by to drop them off yet. In that case—"
"They're ready," Iris offered, slowly withdrawing the package from the drawer, suspicion forming deep lines across her brow. "Mr. Carlyle didn't say nothing about somebody else picking these up. Said he'd be back in a while to get them himself."
"Ah … I bumped into him earlier. At the sheriff's office. We're supposed to meet at the café in a little while. He's at Doc Simpson's office. With his uncle. Henry. Got to get his blood pressure checked, you know. Henry, that is. Actually, they're shots of Brandon I took this morning. With this." She held up her camera and smiled again. "If you don't believe me, have a look for yourself."
Iris and the checkout woman looked at one another. Finally, Iris shrugged and hesitantly slid the package across the counter to Alyson and went back to the sorting and alphabetizing of the remaining envelopes.
Alyson waited, holding her breath as the cashier totaled the items and with the speed of a snail, dug under the counter for a sack in which to put them. The front glass doors slid open … her heart shuddered—a man she recognized as one of the carnies walked in and moved behind her, his gaze scanning the collection of cigarettes on the wall beyond the counter. His body odor washed over her so thickly she couldn't breathe, then he glanced down at her and smiled, revealing two missing front teeth.
"Something I can do for you?" The cashier looked up from her search for a sack, pinning the man with another of her disapproving glowers.
Come on. Come on. Alyson tapped her foot, glanced again at the door, expecting Carlyle to come breezing in at any minute and nail her for stealing his photos—only they weren't his photos, they were hers. But she suspected he and Mack the Truck Dillman wouldn't see it that way.
"I need me a carton of Pall Malls," the man said. "Soft packs." He jutted one greasy finger toward the packs near the bottom of the shelf.
The cartons were locked behind a glass case.
Apparently losing track of her priorities, the cashier began shuffling through a drawer for a key to unlock the case.
"Ah … I'm really in a hurry," Alyson pointed out, smiling apologetically as the cashier glared at her again over her glasses. Finally, she stooped to snatch a brown plastic sack from a box and stuffed the purchases into it. Alyson grabbed it and made her way out of the store as quickly as possible.
Once outside, Alyson looked around and focused on the Dime A Cup Café:
SPECIAL OF THE DAY
Meat Loaf Turnip Greens
Mashed Potatoes Sweet Potato Pie
$4.99 ALL YOU CAN EAT
She moved to the plate-glass window and, cupping her hands around her eyes, peered into the café, which was mostly empty except for a pair of stoop-shouldered farmers wearing John Deere caps and conversing over cups of coffee and plates of pie.
Stepping back, she refocused on the reflection in the glass: not her own, but Brandon Carlyle's, staring at her with a murderous expression.
Spinning on her heels, she looked up into his eyes and backed against the wall, her heart sinking and jumping at the same time. She clutched the Discount Drugs sack to her chest and released a sharp breath. "Don't tell me there's a law against peeking into café windows. I'm not sure I can stomach another half-hour in Dillman's company—as pleasant as it was, of course."
"We need to talk." He took a hard grip on her arm and ushered her through the café door, which jangled with what looked like big brass Christmas bells. The farmers glanced around. A waitress sitting at a table and staring up at a small black-and-white television anchored near the ceiling, shifted in her chair and turned, her face brightening.
"Hey, Mr. Carlyle. You want a menu?"
"Just coffee, Janet. Thanks." He gave Alyson a sharp shove into the booth seat, then slid into the seat, across from her. His eyes were piercing, his jaw clenched, as were his fists. He looked on the verge of exploding. But then,
"They're ready," Iris offered, slowly withdrawing the package from the drawer, suspicion forming deep lines across her brow. "Mr. Carlyle didn't say nothing about somebody else picking these up. Said he'd be back in a while to get them himself."
"Ah … I bumped into him earlier. At the sheriff's office. We're supposed to meet at the café in a little while. He's at Doc Simpson's office. With his uncle. Henry. Got to get his blood pressure checked, you know. Henry, that is. Actually, they're shots of Brandon I took this morning. With this." She held up her camera and smiled again. "If you don't believe me, have a look for yourself."
Iris and the checkout woman looked at one another. Finally, Iris shrugged and hesitantly slid the package across the counter to Alyson and went back to the sorting and alphabetizing of the remaining envelopes.
Alyson waited, holding her breath as the cashier totaled the items and with the speed of a snail, dug under the counter for a sack in which to put them. The front glass doors slid open … her heart shuddered—a man she recognized as one of the carnies walked in and moved behind her, his gaze scanning the collection of cigarettes on the wall beyond the counter. His body odor washed over her so thickly she couldn't breathe, then he glanced down at her and smiled, revealing two missing front teeth.
"Something I can do for you?" The cashier looked up from her search for a sack, pinning the man with another of her disapproving glowers.
Come on. Come on. Alyson tapped her foot, glanced again at the door, expecting Carlyle to come breezing in at any minute and nail her for stealing his photos—only they weren't his photos, they were hers. But she suspected he and Mack the Truck Dillman wouldn't see it that way.
"I need me a carton of Pall Malls," the man said. "Soft packs." He jutted one greasy finger toward the packs near the bottom of the shelf.
The cartons were locked behind a glass case.
Apparently losing track of her priorities, the cashier began shuffling through a drawer for a key to unlock the case.
"Ah … I'm really in a hurry," Alyson pointed out, smiling apologetically as the cashier glared at her again over her glasses. Finally, she stooped to snatch a brown plastic sack from a box and stuffed the purchases into it. Alyson grabbed it and made her way out of the store as quickly as possible.
Once outside, Alyson looked around and focused on the Dime A Cup Café:
SPECIAL OF THE DAY
Meat Loaf Turnip Greens
Mashed Potatoes Sweet Potato Pie
$4.99 ALL YOU CAN EAT
She moved to the plate-glass window and, cupping her hands around her eyes, peered into the café, which was mostly empty except for a pair of stoop-shouldered farmers wearing John Deere caps and conversing over cups of coffee and plates of pie.
Stepping back, she refocused on the reflection in the glass: not her own, but Brandon Carlyle's, staring at her with a murderous expression.
Spinning on her heels, she looked up into his eyes and backed against the wall, her heart sinking and jumping at the same time. She clutched the Discount Drugs sack to her chest and released a sharp breath. "Don't tell me there's a law against peeking into café windows. I'm not sure I can stomach another half-hour in Dillman's company—as pleasant as it was, of course."
"We need to talk." He took a hard grip on her arm and ushered her through the café door, which jangled with what looked like big brass Christmas bells. The farmers glanced around. A waitress sitting at a table and staring up at a small black-and-white television anchored near the ceiling, shifted in her chair and turned, her face brightening.
"Hey, Mr. Carlyle. You want a menu?"
"Just coffee, Janet. Thanks." He gave Alyson a sharp shove into the booth seat, then slid into the seat, across from her. His eyes were piercing, his jaw clenched, as were his fists. He looked on the verge of exploding. But then,
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