Don't Look (Pike, Wisconsin #1) - Alexandra Ivy Page 0,40
charity shop run by Pastor Ron Bradshaw.” He pulled to a halt near the front door. “I’m going to donate my dad’s clothes and stuff from the kitchen.”
“Oh.” She glanced over her shoulders at the pile of cardboard boxes Kir had loaded into the SUV before leaving his dad’s house that morning. “That’s generous of you.”
“It’s not completely altruistic,” he admitted, his gaze taking in the half dozen cars and trucks in the lot. “I want to check this place out.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been trying to find a way that Sherry and Randi could be connected. They don’t seem to have anything in common beyond the fact they were both from Pike.”
She glanced toward the bowling alley. “So why this place?”
“I heard that Sherry was a regular visitor. I want to know if Randi was ever here.” He shrugged, not revealing his suspicion of the good pastor. “Like I said, I’m just looking for a connection.”
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to remind him that it wasn’t his job to investigate the victims. Then, glancing at his face, she heaved a resigned sigh. No doubt his expression was stubborn enough to convince her any argument would be a waste of time.
She shoved open the door of the SUV, glancing back at him when he left the engine running. “Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m going to unload the boxes in the back. I’m assuming that’s where the drop-off is located.”
She nodded, slipping out of the vehicle. “I’ll stroll around. There might be someone who has seen Sherry or Randi around.”
“Be careful,” he called out.
She sent him a wry glance before closing the door and heading toward the front entrance. He waited for her to disappear into the building before he drove to the end of the parking lot. Then, grabbing the boxes, he crossed the icy cement to push open a door that was marked for deliveries.
As he hoped, he found Pastor Bradshaw sorting through a pile of used shoes at the front of the storage room. The younger man was casually dressed in jeans and a thick sweatshirt.
Strolling forward, Kir set the boxes on a long table that was shoved against the wall before casually turning to glance around the narrow space lined with steel shelves filled with clothes, shoes, old electronics, and piles of china plates. There were also several open bins loaded with coats and boots.
Kir suppressed a shudder. The drop ceiling nearly brushed his head and there was a staleness in the air that made the room unpleasantly claustrophobic. It felt as if the mounds of junk were ruthlessly consuming the space. Like a living organism.
“Hello again,” a male voice intruded into his dark imaginings.
Kir turned, pasting a faux look of surprise on his face. “Oh. Pastor Bradshaw.”
The man wiped his dusty hands on a handkerchief before stretching one out to offer it to Kir. “Ron, please.”
Kir clasped the outstretched hand, hiding his grimace at the man’s moist, clammy skin.
“Ron.” He pulled his hand away with a jerk that was just short of rude.
Ron didn’t seem to notice. “How can I help you?”
“I brought a few boxes from my dad’s house. There’s nothing fancy, but it’s all still in good condition.”
“Thank you, Kir.” Ron smiled, his thin face pasty in the fluorescent light. “That’s a wonderful way to honor your father’s memory.”
Kir ignored his tiny pang of guilt. “I hope it can help someone in need.”
“Yes.” Ron’s smile faded. “There’s a great deal of need in Pike these days.”
Kir glanced around the crowded storage area. “It looks like you have plenty of donors.”
“Not as many as we used to have. Since the paper factory shut down, the families who used to give are now forced to take. It’s been a difficult transition for people who consider it a weakness to accept charity.”
“Thankfully, you’re here to provide it.”
Ron pressed his sweaty hands together in a prayerlike gesture. “I do what I can.”
Kir offered a sympathetic smile. “Yes, I’m sure you do.” He paused, then abruptly shifted the conversation. “A shame about Randi Decker.”
“Who?” The man blinked, looking confused.
Real or fake? Kir was betting on fake.
“The woman they found murdered at the lake,” he clarified. “I believe she ran the local flower shop.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Ms. Decker. Such a tragedy.”
“And Sherry, of course,” Kir added.
Ron heaved a sigh. “These are dark days for Pike.”
“Have you talked to the sheriff?”
The question came without warning and Ron jerked in surprise. “The sheriff? Why would I talk to the sheriff?”