora felt where the smooth, undamaged flesh met the grafted skin. She was imperfect. That much she knew. She was reminded of it every time she looked in the mirror. Every time she glanced down at her arm. Every time someone’s gaze lingered on her face. But she had her voice and what was left of her damaged heart.
Glancing at the closest bookshelf, Nora Pennington decided that it was time to do more than just survive. It was time to live again.
“There’s only one way to gain trust,” she said, turning to face Hester, June, and Estella. “We have to tell each other our stories.”
Chapter 4
Peace and a well-built house cannot be bought too dearly.
—Danish Proverb
Nora sat at the café table on her little front porch and watched the sun wash over the hills surrounding Miracle Springs. Though she was up earlier than usual, she imagined dozens o
f hikers were already stirring along the Appalachian Trail.
Summer was the high-traffic season on the Trail, and Miracle Springs was a popular destination with hikers due to its unique overlooks, campsites, tree-house lodging, shops, and hot springs. The fact that the Trail ran very close to downtown was mutually beneficial for the local businesses. Thru-hikers—those people traveling from the start of the Trail in Georgia to its end in Maine—could often stow their gear while they dined or shopped.
Nora had often heard lodge guests marvel over how hikers were able to carry so many supplies on their backs.
“I couldn’t live without my coffeemaker,” one would say while watching a hiker shrug on a loaded pack.
“Or a hot shower,” another might add, considering the idea with a mixture of wonder and distaste.
Nora wasn’t fond of camping and understood the desire for creature comforts. However, when it came to traveling light, she and the hikers had more in common than the tourists staying at the lodge.
Once, Nora had lived in a 1920s brick Colonial. It had nine-foot ceilings, hardwood floors, five fireplaces, a basement, a pergola, a garden with a working fountain, and a never-ending list of problems. When Nora wasn’t busy with her librarian duties, she spent most of her free time cleaning the house, doing yard work, or waiting on a repairman.
Caboose Cottage made no such demands of her. With only four rooms—a kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom—there wasn’t an inch of wasted space. She’d also had the caboose platform leading to the front door extended into a covered deck, which gave her another place to read, eat, or to sit and reflect.
To make the winters as cozy as possible, Nora had splurged on a miniature cast-iron woodstove. Originally manufactured to be used on boats, the tiny stove was perfect for Nora’s tiny house. It put out an impressive amount of heat and cost pennies to operate, because firewood in the mountains of western North Carolina didn’t cost much.
Both locals and out-of-towners were fascinated by Caboose Cottage. They were interested in its diminutive footprint and design details, and never tired of asking Nora how she could possibly keep her possessions in such a tiny space.
“Where do you put your clothes?” Estella had once asked. “And your shoes, makeup, jewelry, and that sort of stuff?”
But that was just it: Nora didn’t own that sort of stuff. Her wardrobe consisted of jeans and a handful of T-shirts, blouses, and sweaters. She had sneakers, two pairs of flats, and a pair of good snow boots. Other than her mother’s pearl earrings, she didn’t wear jewelry. And though she used makeup, Nora’s entire cosmetics collection could fit inside a cookie jar, a fact that would have stunned Estella into speechlessness.
Knowing everyone’s natural curiosity about Caboose Cottage, Nora was fully prepared for Hester to show up at her door that morning and launch into a predictable line of questions about Nora’s lack of possessions—especially when it came to personal items like photographs, school yearbooks, or any piece of minutia that tied Nora to a family or friends.
“I know you’ve probably eaten,” Hester said, joining Nora on the porch. “I brought you a loaf of bread for later. It’s yesterday’s bread, but it’s still better than what you can get at the store.”
Nora accepted the white paper bag. “Thanks. What kind is it?”
“Corn bread. Though I love baking it in the summer because of how it makes the whole bakery smell, I’d rather eat it in the wintertime with a big bowl of chili.” Instead of taking a seat at the café table with Nora, Hester settled into the rocking chair on the other side of the front door. “I can’t resist a rocker. I have a glider on my porch. It’s nice, but it’s just not the same. Plus, it squeaks whenever I move. Drives me crazy. I’ve used WD-forty on every inch of that thing and I can’t find the source of the squeak. It’s like a smoke-detector battery going off somewhere in your house, but you can’t figure out where.” She laughed. “I guess you don’t have that problem.”
Nora smiled. “Nope.”
“It’s really peaceful here. You don’t have a single neighbor.” Hester stared out at the railroad tracks. “What’s it like when a train comes through?”
“It’s loud. The whole house shakes.” Nora shared the experience of her first night in her new home. “It felt like the cinder blocks wouldn’t hold and I was going to roll right down the hill onto the tracks.” She shook her head at the memory. “I was too wound up to go back to sleep, but I got used to the rattling and whistles pretty quickly. Actually, I don’t think I could sleep without them now. Part of me listens for the freight trains at night and the passenger trains during the day. I’m not sure why.”
Hester looked at her. “Well, you bought the old train station, you brew coffee in the ticket office, and you live closer to the tracks than anyone else in town. Maybe you’re our unofficial stationmaster.”
Nora laughed. “Do you want a tour of the stationmaster’s caboose before we spend the next hour or so lying through our teeth?”
Hester did, and Nora was relieved with how the town baker behaved inside her sanctuary. From the moment she entered the living room, with its comfy couch, woodstove, bookshelves, and television hidden inside a coffee table, Hester was enchanted, but never too nosy.
“I love this!” she exclaimed in a hushed voice, her wide-eyed gaze catching sight of Nora’s office nook. “Are there secret compartments in every room?”
“I’ll show you a few.” Nora led her into the kitchen, which had exposed beams on the ceiling, a brick arch above the cooktop, a cobalt-blue AGA electric oven, and a full-sized refrigerator.
Nora reached under one of the wooden countertops and pulled out the hidden cutting-board segment before revealing the spice-rack shelf on wheels next to the fridge. Plastic bags were stored on the inside of a cupboard door and canned goods, sauce jars, and glass bottles were stored on a shelf built between the studs. Using her foot, Nora shoved her jute rug to one side with her foot and indicated that Hester should take hold of the metal ring in the hardwood floor.
“No way!” Hester cried when she curled the ring under her index finger and gave it a yank, opening the lid to the subfloor storage cupboard.
After that, Nora showed her the storage spaces under her bed, on both sides of her bathroom mirror, and those tucked away in her minute laundry room.
“If I lived here, I’d never get tired of putting things away. And if you knew what kind of housekeeper I was, you’d understand the significance of that statement,” said Hester when the tour was over and they’d returned to the deck platform. “Your house is the perfect blend of cozy, comfortable, chic, and fun. It’s a good thing Annette Goldsmith hasn’t seen this place or she’d realize she could never sell you something better.”
“Then let’s hope I can disguise how much I love it,” Nora said. After she pulled a baseball cap low over her brow—which had been covered with sunscreen, along with the rest of her exposed skin—she and Hester mounted their bicycles and rode uphill to the Meadows.
Annette, a leggy blonde in an ivory suit and leopard-print heels, was dusting the leaves on an artificial plant when Nora and Hester entered the model home.
The Realtor greeted them with a thousand-watt smile, which faltered slightly when she noticed Nora’s scars, and invited them to walk around the house at their leisure.
“I’m not the type of agent who trails after you, spouting sales pitches while you’re trying to get a feel for a place,” Annette assured them with another electric smile. “Take your time. Open and close cabinets. Look inside all the closets. Knock on the doors to check for thickness. Make yourselves at home. If you have any questions, just holler. I’ll be out on the front porch, watering the ferns.”
As soon as Annette stepped outside, Hester turned to Nora. “What should we do?”
“We’d better take a quick look at the house,” Nora said. “And while she’s out of sight and hearing for a few minutes, we should snoop in her office.”
Hester twiste
d a curl around her finger. “People get away with that stuff in books. But you and I will probably get caught.”
“We won’t,” Nora said. “You’ll keep an eye out for Annette, and I’ll be very careful to put things back exactly as they were.”
Still fidgeting with her hair, Hester proceeded upstairs. The two women swiftly viewed the spare bedrooms, baths, and attic space before returning to the main floor to check out the master suite, kitchen, and laundry room. Nora then ducked into the office, while Hester took up a guard position in the front hall. She held a folder packed with papers on the Meadows and the plan was for her to drop it on the floor as soon as Annette reentered the model home. The commotion would serve a dual purpose. It would raise the alarm for Nora and prevent Annette’s immediate return to the office, as she’d feel compelled to help gather the scattered papers.
The office was pin-neat. Annette’s polished wood desk held a computer, a leather penholder, a stapler, a plastic display filled with color brochures, and a brass nameplate. There was a noticeable absence of personal items—photographs, awards, knickknacks, rubber-band balls. The most significant item appeared to be a weekly calendar attached to a clipboard. Nearly every blank was filled with surnames. Nora read each name and though she recognized a few as customers of Miracle Books, most were unfamiliar.
Nora touched the computer keyboard and was unsurprised when the screen lit up, a blinking cursor waiting for her to enter a password. Pushing Annette’s ergonomic leather chair to the side, Nora opened the top desk drawer. She found the usual assortment of paper clips, staples, pushpins, postage stamps, sticky notes, and other paper-related detritus, as well as a small set of keys. Nora let those be for the moment and hurriedly examined the other drawers, but the desk was mostly a receptacle for postcards, leaflets, brochures and a lifetime supply of Annette’s business cards.
That is, until Nora tried the bottom drawer on the right-hand side. She found that drawer locked.
