Page 15 of Brimstone Hollow

“A dipped cone, if you don’t mind. And the check.”

She nods and goes away as a short, stocky guy in a camo ball cap eases onto the stool next to me. The smell of his mentholated chewing tobacco wafts toward me along with the scent of engine grease. He gives me a quick nod, half smiling, before he spits a trickle of brown dip into a mostly empty Mountain Dew bottle.

“Hey, Dean,” Frankie says as she returns. She hands me the plastic tray with my bill on it and I dig in my bag for my wallet while she leans toward Dean and smiles at him. “You want the usual, hon?”

He nods, spits a brown stream into his bottle. I stick my credit card under the tab on the tray and hand it back to Frankie.

“Be right back,” she says. She starts away and then stops, suddenly, as if she’s hit a wall. Then she turns, and blinks at me.

“Annie Gore,” she says, holding up the tray with my card on it. “Wait… you’re notAnnie Gore, Private Investigator,are you?”

“Um… yes?”

“Ha!” she barks. “Seriously? Ijustfinished theMy Sad Fancyabout you!”

“What? My sad…”

“My Sad Fancy,” she says, very loud, shaking her head like she can’t believe I don’t know what she’s talking about. “The true crime podcast! She did a whole five-part series on the Applehead Doll case! The last episode came out a few weeks ago. Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re in here. My sister is going to flip when I tell her. She loves that podcast.”

“Ah,” I say. I can feel eyes in the room turning toward me, people hushing up as they realize something different or interesting is happening at the counter. I glance at my watch. If I don’t leave soon, I realize, I’m going to miss the start of the church service.

“What are you doing here?” Frankie asks, apparently oblivious to the shift in attention. “Just passing through or…”

My stomach turns over. It’s in a private investigator’s best interest to stay…private. At least for a while. At least until you’ve got a feel for a place. Unfortunately, that’s not always possible. And, if I’m going to be running around this tiny town asking questions, it won’t behoove me to come out of the gate with a lie.

“I’m looking into Ezra King,” I finally say.

“Oh my God,” Frankie says. “Wow. He used to come in here, you know. He would sit right over there”—she points at the end of the counter—“and he would order black coffee and steak, rare. He always gave me the creeps. I mean, he was as nice as he could be and his voice was like nothing you’ve ever heard—but just thethoughtof those snakes…”

She pauses long enough to wriggle her body in an exaggeratedshiver and then says, “I wasn’t even a little bit surprised when he died from a snakebite. No, ma’am. So he’s why you’re here? Was he leading a cult or something? My mamma always said never trust a man who plays with snakes. Oh my God, Dean, can you believe—”

She looks for the man next to me but he’s gone. He’d been scrolling through his phone during her speech and then got up, took his cap off and left it on the counter, and headed toward the bathroom.

“Shoot,” she says. “I’ve got to get his order in. Hang on a second—”

I open my wallet again, pull out some bills, and say, “Actually, I’m heading to the evening service up at Ezra’s church. I’d better run.”

“Oh!” she says. “Oh yeah. Didn’t mean to hold you up.”

Before she can race off again, I hold a twenty out to her and open my hand so she can return my card. She takes the hint and trades me and I put another twenty down on the counter.

“Thanks,” I say, as I slip off the stool.

“Good luck with your investigation!” she says, loud enough that everyone in the room turns to look at me.

I grimace and push open the door. In a small town like this, you’d have to figure word of a private investigator would get around fast; I just hadn’t expected it to be announced to the whole restaurant.

FIVE

APIANO AT THE FRONTof the church is midway through “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” as I make my way up to the open double doors of Mount Zion Church of the Healing Redeemer amid a mostly silent and somber crowd. I turn, pausing halfway up the steps, when I feel sure there are eyes upon me. But, when I look around, I only see the expected curious glances from regular parishioners. I take a program, printed on regular copy paper, and shuffle to the end of one of the back pews.

After leaving the Dairy, I’d checked into room number nine at the Mount Zion Motel, taken a quick shower, brushed my teeth, and then pulled my black leather jacket over my best black V-neck T-shirt. I’m about as dressed up as I ever get by choice.

The pianist lets the last note fade before turning the page in her music book and starting up “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” A pair of elderly women scoot into the pew beside me, sniffling and dabbing at their eyes with tissues.

“What will we do?” I hear someone in front of me say. “What will we do without him?”

The interior of the church is mostly made up of one large rectangular room with tall clear windows to either side and two rows of bare wooden pews with an aisle down the middle. There’s no air-conditioning in hereand a few ceiling fans stir the heat from twenty feet above. The women to my left have pulled folding fans from their bags and go about the business of cooling themselves down while simultaneously helping to waft the various smells around. Perfume, body odor, sun-dried laundry, the synthetic imitation of sun-dried laundry and—underneath it all—the pervasive odor of grief and anxiety.