No White Knight

I’d tracked that horse to the edge of Ms. Wilma’s property by dark.

Back then, she’d been a bit more robust, her hair iron-grey instead of silvery-white.

She’d looked pretty terrifying when I’d snuck onto her property and turned around only to bump face-first into her, asking me if I knew what the criminal charges were for trespassing.

She wasn’t serious, but I was fourteen and didn’t know that.

I tried to lie and bluff my way out of it.

She just looked at me and didn’t have to say a word to tell me she knew I was full of it.

And when I burst into tears and told her the truth, she took me inside and wiped my face until I stopped snotting everywhere, then hugged me and told me she knew how hard I had it with my mom and all.

Then she cleaned me up, took me out to go find that stupid horse, and tied him up to her front porch while she pulled me back into the Charming Inn. We sat down for some cocoa before she sent me home on Thoreau’s back.

That’s the kind of woman she is at any age, and it’s made me admire her a hell of a lot.

But that’s the thing with people you look up to.

You end up wanting them to think well of you, and it makes you kind of a fidgety, awkward mess in their presence.

That’s me, right now, as Holt parks outside of the Charming Inn.

Like I said—it’s silly.

But I’d rather focus on being a bundle of nerves over Ms. Wilma than think about the reality of why we’re here.

That info Holt found on the disconnected phone line.

The fact that it decisively ties Dad to Bostrom and something real bad going down…

Does that mean they pulled guns on each other because the guy lied to him about a Mars rock?

It just doesn’t make sense.

That’s the sort of thing Dad would take him to court over.

Sue him for fraud, deception, whatever, but killing him in cold-blooded revenge?

It doesn’t add up.

Ms. Wilma welcomes us into the Charming Inn with open arms and a promise of cold lemonade and cookies.

I’m less intimidated by her, and more afraid of what she’ll say.

She ushers us inside her kitchen, which is kind of like everyone’s daydream of the perfect grandma—homey and sweet and comfortable, clean and neat and welcoming, warm without being stifling and full of light.

There’s a long wooden table there with ladderback chairs, and she shoos us into our seats.

Next thing I know, Holt and I are sitting there like kids being served up treats, exchanging wry looks.

Even when I’m scared as hell, Ms. Wilma knows how to make people feel at home.

“Now,” she says, settling across from us and lacing her thin fingers together on the yellow-and-white-checkered tablecloth. She’s got smart, piercing blue eyes, just like her grandson. “What brings you here? I can already tell by those long faces it’s not for tea, or I’d have brewed some already.”

Holt starts to speak, but I hold up a hand, stopping him.

“First,” I say, “I need to know everything we say here stays here.”

“Dearie, I hear everything but say very little.” Her eyes twinkle, though her smile’s sticky sweet. “Now. What seems to be the trouble?”

I elbow Holt.

Now he can talk.

I don’t wanna be the one to ask this.

Holt jolts a little, giving me an amused look before clearing his throat.

“We were wondering if you knew anything about an old place here in town. Oddities and Antiquities, and a guy who owned it, supposedly. Gerald Bostrom.”

Ms. Wilma’s eyebrows lift up into her neatly swept silver hairline. “Gerald Bostrom? That’s a name I haven’t heard in ages. Wherever did you hear about him?”

“Old records,” Holt says grimly. “We’re just hoping to learn a little more about him.”

“He was quite a walking scandal, you know.” She leans across the table conspiratorially, like she’s telling us a secret. “Practically fancied himself the Gatsby of Heart’s Edge once upon a time.”

I blink. “Scandal?”

“Oh, yes,” she says merrily. “He was about to be indicted on a number of charges by several angry people before he disappeared.”

The way she says disappeared makes my stomach drop.

Like she knows.

Like she knows he’s dead, and my father had something to do with it.

But she doesn’t even seem to notice that I’m sitting here with my glass of lemonade frozen halfway to my mouth, clutched tight in my hand.

With a wave of her hand, she continues, “He was this antiques dealer who blew into town in the eighties, but that’s not all he was. He was always entertaining, putting on these lavish parties with some rather interesting guests. Thought he’d be a big fish in a small social pond. He was a rather small man of petty airs himself.” She sniffs, her aristocratic nose wrinkling. “I suppose he thought he’d get on well with these small-town rubes, never noticing what he was up to.”