Page 24 of Brimstone Hollow

I find the old Bronco immediately. Mostly red and white with a dark-green driver’s-side door, there’s visible rust around the fenders and one of the tires needs more air. Tina would lose her mind if she saw this thing, dreaming of what she could do to restore it.

I slide behind the wheel and find the red-and-white interior is—aside from the cigarette smell—extremely clean.

“Ohh!” I exclaim, as I notice the cupholders in the console. “Fancy.”

I turn the key and the Bronco rumbles to life. While I miss the gravelly growl of Honey’s straight-six engine, I have to admit to smiling at the deep bass moan of the Bronco’s V8.

I stop at a gas station and fill the tires with air and the tank with gas and then realize how hungry I am. I drive over to Cherry Dairy, squeeze into the busy lot, and head toward the take-out window. As I approach, the big glass double doors swing open and the county coroner, Roman Bradley, emerges wearing a UV fishing shirt, an old ball cap, and dark sunglasses hanging on a yellow nylon cord around his neck.

“Coroner Bradley—” I start, as I veer toward him.

When he sees me, his mouth spreads into a wide grin and his eyes sparkle in the sun. “Miss Gore, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say. “I know you said to come by tomorrow but I thought—since you’re here—”

“Actually,” he says, “I’m just heading out. If I don’t leave now, I won’t get a good spot.”

“A good spot?”

“Fishing,” he says and mimes casting a fly line as if I’ve never heard of such a thing.

“It’s just a couple questions—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, “But I have to shake a leg. You know it’s Memorial Day, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Sorry,” he says. And, for the second time, I notice that he really doesn’tsoundsorry. “Thing is, I’ve got to drive a body over to Frankfort tomorrow.”

“A body?” I ask. The only reason coroners take bodies to the capital is for official investigations.

“House fire,” he says. “So, unfortunately, I won’t be around. Come by or call on Wednesday morning and then I can give you my full attention.”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

He beams at me—his straight white teeth shining—and then starts off toward his SUV. He pauses as an ancient-looking woman in a flowery blue dress slowly crosses in front of him, her even older husband toddling alongside.

“How you doing today, Miss Bonnie?” he asks as the lady goes past.

She chuckles and says, “Be doing better if I get all my baking done before the picnic.”

I stomp off and bring up the rear of the to-go line, where I watch as Roman Bradley smiles and nods at whatever else Miss Bonnie says and then waves the pair goodbye, climbs into his vehicle, and pulls away.

“A house fire,” I mutter to myself, recalling a house fire being the reason Chief Dishman took off during my interview with him the day before. Curious, I open my phone, and a quick search reveals a short write-up in the local paper. It’s not much more than I’ve already heard: A local man, Billy Shepherd, died in a rural house fire, which likely started on Friday night and ended on Saturday morning. Fire and police chiefs have not yet ruled on the cause of the fire.

Accidental deaths happen all the time. On a holiday weekend, in a tourist zone, when everyone’s partying, the rate shoots even higher. But, as I stand there looking at a photo of the burned-out house, I can’t help thinking about a possible connection to my own case. Two apparently accidental deaths: a house fire, a snakebite. Could they be related?

“Ma’am?” a voice says.

Someone behind me clears their throat and I realize the line has moved and I’m next. I step up to the ordering counter, where I’m greeted by a young woman, probably early twenties, curvy and blond with a heart-shaped face and eyes as green as a cat’s. The name on her badge saysCRYSTAL.

I realize this is the same woman who flaked on her shift last night and left Frankie—the waitress who ended up serving me and half the town—high and dry. Remembering that, I feel an instant dislike of her and make the decisionnotto be polite.

“Good morning,” she says as I approach. “How are you today?”

“Just fine,” I answer automatically. “And yourself?”

What can I say? Some habits are hard to break.