Page 7 of Brimstone Hollow

I walk past her desk and toward an open area with four old metal tanker desks almost identical to the one back in my office. A young man in a black polo and gray slacks leans against one of the desks, engrossed in something on a tablet.

The building is nice and cool inside and my boots make a squidgy sound on the tile floor. I go down the hall, past one bulletin board withWANTEDnotices and photos grabbed from security camera footage and a second board with a calendar of town events, birthdays, and a big poster advertisingMOUNT ZION MEMORIAL DAY PICNIC ON THE SQUARE!

Just past that, I readPOLICE CHIEF MATTHEW DISHMANon an office door. I knock and when I hear a baritone “Yeah?” I push the door open.

“Chief Dishman?” I ask, sidling into the room.

At the sound of my unfamiliar voice, he looks away from his computer and blinks at me, eyes narrowed, as if trying to remember whether he hada meeting with a strange woman today at this time. He stands and removes a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses as I approach his desk.

“I’m Annie Gore,” I say. “I’m a private investigator.”

“A private investigator?” he repeats. He’s wearing a regulation black polyester polo shirt, but his duty belt hangs, along with a jacket, on a hook behind him.

I take my card wallet from my bag and hand it over. While he reads my PI license and concealed-carry license, I study his fair, freckled face. Sunburned on the cheeks and forehead, with deep crow’s-feet and lines between his brows, I’d guess he’s pushing sixty, but he’s fit, broad shouldered and sturdy with a swimmer’s build.

He hands my cards back and gives me the same brief studying I’d applied to him, before nodding his head slightly as if he’s decided I’mprobablylegit.

“How can I help you, Miss Gore?”

“Chief, I was hired by the daughter of one of your locals, Ezra King. She asked me to look into the details of his death.”

“Ezra King?” he says, surprised. “I believe his funeral was this morning.”

“That’s part of why I’m here. Katie—his daughter—is a little disconcerted by how fast everything moved. You mind if I ask a few questions?”

“No,” he says. “No, not at all. Have a seat.”

He gestures to the pair of black wooden chairs positioned in front of his desk and I sit in the one on the left. Dishman’s desk is well used but tidy. Beside the computer there’s a pen cup and mail tray aligned with a gold photo frame turned to face him. I open my bag and pull out my notebook and pen.

“Katie came to visit me this morning and—”

“Sorry, Chief,” a voice says as the door opens behind me. I turn and find the young officer I’d seen outside leaning into the room. “We just got a call from one of the Highway guys. They pulled somebody over out on Brindle Ridge.”

“So?” Dishman says.

“He’s drunk as hell and towing a horse trailer with a mess of donkeys inside. They want us to come and get him so they can stay out and write tickets.”

“Jeanine’s the one grew up on a farm,” Dishman says after a moment’s thought. “And she’s out that way already.”

The young officer looks from Dishman to me and back to Dishman before nodding and ducking out of the room.

“Sorry about that,” Dishman says. “Holiday weekend. Everybody’s out on the road so we’re all hands on deck.”

“I’ll try not to take more time than I need,” I say. “Katie told me she was informed of her father’s death by one of the officers here.”

“Right,” he says, rubbing his palm along his jaw. “Officer Alvey. He’s the one that worked the scene—he was asking me who to put on the report as next of kin. I couldn’t think of anyone. But then, this morning, I remembered Ezra’d had a wife and daughter. Maggie’s little girl was the same age as my daughter. Her name is Katie, you said? How are they doing?”

“I’m afraid Maggie passed away a few years ago,” I say, and watch as understanding and sorrow shadow his face.

“Well, hell. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“But Katie’s doing well,” I say. “She has a baby of her own now.”

“That’s good,” he says with a gentle smile. “I’m glad he was able to track her down.”

“Katie says she was told that her father died from a snakebite.”

“That’s right,” he says. He reaches for his mouse and then taps a few keys on his keyboard. I can’t see what’s on the monitor, but I’m guessing he’s just closed whatever it was he was working on and is looking over the police report regarding Ezra King’s death.