He popped the trunk and took the gun out. “They’ll know about what happened out at the house, or at least the official story, but they won’t mention it, not specifically, and not to my face. They’ll act like they haven’t heard anything—especially because John Bell is here today.”
I blinked. “He is? He went right back to work?”
“Looks like.” Max shrugged. “Not much else he could do, you know? Working is what he does. He picked up retail after we couldn’t keep him out on the farm, though Dad still gives him some kind of stipend, I think. But he works here most days now.”
“And Mrs. Bell?”
“She gardens.” His smile went a little sad. “She and Grandma Kate were pretty much best friends. Now they can’t even speak to each other, really. Everything’s just too terrible.”
Instead of entering the store, Max took me down the sidewalk to a side entrance that I hadn’t even noticed in the sunny glare. A small placard announcing “Sam Smith Firearms & Training” hung next to the door, with the hours of operation and an official-looking warning about carrying unlicensed weapons.
“This is the place?”
“This is it.” Max pushed the door open into the small space, and I stepped in after him, not knowing what to expect. The shop wasn’t large. Glass cases dominated the center sections and lined every wall, with an entryway to the right to Mills Farm & Fleet marked above a doorway, so that everyone would be clear when they left the domain of weaponry. Max walked in with confidence, but it didn’t look like anyone was manning the station. Before he got three steps, however, a short, no-nonsense-looking man poked his bald head out of the back.
“Can I help you?”
“Max Graham.” Max held up the gun. “I think my aunt, Emily Winslow, might have purchased this from you in the last couple of days, and I wanted to bring it back.”
The man frowned. If he knew who Max was, he didn’t give any indication. Regardless of Max’s statement about the small-town code of ‘betray nothing’, I got the impression that SamSmith wasn’t the type of man to give away much of anything. “You have a receipt?”
“I don’t. And I don’t so much care about the money. I just need you to verify that it was purchased here, if you can do that, and for you to log that I brought it back.” The man’s frown only deepened, but Max put the gun on the table. “I also need to know if she bought ammunition. It’s not loaded now, and it doesn’t look like it’s been shot, but…” He let that trail off.
The guy looked at the gun, then back up at Max. His eyes had sharpened a little with curiosity, and I took more notice of him now. He tasted of gasoline and gunpowder, open fields and baked-in heat. He was as much a piece of the ground as the dried-out summer harvest, and he was only human. Not much happened in Hooperton, and apparently the ‘don’t betray anything’ rule wasn’t airtight. “Emily Winslow is your aunt? She doesn’t look much older than you.”
Max grimaced. “Yeah, she’s not. She’s also unstable, which you would have no way of knowing, but I would appreciate it if you’d take the gun back. Lock it up in a box for all I care or call the cops and have them impound it. But she shouldn’t have bought it. And if she comes back looking for it, you can call the cops then, too, for any charge you can think of.”
The guy nodded, his lips tugging into a smile that could also be a frown if needed. “Her ID checked out. Didn’t have any reason to expect she might be trouble.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem at all. Happens.” He squinted at Max again. “So, it wasn’t the fellow’s birthday last week?”
Max stopped. “What?”
“The guy she got this for. She said it was a present, that he’d eat it up.”
Max froze. “When did she buy this gun, exactly? I thought it was yesterday?”
“Oh, heck, no. Hang on.” The guy turned around and checked his computer. “Week ago, today. Why?” He took in our faces. “Why’s that relevant?”
“Well—no one had a birthday. Like I said, she’s a little around the bend.” He stared at the gun. “It hasn’t been shot, right?”
The man looked at him funny, but obligingly picked up the gun, looked at the barrel, and opened the chamber. Empty. “Nope,” he said. “It’s as clean as it was when it left here. She didn’t buy ammo—said she had plenty of that herself.”
“Right. Well, good. Thank you.”
Max practically pushed me out of the gun shop and into the main area of Mills Farm & Fleet. I felt queasy, my legs barely seeming to function, and yet I had the worst urge to laugh, like Emily hadn’t said something to a complete stranger sick enough to make me want to puke.
“I can’t…” That’s all Max could say. Just those two words.
I let him wander, and we made it to the tack section of the store quickly. The entire place smelled like leather and warmth, and I felt the tightness in my body ease. Max seemed to relax too, and then a familiar face came around the corner—and, thankfully, broke into a weary smile. Mr. Bell.
“Max, hey. How are you doing? How’s your dad holding up?”
“Mr. Bell, I’m glad you’re here.” He and Mr. Bell shook hands, and the man’s easy smile didn’t waver.
“Well, I’m always here these days. Beats working with Mother and her damned potted plants, I will tell you that. I swear she’d stick me in a ceramic vase if I didn’t keep two steps ahead of her.” He turned to me, his grin still easy. I found myself liking him instinctively. “John Bell. Used to work out at Max’s farm, hope to again one day soon.”
