Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb - Lexi George Page 0,102
bracing for a lecture.
“Miss Peterson?”
“Yes?”
“This is Robin James from the Hannah Herald. I heard what happened at Peterson Mill today. I was hoping you’d answer a few questions for the paper.”
Marshmallows, if Burke and Furr had ratted Mr. Houston out to the paper, he’d be mad as a hornet. It would take every ounce of charm in her arsenal to convince him to give them another chance.
“No one was hurt in the log spill, Mr. James. You can put that in your paper. It was an accident.”
“Is it true two men were fired because of the incident?”
Burke and Furr, no doubt about it. What a couple of widemouthed frogs.
“The matter is still under investigation,” Sassy hedged. “A final decision hasn’t been made.”
She hoped.
She did some quick calculating and relaxed. The Herald came out Wednesday and Saturday mornings. Plenty of time to talk Houston into rehiring Burke and Furr.
“My source says there have been a number of accidents since your brother died,” James said. “There are rumblings among the men that the mill is cursed. Any comment on that?”
And say what? That she suspected her evil man-eating great-aunt of supernatural sabotage? That would make a heck of a front-page spread. Better give the reporter something else to write about.
She sent a zing of charm through the telephone. “I am so excited to talk to you, Mr. James. It’s like meeting an old friend.”
There was a startled silence at the other end of the line. “It is?”
“Oh, my, yes. I’ve been a faithful follower of the Herald for years. I thought your article on powdery mildew in roses was brilliant. I never would have guessed that spraying cow’s milk on plants was an organic way to slow the spread of the disease.”
“Well, I—”
“And your piece on the plight of the old Harmon Theater brought me to tears,” Sassy said. “Your passionate outcry against the ravages of time and neglect single-handedly moved me to write the Pride of Hannah a five-thousand-dollar check. A magnificent building was saved because of you, Mr. James.”
“Thank you. I’m sure the committee—”
“May I call you Robin, Mr. James?”
“Uh . . . of course.”
“Well, Robin, as I’m sure you know, I’m not from Hannah. But I feel as though I know this town because of your journalistic skills, and I want you to know—”
“Miss Peterson?”
“Call me Sassy, please.”
“Sassy. Are you staying in Hannah? Word is you’ve decided to run the mill.”
“That’s right. I’ve decided not to sell.”
“How does your fiancé feel about that? The Bodifords are a distinguished old Fairhope family. Is your fiancé willing to give up his life there and move to Hannah, or will you commute?”
“Um . . . well.” Sassy floundered. Somehow, she’d lost control of the conversation. “My decision to keep the mill was sudden. Wes and I haven’t had a chance to discuss things.”
“Why not? He’s been holed up at the Hannah Inn since yesterday.”
Chapter Thirty-One
A call to the Hannah Inn confirmed the reporter’s tip: Wesley Bodiford was staying in room number ten. Had checked in yesterday and hadn’t been seen since.
Wesley. In spite of his anger, fastidious, exacting, superior Wesley had taken lodgings in a crabfest fleabag motel to be near her. Sassy was deeply touched. That was beyond sweet. It was positively Nicholas Sparks.
And she was going to reward his steadfastness by ending things. If this were a Disney movie, she’d be the bad guy. Not a role she’d imagined for herself.
But she couldn’t marry Wes no matter how Nicholas Sparkly he was. She didn’t love him.
Bunny rabbits, she dreaded this.
Turning into the motel parking lot, she maneuvered the Maserati across the potholed asphalt and pulled into the slot next to Wes’s car. If anything, the run-down lodge was seedier in daylight, a postcard for the tawdry and derelict. Acne spots of mildew pimpled the white stucco walls. A miniature replica of Jeb Hannah, town founder and Spanish-American War hero, tottered atop a rickety metal pole, sword in one hand and a glowing red peanut in the other. A faded Ford Maverick with plastic sheeting duct taped over the back window squatted on the other side of Wes’s car. The gleaming BMW stuck out in the sleazy surroundings like a pair of Manolo Blahniks in a thrift store bin of used flip-flops.
Wes might as well tape a sign on his car that said Steal me, and be done with it.
The precarious and unprotected location of Wes’s beloved car was a testament to his distraught mental state. Pity and regret squeezed Sassy’s