"No, I don't want to start a war with the McAllisters."
Finn raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "C'mon, Gin. Just admit it. You like thumbing your nose at bad guys and showing everyone exactly how strong and capable you are. You always have. That's why you pushed the McAllisters so hard today."
"All right, all right," I muttered. "So maybe my retirement's been a little more boring than I thought it would be. So maybe it felt good to knock Jake's nose out of joint when he made the stupid mistake of trying to rob me. Maybe it felt even better to do the same to his old man. But if I'd let Jake go that night, I'd have a dozen Jake McAllisters in here today, all thinking they could knock over my joint for a quick wad of cash. You know it. Ashland's all about survival of the toughest. It always has been. Word gets out you're weak or an easy mark, and you're finished, no matter what business you're in."
Finn shrugged his agreement.
"Besides, if I give in to the McAllisters now, they'll think they own me, that they actually frightened me today.
Jake would start coming in here all the time, just to lord it over me. He'd think the restaurant was his own personal little fiefdom, take my money, and terrorize my customers.
And I just couldn't stand that. Not in Fletcher's restaurant.
Not when he worked so hard for so long to keep from paying protection money to anyone." I sighed. "Besides, it's too late for all that now anyway. I pissed off Jake McAllister again, embarrassed him in front of his father. He's not going to forget that. He's going to kill me - or at least try. He has to, or he'll never have his father's respect again. What little of it there was to start with."
"And then what are you going to do?" Finn asked.
"You kill Jake, and Jonah will come down on you like a ton of bricks. Hell, he might even get Mab Monroe involved at that point."
A few weeks ago, someone had set me up to be killed as part of a larger power play against Mab Monroe, to try to wrest control of Ashland away from her. I'd gotten caught in the middle, which meant I was already more involved with the Fire elemental than I'd ever wanted to be.
I thought of that piece of paper in the file Fletcher had compiled about my family's murder, the one with Mab's name on it. Maybe I'd always been involved with the Fire elemental - I just hadn't known it. "I'll deal with Jake McAllister when he makes his move."
Finn opened his mouth again, but I held up my hand to cut him off.
"Enough talk," I said. "We have other people to deal with today, remember? Warren T. Fox. So let's go get Violet and see what Grandpa has to say for himself."
Finn and I left Sophia to clean up the remaining mess and headed over to Jo-Jo's to pick up Violet Fox. Finn had called ahead to say we were on our way, and the two of them waited on the front porch for us. Both sat in rocking chairs that creaked and cracked with every pass back and forth. Jo-Jo had dragged Rosco's basket outside, and the fat, lazy basset hound sat at the dwarf 's feet, snoozing in a patch of sunlight that sliced across the porch slats.
Sophia must have lent Violet some of her clothes, because the girl was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a matching T-shirt with an enormous set of red lips on it. Despite Violet's full figure, the clothes sagged off her frame. Sophia Deveraux had quite a bit more muscle on her than Violet did.
Jo-Jo wore one of her many pink flowered dresses and a string of pearls that were each as big as a giant's tooth.
Her bleached white-blond hair was arranged into its typical helmet of curls, and perfect makeup covered her face.
As usual, the dwarf 's feet were bare, despite the November chill in the air. Jo-Jo hated wearing socks. Said they made her feet hurt.
Finn and I stepped up onto the porch. Violet stood up, but Jo-Jo kept rocking in her chair.
"Sleep well?" I asked.
"As well as could be expected, I suppose. But Jo-Jo re- ally made me feel at home." Violet gave her hostess a shy smile.
"Jo-Jo's good at that. We should get going."
"Say hello to Warren for me," Jo-Jo told Violet. "Tell him I'll be up that way for some more honey real soon."
Violet nodded. "Thank you. For everything."
Jo-Jo smiled at her. "No problem. Come on back sometime, and we'll work on your hair, darling."
Violet frowned, and her hand crept up to her frizzy blond locks. "What's wrong with my hair?"
Jo-Jo speared her with a hard look. "Nothing a hot-oil treatment and some deep conditioning can't take care of."
Violet's confused frown deepened, but I grabbed her arm and pulled her off the porch before she could think too hard about her split ends. Finn followed us, and we walked out to his car. Since we were going to be tooling up into the mountains today, Finn had decided to drive his oh-so-rugged Cadillac Escalade instead of his Aston Martin.
Violet stopped in front of the SUV and looked at us.
"What about my car? Did you guys drive it somewhere last night?"
Finn and I exchanged a look. Driving Violet Fox's car to a safer location had been the last thing on my mind.
"We had to leave it in the parking lot," I said. "We were more concerned with getting you patched up than what to do with your car."
Violet's face paled. "You mean - you mean you left it there in that Southtown parking lot? All night?"
Her concern was more than warranted. Leaving a car in that neighborhood was just begging for trouble. By now, the vehicle had probably been stripped of everything but the cigarette lighter. Hell, somebody had probably taken that too. Barracudas couldn't pick a corpse any cleaner than the white trash and gangbangers in Southtown.
"It might be okay," Finn replied in a hopeful tone. "It's just a Honda. Several years old at that. It's not like I left my Aston Martin down there."
He shuddered at the thought. Violet chewed her lower lip.
"You have insurance, don't you?" I asked.Violet nodded.
"Then you can worry about your car later. Right now we need to go see your grandfather. You still want us to help the two of you, right?"
Violet nodded again. "Of course. Like I said, the Tin Man was my only hope. Now you're my only hope."
Only hope? How very Star Wars. I grimaced. But I didn't tell Violet Fox how misplaced her trust in me was, how misguided, how laughable, even. That I only brought death to people, not hope. That I was doing this rare, pro bono good deed out of my own fucking insatiable curiosity more than anything else.
"Come on," I said, opening the door on the SUV.
"Let's go."
Finn steered out of Jo-Jo's subdivision and headed north. Following Violet Fox's directions, we left the suburbs behind and drove through the heart of Northtown, where the rich, richer, and richest lived. People didn't have mansions in Northtown - they had estates. If not for the driveways, iron gates, and tasteful brick walls that could be seen from the streets, you might have thought the area was deserted.
Because nobody with real wealth, magic, or power was gauche enough to let their home be seen from the road.
We drove on, still heading north. The terrain became rockier, more rugged, as the rolling hills of the lowlands gave way to knobby ridges and pine-covered mountains.
Houses began to appear on the side of the road, although they were far less grand than the hidden McMansions that populated the Northtown estates. The road narrowed from four lanes to two and twisted back on itself in a series of switchbacks that would give most folks nausea.
Instead of sleek sedans and chrome-covered SUVs, we began to pass dump- and coal trucks on the road.
After about thirty minutes of driving, Violet pointed out the windshield. "That's it, just up ahead at the crossroads."
Finn slowed, turned into a gravel lot, and parked. I peered out the window at the structure before us. The two-story clapboard building might have been a home or perhaps a hunting cabin, once upon a time. Although it was obviously old, the building sported a fresh coat of white paint, with the shutters trimmed in a pale green.
Smaller, matching outbuildings squatted next to the main structure, connected to it by short, covered walkways.
Wooden steps led up to a front porch that was even wider than Jo-Jo's. The porch ran the length of all three buildings. Rocking chairs lined either side of the front door, along with barrels topped with checkerboards. The tin sign mounted above the main entrance gleamed like a new nickel in the sun. Country Daze, it read in green paint that matched the shutters. The roofs of all three buildings were also tin, the kind that made a slow, steady rain sound like a classical sonata.
The parking lot - if you wanted to call it that and not just loose gravel, curved around the store like a crescent moon. A stop sign squatted off to the right, and the road came to a T, forcing you to go right or left. One of the road signs pointed the way back to the interstate and declared that this stretch of pavement was part of some scenic, tourist-trap highway. The other sign featured an arrow and the words Dawson No. 3. Less than a mile away. Interesting. I might have to go check out the coal mine, after I met the illustrious Warren T. Fox.
We got out of the car. Underneath my boots, the parking lot gravel vibrated with the sounds of traffic and tires continually rolling across it. A low growl that told me the stones had seen a lot of people and cars go by in their time. Nothing sinister, just the everyday facts of life.
A smile brightened Violet Fox's face and softened her eyes, chasing away some of the lingering shadows from last night.
"You really love this place, don't you?" I asked.
She nodded. "My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather took me in and raised me. I've been helping him with the store ever since. It's like my second home, you know?"
Violet Fox and I were more alike than she realized, because I did know. Because I felt the same way about the Pork Pit. That's why I'd reacted so badly, so defensively, when Jonah McAllister had come calling today - because he wasn't just threatening my business, my livelihood, he was threatening my home as well. A piece of my heart. The last piece of Fletcher Lane that I had, since the old man was dead and gone and had left me nothing else but riddles to solve.
Violet started to walk ahead to the store, but I grabbed her arm.
"Stay behind me."
"Why?" she asked.
"Just do it, all right?"
Finn stared at me over the hood of the SUV. "You think there's going to be trouble inside, Gin?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. But if this is such a popular place, why aren't there more cars here? It's lunchtime. Folks should be packed in here, getting a sandwich or a cold drink."
Finn's green eyes flicked over the gravel lot. Only one other car was parked in it, an anonymous navy sedan. His eyes drifted out to the road. A steady stream of traffic came and went at the crossroads, but none of the drivers looked at the store, much less pulled into the lot. Finn's face tightened.
"It's been quiet since Dawson started sending his men over to harass us," Violet explained. "People don't like to stop somewhere there might be trouble. Sometimes, we're lucky if we get five customers in eight hours. It's probably just a slow day."
"Come on," I said. "Let's go find out."
I led the way, with Finn behind me and Violet bringing up the rear. As we crossed the parking lot, I palmed one of my silverstone knives. If there was trouble inside, I'd be the first one to see it - and I wanted to be ready to deal with it.
The porch stairs didn't creak under my weight. They were too smooth and well-worn to do that. I walked up them, opened the front door, and stepped inside.
Country Daze was exactly what I'd expected. Scarred, ancient wooden floors. Displays of tourist T-shirts, key chains, and other doodads. An odd assortment of tools and outdoor equipment. Barrels full of rock candy, saltwater taffy, and cellophane-wrapped sugary pralines. A couple of coolers filled with old-fashioned glass soda bottles.
A few more with sandwiches and other snacks. Tables full of honey, strawberry preserves, and apple butter. A revolving rack of cheap sunglasses. Nicer arrangements of quilts, baskets, and other, more expensive handmade items.
A large counter filled with silver jewelry formed a solid square in the middle of the store. An old man stood behind it, one hand resting on a large shotgun with a scarred wooden stock.
What little there was of his wispy white hair stuck up over his forehead as if it had been shocked upright by my appearance. His eyes were dark and shiny, as though two chocolate caramels had been stuffed in his face. He was about my size, stooped with age from his original, taller height. His skin was a dark, burnished brown, marking him as having some Native American heritage, most likely Cherokee in this neck of the woods. Deep lines grooved his face around his pinched mouth, as if he frowned a lot.
But perhaps most unsettling was the fact he wore a blue work shirt that could have come straight out of Fletcher Lane's closet. His dark eyes held the same fierce determination that Fletcher's had always had, and I could tell by his proud stance that this store was his life, his kingdom, and meant as much to him as the Pork Pit had to Fletcher. The man in front of me didn't look anything like my murdered mentor, but in some ways, he was a mirror image of Fletcher. It unsettled me - and made me feel a softness toward him that he'd done absolutely nothing to earn.
I didn't need Violet to tell me this was her grandfather, Warren T. Fox. A crotchety old coot who'd probably just as soon cuss as look at you. I knew the type. I'd been raised by one.
But Warren T. Fox wasn't alone.
There was another man with him, someone who needed no introduction, either. Someone I already knew all too well.