I yawned again, rubbing my tired eyes with my knuckles. “What time is it?
He glanced at his wristwatch. “A bit before nine.”
“Shit, I have to run. I’m late for work.”
I put the plate down and sprang to my feet, throwing a pancake into my mouth and rushing upstairs. I showered at lightning speed, brushed my teeth, and ran down the stairs, the burn on my leg protesting.
Ethan held out another pancake as I ran past.
“Thanks!” I yelled, taking a big bite as I hurried to the car.
“Don’t speed, Amy,” Ethan sang out.
My mouth was full, so I couldn’t answer. I gave him a salute, jumped in, and drove off.
Chapter 34
Murder
Ipulled up outside the bookstore for what would be my last shift for a month or two. I jogged to the door, glad no one was waiting outside to get in, then unlocked it and pressed 666 on the alarm security pad. I’d smiled when Bob told me the number. He needed an easy one to remember, he’d said, and Bob held a fascination for dark horror.
I reached up and flicked on the lights, and they flickered a few times as if reluctant to be pulled from the sanctity of sleep. I went behind the counter, and to my surprise, there were no books to put away—the place was spotless. I guessed Bob was trying to help with my leg, but I’d have been more than capable of doing it. I hoped someone else, perhaps his daughter, Sarah, did it for him. She’d come home yesterday, and he would close at the end of today to spend time with her.
I placed my handbag under the counter and turned on the computer, intent on doing more research into the lands at Rutherford’s Estate. It was as good a place to start as any, and I wanted to know more about Cole. The computer hadn’t even come fully to life when the door dinged and Darcy walked in. He wore a red, white and blue striped T-shirt with blue jeans,the only modern look about him was the laptop in a black shiny leather case he held.
“Morning, Darcy, isn’t it school holidays?”
“Hey, Amy, just doing a bit extra.” He walked with long strides, slightly hunched forward like his thin frame was on the cusp of snapping in two.
The computer finished booting up, so I signed in and was on Google moments later.
I typed in ‘Kirt Cole Memphis.” A whole bunch of article headlines came up, mostly about developments. “Cole Displaces Elderly” caught my eye, so I clicked on it, and an image of an elderly lady and her frail husband standing outside an apartment block appeared. The story stated that Cole had bought the complex to develop, but the couple had lived in it for forty years and were homeless with nowhere else to go as a result. It was dated five years ago. I closed the page and kept reading. All were stories about his developments, many controversial, with people displaced and developments granted that should not have been possible. They painted the picture of a ruthless man.
My leg started to ache. I pulled up a stool and sat down, careful not to aggravate the burn on the back of my thigh, which had been sore since my painfully unforgettable drunken night out. Bleary-eyed and tired, I skimmed through a few more stories.
Another headline snagged my attention: “Kirt Cole’s Soon-To-Be Ex-Wife Found Murdered.” Dated 2014. I clicked on it. There was an image of a young, pretty African American lady smiling.
“The body of Kirt Cole’s wife, Melanie Cole, 26, was found floating in the Bligh River yesterday morning at 7 a.m. by joggers. Police say that while the cause of death is yet to be determined, it appears she met with foul play. Ms. Cole hadbeen married to Mr. Cole for four years, but the pair had separated before her death. Ms. Cole had made allegations of assault against Cole in the past and had taken a restraining order out against him. At the time of her death, Ms. Cole had been suing Mr. Cole for divorce, reportedly taking him to court for access to half of his six-billion-dollar fortune. Ms. Cole is mother to eight-year-old Desmond Parker, who resides with his father. Police do not have any suspects currently and refuse to comment on the exact cause of her death.”
Chills scurried over my body. I needed coffee. I went to the back room and turned on the pre-prepared coffee maker, wondering as I waited if a man would really be so brazen as to take out people who may have stopped his development the same night he announced his plans. Once the pot was full, I poured myself a coffee. The door dinged, and I walked out, mug in hand, as Mrs. Peters walked in. She was an older lady who liked to wear homemade matching tracksuit sets and never wanted any help. She lifted her hand and waved, then headed right.
I searched “Rutherford’s Estate” and its location came up, followed by articles on how beautiful it was and the proposed development. I read one large story—a glowing report—that estimated over a thousand jobs would be created, and it was written by none other than Mike Bowden. I clicked out of it and tried searching “missing hikers Rutherford’s Estate,” but again nothing. I sighed and took a sip of now-tepid coffee.
Over the course of the morning, it was unusually quiet. Mrs. Peters bought a fewMills and Boonbooks, and a couple others brought the latest fiction releases. In between helping them, I kept searching for information.
Eventually, I tried “Church Heights history, Native American sacred sites, settlement.” The area was settled—or raided—by white Americans in the early fifteen hundreds. The fertileland, much of which was obtained from the government by a simple claim of ownership, drew them here. There was a lot of information, but nothing of significance. I searched “Missing hikers Church Heights,” but again, nothing came up. I sighed and drummed my fingers on the counter, frustrated with my grossly incompetent computer skills.
“I can hear you sighing from all the way down the back,” Darcy said, his laptop tucked in his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I just can’t get any information up on the missing hikers or Rutherford’s Estate.”
Darcy settled his laptop on the counter and straightened a pen that was lying crooked on the desk. “Here, let me try.”
I shuffled to the right to allow him access. Long, thin, freckled fingers, tapped at a speed I couldn’t fathom. His brow furrowed. “It’s been removed.”
“What, why?”
He peered up, neither concerned nor surprised. “Missing hikers are not good for business.”
