LITMIR.BIZ

      PROLOGUE

      Hope Springs, Virginia

      “TOOD GRUNKEMEIER, you’re ornery as an old rattlesnake today.”

      That was Whiskey Rowlett, a regular at Fudgie’s Barbershop whenever he wasn’t out for a few weeks pursuing the interests that had earned him his nickname.

      Tood eyed Whiskey. Whiskey wasn’t known for his sweet disposition, either, so it was no surprise Tood’s complaints about the heat had struck Whiskey the wrong way. “Rattlesnakes don’t bother you if you don’t bother them,” Tood pointed out.

      “Besides, Tood’s right,” said another of the regulars, who liked to keep peace at Fudgie’s because his daughter-in-law and three grandkids had moved in with him and the missus, making peace a scarce commodity in his life at the moment. “It’s too dang hot for May.”

      “’Specially if you’ve got a houseful, eh, Eb?”

      Eben Monk nodded ruefully and conversation drifted off to kids and approaching summertime. Tood’s attention strayed. He didn’t know much about kids. The last kid he knew anything about was his nephew and he’d had bad news about the boy this very day, from the detective hired by Tood’s attorney. His nephew was dead. Found in an abandoned warehouse in Omaha, dead from an apparent drug overdose. Thirty-four and he’d already beat his old uncle to the promised land. And the capper was that nobody seemed to know what had happened to the boy’s teenage daughter.

      “Lookie there!”

      Everybody in the barbershop turned in response to Whiskey’s excitement. Whiskey was pointing at the TV mounted in the corner, its sound muted to a low murmur. On the screen, a dark-haired young woman was being scurried from a jet to a limousine waiting across the tarmac.

      “That’s Melina Somerset,” Whiskey said.

      Eb and Fudgie took two steps closer to the television.

      “Naw. Can’t be.”

      “The devil it’s not.” Whiskey grabbed the remote and inched up the sound.

      “How do you know?” Eb asked. “Ain’t nobody seen a picture of her for I don’t know how long—fifteen years, maybe.”

      “I know ’cause I seen it on the noon news outta Roanoke. Announcer said it was her.”

      “Then what’s she doing here?” Fudgie said.

      “She ain’t here, you old fool. She’s in San Francisco.”

      “What for?”

      “Well, now, if I knew that, I reckon I’d be putting up with Jerry Springer’s fool questions instead of yours, wouldn’t I?”

      “You’re cross, Whiskey. Just as cross as can be. You ought to go off on another one of your benders. You know that? We’re tired of listening to you.”

      Then the barbershop grew quiet

Скачать книгу