Dead Ends (Main Street Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dead Ends

  Copyright © 2012 by Sandra Balzo

  Ebook ISBN: 9781625177452

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Discover Sandra Balzo

  About the Author

  One

  ‘But that’s what Daisy said to do,’ Joshua Eames insisted, blue eyes wide and innocent against his tanned, angular face, as he used his work boot to sweep away a brown long-legged spider that was angling toward them.

  While AnnaLise Griggs was prone to believe the young man – and grateful for his intervention with the creepy-crawler – his boss apparently wasn't buying it.

  ‘If you're going to kill the thing, Josh, kill it.' Fred Eames, Josh's father and proprietor of Eames High Country Builders, stomped hard on the still wriggling spider as it to make his point.

  Eames was tall and muscular like his son, but with a belly more like a keg than a six-pack. Just a quarter-barrel for now under the blue plaid shirt, but AnnaLise was betting he'd be up to half-barrel girth by the time he hit fifty if he kept putting away hunks of breakfast coffee cake like the one he delicately set down on the cross-piece of a sawhorse. 'Why do you think I give you written orders?'

  Mr Eames picked up the orders in question, a yellow-tissue carbon of Eames company letterhead stapled over a drawing and, below that, a memorandum. ‘I told you before, son. You don't change nothing – for Mrs Daisy Lorraine Griggs or nobody – without talking to me first.’

  The memo at the bottom of the stack was courtesy of AnnaLise. The twenty-eight-year- old journalist might not know how to do what she wanted done, but that didn't stop her from outlining the end game – basically running electricity to her mother's ancient two-car garage and installing new twin garage doors and openers.

  A simple thing, not perhaps worthy of the three double-spaced, spell-checked pages, except that the finished job had to satisfy the detailed, exacting specifications of not only her mother – the Daisy in question – but also Daisy's neighbor and co-garage owner, Mrs Peebly.

  A police reporter in Wisconsin, AnnaLise had taken a leave of absence from her job until the end of the month – that month being September and today already the twelfth – for ‘personal business’ in her hometown of Sutherton, North Carolina.

  But whether in the upper Midwest or the mountains of North Carolina, AnnaLise's exposure to the legal system in general – and one Wisconsin district attorney in particular – had taught her to lay out her expectations in clear, unambiguous terms. Especially important in this case, since AnnaLise might well be leaving the state before the job was completed.

  In fact, if Daisy's lab work came back OK and the appointment with the neurologist . . .

  AnnaLise registered that Josh was speaking to his father. ‘Daisy said didn't I think one big door instead of two—’

  ‘Did ya tell her I don't pay you to think?’ Eames interrupted. ‘’Cuz if I did, boy, you'd sure owe me a refund.’

  The ‘boy’ – though Josh had to twenty by now – flushed.

  Not that the elder seemed to notice. ‘Were you “thinking” last week, when you put up that DETOUR sign ’stead of the DEAD END one and nearly sent half a dozen cars off the side of Big Sweet?’

  Big Sweet was Sutherton Mountain's highest ski run, forming a vertical gash in the trees that covered the southern face of the mountain.

  But Big Sweet aside, AnnaLise didn't like Eames bullying his son – especially if Daisy's increasing mental confusion may have been the indirect cause. ‘Now, Mr Eames,’ she interrupted, consciously weaving a bit of her native south back into her tone, ‘I don't think there's any cause to blame Josh for this little misunderstanding.’

  ‘Little misunderstanding?’ Eames repeated, removing his cap. ‘Tell that to your mama's friend, whose deck we were working on at the time. Ida Mae Babb nearly had a brand new junkyard for her view, ’stead of the ski slope.’

  Nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Sutherton was closer in both distance and general attitude – not to be confused with altitude, though this was true as well – to the mountains of Tennessee and Virginia than it was to North Carolina's own beaches and golf resorts.

  ‘You see that?’ Mr Eames pointed at the irregular chunks of mortar and cinder block littering the sidewalk in front of the shared garage. ‘If I hadn't checked on this, that whole garage would've come tumbling down.’

  ‘Now that's not exactly true,’ Josh said, as the double-beep of a text message came from AnnaLise's phone somewhere in the nether-regions of her purse. ‘There's a big old steel beam running right across the tops of those doors, so I was thinking – ’

  ‘I told you, I don't pay – ’

  ‘Enough!’ AnnaLise, having dug out her cell, checked it and unceremoniously dumped the thing back into her bag. ‘I have an appointment in Boone. You two figure this out. Civilly.’

  She eyed Eames, then Josh.

  Josh nodded, but Eames looked like he was going to protest.

  Time to be straight with the man. ‘Can I have a word with you alone, Mr Eames?’

  The boss hesitated. He looked like he'd prefer to keelhaul his son, but then he tipped his head toward Josh. ‘Go get the big flashlight out of my truck so we can see up in that garage. Damndest thing to build somethin' even forty years back without putting in electricity. It'll cost an arm and a leg to add, especially with that Scotty doin' it, though I don't see there's a choice.’

  Josh safely out of sight, Eames turned to AnnaLise. ‘Now don't you be telling me to go easy on that boy. He's been in and out of trouble since his mama ran off ten years ago. And mostly "in."’

  Who could blame the kid? Josh'd been barely ten when his mother took off with another man, leaving Fred and Josh without so much as a goodbye. AnnaLise's father had died when she was five, but even back then she knew he'd have stayed with them if he could.

  �
�Didn't you tell me when you put Josh on this job that he's a good worker?’

  Now it was Eames turn to flush. ‘Why, I sure did. And it's the truth. The boy just needs focus and I'm focusing him.’

  Well, God knows we all needed someone to do that sometimes, if not quite with the alacrity of the man in front of her. ‘I'm certain you are, Mr Eames, and I'm sure Josh appreciates it. Now I need to pick up my mother and get her to a doctor's appointment. Umm, you may have heard –’

  But Eames was already holding up his hands like two heavily calloused stop signs. ‘Not another word, AnnaLise. Josh and me, we'll figure things out so’s it'll work real good. You just tell your ma not to worry about a thing.’

  AnnaLise's ‘ma,’ Daisy, even now just fifty years old, was having . . . well, ‘spells’ might be what Eames would call them, though accidentally draining Mrs Bradenham – the mayor's mother, of all people – of an extra pint or two at Sutherton's annual blood drive less two weeks before might be pushing the definition's envelope.

  ‘I'm sure Daisy will be fine,’ AnnaLise said, trying to reassure Eames about something that scared the hell out of her. ‘Her confusion when Mrs B was donating blood and all . . . well, it's probably just a vitamin deficiency or something.’

  ‘Or dehydration,’ Eames offered. ‘Remember, the air can be mighty dry up here in the mountains. You tell Daisy to drink water, lots and lots of it. Fix her right up.’

  ‘I'll do just that,’ AnnaLise said, now unconsciously slipping into the rhythm of speech she'd largely abandoned since leaving western North Carolina to enroll at the University of Wisconsin. ‘And if you would, just ask Josh to run any suggestions Daisy might have past both you and me? And Mrs Peebly's . . . thoughts, as well?’

  Eames broke a grin at the thought of the retired elementary school principal, bent over her walker, but never, ever broken. ‘Now that I'm not sure I can promise. I'm no match for Mrs Peebly, so I can't hold out much hope for poor Josh.’

  ‘I'm not sure anyone is a match for Mrs Peebly.’ AnnaLise was reminded of the time she'd accidentally dinged the passenger door of one of the series of black Cadillacs their neighbor had owned over the decades. The sixteen-year-old AnnaLise had lived in fear of discovery for exactly forty-three minutes before blurting out a confession.

  At ninety, Mrs Peebly still managed to inspire that kind of fear. And respect.

  AnnaLise extended her hand to the man in front of her. ‘I appreciate your taking this job on such short notice, Mr Eames.’

  'Happy to do anything I can, AnnaLise. For you or for Daisy.'

  As they shook on it, AnnaLise was reminded how often, in the High Country, calloused hands were matched to the still unhardened heart of a true and utter gentleman.

  A characteristic as refreshing, she thought, involuntarily glancing down to her purse with the cell phone buried inside, as the clean mountain air itself.

  Two

  Leaving Fred Eames, AnnaLise Griggs hurried up the sidewalk toward Sutherton's Main Street, which rimmed the southern shore of Lake Sutherton. To the north across the lake – you guessed it – Sutherton Mountain could be seen.

  Admittedly not the most imaginative collective, but what was lost in grandiosity was gained in clarity. You always knew where you stood in Sutherton – literally and figuratively.

  AnnaLise passed the door to the over-and-under apartment where she'd grown up and her mother still lived. The building also housed the corner storefront that had been Griggs Market, a small grocery store and deli Daisy had owned and operated until a few months back. The space was now leased to a coffeehouse-cum-nightclub called 'Torch,' and it took all of AnnaLise's resolve to resist the aroma of freshly-brewed caffeine wafting out from that new incarnation as she rounded the corner.

  Tucker Ulysses Stanton, the club's young owner, had decided to open mornings to serve espressos, lattes and cappuccinos and then re-open at night with a full bar and live entertainment. The latter sometimes included Tucker on the bongos punctuating his recital of various haikus, all of which seemed suspiciously to echo ‘There was an old man from Nantucket.’

  If Torch could be described as a coffeehouse day or night, though, it was the beatnik, poetry, cool-cat kind, like in the classic TV show ‘The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis," with Tucker as an African American Maynard G. Krebs.

  Barely able to raise the stubbly goatee required for the image, Tucker had needed his physician father to apply for a license to serve alcohol, Tucker himself being too young to drink.

  Practically overnight, though, the place had become a success. And, for Daisy, it was a home away from home, tucked under and in front of her long-time abode.

  Or another home away from home.

  As AnnaLise rounded the corner onto Main Street proper, the true heart-and-soul of Sutherton, the town, as well as Griggs, the family, came into view: Mama Philomena's restaurant. Phyllis Balisteri, aka ‘Mama Philomena,’ was Daisy's oldest and dearest friend. Between the two women, they'd managed not only to raise AnnaLise after Timothy Griggs died, leaving the widowed Daisy with a five-year-old, but keep both Griggs Market and the restaurant afloat.

  Not that it hadn't been without its challenges.

  Going by the restaurant's name, red-and-white-striped awning and big plate-glass window, you'd expect Mama Philomena's to offer family-style Italian meals. And you'd be . . . well, more dead wrong than disappointed. True disappointment would come only if you tried any of the Italian delicacies that Phyllis had tried to replicate from her mother Philomena's original menu.

  Mama, as Phyllis and her mother before her were inevitably called, had been tipped to the town's opinion of her early efforts immediately, of course. Sutherton natives were not known to mince words, especially when the tourist industry – the town's bane or its boon, depending on who you were talking to and at what time of year – could be affected.

  Because no matter how much they enjoyed complaining about the influx of out-of-towners, including students attending the University of the Mountain, the locals knew that the reason Sutherton continued to thrive was that its cool mountains, picturesque lakes, and beautiful trout streams drew people trying to escape the heat of the deep South all summer long, foliage-gawkers in the fall, and skiers through the winter.

  For better or worse, Sutherton had an eleven-month tourist season and Mama Philomena's on Main Street – listed in every tour book and travel website – could not be allowed to founder on the rocks of inedible meals.

  Facing mounting pressure, Mama had turned to what she, herself, had survived on while her own mother provided authentic Italian cuisine to the rest of the town: convenience foods and the easy recipes found on the backs of the boxes, cans and bottles in which those brand-name favorites were packaged.

  And so Mama Philomena's had survived, as did its standing as the hub of life on Main Street. The restaurant served as Sutherton's tribal campfire, where stories were swapped and information shared. Sort of a brick-and-mortar Wikipedia, right down to the occasional questionable source.

  Mama's Monday ‘LUNCH SPECIALS,’ handwritten on a bright pink sheet of paper, were already up on the door, strategically placed between a flyer advertising next month's annual Woolly Worm Festival in nearby Banner Elk and a second circular, this one for Beary Scary Halloween on neighboring Grandfather Mountain.

  AnnaLise read the menu: Corn Flakes Crunchy Baked Chicken, Bennett's Chili Sauce Brisket and Beans and, for dessert, AnnaLise's own favorite: Grape Nut Pudding.

  ‘What's the occasion?’ AnnaLise asked, pushing open the door to find her own mother on the other side of it.

  Daisy had a roll of tape in her hand, presumably having just posted the specials. Now she plunked both fists, tape in one of them, on her hips. ‘AnnaLise Griggs, you can't tell me you've forgotten the Woolly Worm Festival. You haven't been away that long.’

  Ten years, if you were counting. And, of course, her mother would be.

  ‘Please,’ AnnaLise said, ‘one does not forget
the whole county coming out to watch Woolly Caterpillars race up strings and then using the color pattern of the winner's bristles to predict the coming winter's weather.’

  ‘Hey there, AnnieLeez.’ The voice came presumably from the kitchen and undeniably from Phyllis ‘Mama’ Balisteri. ‘Don't you go making fun of our Woolly Worms. They pump a whole lot of dollars into the county's coffins.’

  AnnaLise bit her tongue to avoid correcting that to ‘coffers.’ She'd long ago sublimated Mama's butchering of her own given name.

  ‘Not to mention Mama's cash register,’ Daisy said, setting down the tape roll. ‘It's only a month away. Maybe you won't miss it this year, AnnaLise.’

  There was a wistful tone to Daisy's voice, tinged with a hint of fear. Both mother and daughter knew that if AnnaLise stayed beyond the end of September it would be because of Daisy's spells. And AnnaLise didn't think either of them really wanted that, Woolly Worms or not.

  She changed the subject. ‘By “occasion,” I was referring to the menu. ‘Brisket? Grape-Nut pudding? Sounds like Mama's pulling out all the stops.’

  ‘I think it's a reaction to the doctor,’ Daisy said, pushing blonde curly hair away from her sun-darkened face. ‘Sort of a last hurrah.’

  AnnaLise felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. Was Mama, who admittedly knew Daisy best – better even than AnnaLise herself – so worried that she'd, in effect, prepared the ‘condemned’ woman her final meal of favorites?

  ‘Grape-Nuts should have a hyphen,’ was all AnnaLise could think to say.

  Afraid to make eye contact with her mother, she plucked a Wheat Chex out of a small bowl of snack mix set in the middle of a nearby booth.

  A palm lightly but crisply slapped her hand. ‘Complimentary Chex Mix is for the paying customers. Don't you go digging in there or the Health Department will shut me down.’

  AnnaLise whirled to face her 'other' mother, who – much to Daisy's dismay – was often mistaken for her biological one. But it was true that AnnaLise's dark hair and eyes echoed more Phyllis Balisteri's coloring than her own mother's blue-eyed blondeness.