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department store.
Herbs, where Doris McClellan worked, was easy enough to find. It was located near the end of the block in a restored turn-of-the-century peach-colored Victorian. Cars were parked out front and in the small gravel parking lot off to the side, and tables were visible beyond the curtained windows and on the wraparound porch. From what he could see, every table was occupied, and Jeremy decided that it might be better if he swung by to talk to Doris after the crowd had thinned out.
He noted the location of the Chamber of Commerce, a small nondescript brick building set at the edge of town, and headed back toward the highway. Impulsively, he pulled into a gas station.
After taking off his sunglasses, Jeremy rolled down the window. The gray-haired proprietor wore dingy coveralls and a Dale Earnhardt cap. He rose slowly and began strolling toward the car, gnawing on what Jeremy assumed to be chewing tobacco.
“Can I hep ya?” His accent was unmistakably southern and his teeth were stained brown. His name tag read tully.
Jeremy asked for directions to the cemetery, but instead of answering, the proprietor looked Jeremy over carefully.
“Who passed?” he finally asked.
Jeremy blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Headin’ to a burial, ain’t ya?” the proprietor asked.
“No. I just wanted to see the cemetery.”
The man nodded. “Well, you look like you’re heading to a burial.”
Jeremy glanced at his clothing: black jacket over a black turtleneck, black jeans, black Bruno Magli shoes. The man did have a point.
“I guess I just like wearing black. Anyway, about the directions . . .”
The owner pushed up the brim of his hat and spoke slowly. “I don’t like going to burials none. Make me think I ought to be heading to church more often to square things up before it’s too late. That ever happen to ya?”
Jeremy wasn’t sure exactly what to say. It wasn’t a question he typically encountered, especially in response to a question about directions. “I don’t think so,” he finally ventured.
The proprietor took a rag from his pocket and began to wipe the grease from his hands. “I take it you’re not from here. You got a funny accent.”
“New York,” Jeremy clarified.
“Heard of it, but ain’t never been there,” he said. He looked over the Taurus. “Is this your car?”
“No, it’s a rental.”
He nodded, saying nothing for a moment.
“But anyway, about the cemetery,” Jeremy prodded. “Can you tell me how to get there?”
“I s’pose. Which one ya lookin’ for?”
“It’s called Cedar Creek?”
The proprietor looked at him curiously. “Whatcha want to go out there for? Ain’t nothin’ for anyone to see there. There’s nicer cemeteries on the other side of town.”
“Actually, I’m interested in just that one.”
The man didn’t seem to hear him. “You got kin buried there?”
“No.”
“You one of them big-shot developers from up north? Maybe
thinking of building some condos or one o’ them malls on that
land out there?” Jeremy shook his head. “No. Actually, I’m a journalist.” “My wife likes them malls. Condos, too. Might be a good idea.” “Ah,” Jeremy said, wondering how long this was going to take.
“I wish I could help, but it’s not my line of work.” “You need some gas?” he asked, moving toward the rear of
the car. “No, thanks.” He was already unscrewing the cap. “Premium or regular?” Jeremy shifted in his seat, thinking the man could probably use
the business. “Regular, I guess.” After getting the gas going, the man took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair as he made his way back to the window. “You have any car trouble, don’t hesitate to swing by. I can fix
both kinds of cars, and do it for the right price, too.” “Both?” “Foreign and domestic,” he said. “Whaddya think I was talkin’
about?” Without waiting for an answer, the man shook his head, as
if Jeremy were a moron. “Name’s Tully, by the way. And you