She climbed out, shouldered her own backpack, and walked up the porch steps without looking back.
Wyatt waited until the door closed behind her before pulling away.
Too much was happening at one time . . . and he didn’t like the bad feeling in his gut.
The general store sat on the corner of Main and Fourth, a wide-fronted building with a hand-painted sign and a window display that hadn’t changed much since Pete Williamston took over from his father thirty years ago.
The Closed sign still showed in the window. Two sheriff’s vehicles sat out front.
Martha paced near the door, wringing her hands when Wyatt stepped inside.
She looked smaller than usual. Worry did that to people.
Wyatt crossed the room and pulled Martha into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Martha. We’re going to find him.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded as if she didn’t trust her own voice. “Thanks for coming.”
Micah paced closer, his notepad out. “Martha, when I got here, you said Pete had a large purchase order coming in today.”
“He mentioned it last night before bed.” She crossed her arms and raised her chin as if deciding she wouldn’t fall apart yet. “Said it was a good one. Enough to make up for the money we usually lose during the slower winter season. He seemedpleased about it, and Pete isn’t easily pleased. He’s a very practical man.”
“Did he say who the order was for?” Wyatt asked.
“No, just that whoever it was wanted to come in early before the store opened. Pete agreed because the order was big enough to be worth it.”
“Understandable.”
“I left this morning to visit a friend who just had surgery in Charlottesville, so I haven’t been around,” she continued. “And since we keep some odd hours at the General Store, no one really questioned it when the store didn’t open on time.”
“That’s small-town living, right?”
“Except it didn’t work in our favor this time. I got a couple calls about it, and I tried to call Pete myself. When he didn’t answer, I got worried.” She looked at the counter.
Wyatt followed her gaze.
Two coffee cups sat on the counter. One was a thick ceramic mug with the store’s logo. The other was a plain paper cup that had been knocked on its side. Brown liquid spread across the counter where the coffee had run and dried.
Wyatt studied the cups then glanced at the back of the store. The stockroom door stood slightly open.
“Did you check the back door?” he asked.
“It was unlocked, with no signs of forced entry or struggle.” Micah looked back at Martha again. “Is there any way to find out who placed the order? A phone number, an email, anything Pete might have written down?”
Martha hurried behind the counter and produced a worn spiral notebook. Pete’s order log.
Even from where Wyatt stood, he could see that everything was handwritten—evidence of a practical man who didn’t trust computers.
She flipped to the most recent entry and turned it toward Micah.
Wyatt leaned in.
Pete had jotted down today’s date and a dollar amount—$1,253. The items he’d sold were rice, beans, water, oatmeal, and flour. There were also some medical supplies and batteries.
But the area where the name and contact information should be written was blank.
Martha looked at both of them, moisture welling in her eyes. “Whatever you need. I’ll do whatever you need.”
Wyatt looked at the coffee cups and imagined Pete Williamston standing across from someone he didn’t know well enough to be afraid of, drinking coffee before the town woke up.
The knocked-over cup said everything the blank order log didn’t.
Something had interrupted that meeting.
Something sudden.
Most likely, something bad.
And eight hours had passed since anyone had seen him. That was a long time for someone like Pete to be missing.
