The Last of the Moon Girls(86)

Lizzy took a quick inventory as she slid the carton onto the counter. He was handsome in a gnarled, outdoorsy way, like weathered oak—deeply grained and worn smooth by time. “Evvie sent me.”

“Oh.” Ben blinked at the carton of jars, then back at Lizzy. He managed a smile but his disappointment was plain. “She usually comes herself.”

“I know, but she’s busy getting ready for the fair. Thank you, by the way. I heard you’re helping her out with some signage. It was kind of you to offer.”

Lizzy wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Ben actually blushed. “She’s a good woman, that Evvie. Wise and kind, and so funny. She’s really something.”

Funny?

It was official. Ben the hardware man had it bad for Evangeline Broussard. “Evvie tells me you sell quite a lot of her honey,” she said, hoping to draw him out further.

Ben nodded, grinning like a teen. “That I do. Folks swear by the stuff. Claim it cures everything from psoriasis to the common cold.” Ben held up a knobby finger. “Reminds me. I’ve got an envelope for her in back. And a trellis she asked me to set aside for her. Just give me a sec.”

Lizzy watched him disappear through a set of swinging doors, then wandered toward a rack of seed packets. She was reaching for a packet of sweet william seeds when she saw Fred Gilman walking toward her with a spool of rope and a long-handled ax. Her throat seized as she watched him come toward her, the ax swinging like a pendulum at his side. Finally, he came to an abrupt halt, his eyes heavy lidded and unblinking as they locked with hers.

It was Lizzy who looked away first, relieved to see Ben pushing back through the swinging doors with a fan-shaped trellis in his arms. He threw an oblivious nod to Fred as he handed her the trellis, then fished an envelope from his back pocket. “There’s her cash for the last batch of honey, and the trellis she wanted. Be sure to tell her I said hello, and that I’ll be by with the umbrella tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Lizzy stuffed the envelope into her purse, then headed back down the aisle to the door. Her hands were shaking as she fumbled with the key fob to open the trunk. It wasn’t that she’d expected Fred Gilman to lop off her head right there in the hardware store, but there’d been no missing the icy fury he had leveled in her direction.

She blew out a breath, willing her pulse to slow as she dropped the trellis into the trunk and slammed the lid. When she looked up, Fred Gilman was standing in front of her, ax balanced on his left shoulder. She caught the smell of him, the tangy brine of sweat mingled with the stench of a festering wound, as if he were slowly rotting from the inside.

Stepping back, she ran a frantic glance around the lot, hoping for help, or at least a witness. There was no one. She squared her shoulders, determined not to let him see that she was afraid. “What do you want, Mr. Gilman?”

He flicked dull eyes down the length of her, then brought them back to her face. “Read in the paper you’ve had some trouble lately. Something about a fire. Said no one got hurt.” The corners of his mouth twitched, the rictus of a smile. “Glad to hear it. My first wife died in a fire. Not a good way to go.”

Lizzy opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t manage a response. Instead, she pushed past him, heart thudding as she made a beeline for the driver’s side door.

“Maybe you should be more careful about where you stick that nose of yours,” he said as she slid in behind the wheel. “Be a shame if someone got hurt next time.”



She was still shaking when she reached Andrew’s office. She wasn’t sure what she expected him to do, but he was the first person she thought of as she sped out of the hardware store parking lot.

She ignored Dennis Hanley’s cold stare as she navigated the construction zone outside Andrew’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come,” he barked.

His head was still down when she stepped into the office. When he finally looked up, his expression was one of blank distraction. “Lizzy. What are you . . . What’s wrong? You’re as white as a sheet.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.” She was still clutching the doorknob, still trembling. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

He was on his feet and beside her in seconds, prying her fingers off the knob and leading her to a chair. He went to the watercooler, filled a paper cup, and put it in her hands. “Drink this. And tell me what’s happened.”

She felt silly suddenly. He looked so alarmed. What if she was overreacting? “I ran into Fred Gilman at the hardware store and he . . .” She paused, gulping down the last of the water. “He followed me out to the parking lot.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. He never touched me. He just . . . talked. About the fire, and how lucky I was that no one got hurt. It was like he was taunting me. It didn’t help that he was holding an ax.”

Andrew stiffened. “He had an ax?”

“He wasn’t wielding it. He’d just bought it. But he had to know I’d be terrified. He wanted me to be terrified. His eyes were like ice. Like he would have strangled me with his bare hands if he thought he could get away with it. And I just stood there, listening, while he all but confessed to setting the fire.”

Andrew took the empty cup from her hand, crumpled it, and tossed it into the trash can. “I know he scared you, Lizzy, but talking about the fire—even taunting you about it—isn’t the same as a confession. Think. Did he mention anything he shouldn’t know about? Anything that hasn’t been in the papers?”