Page 39 of Stay Buried

“Look at that.” Malcolm slowed down and pointed at the sprawling wooden building just past the pub. An old factory, complete with a waterwheel being turned by the river.STODDARD FACTORY,the gold-lettered sign stated.

They crossed a short bridge, and just beyond it there were a few more neatly kept houses. A woman in a long-sleeved white dress was hanging clothes out on a line. A little boy in a plaid coat out walking his dog turned to look as they passed.

Main Street came to an end, leaving them with the choice of going either right or left on Pickering Road.

“Take a right here,” Ashley directed Malcolm, looking down at her map. “The motel should be on this road.”

They passed a big red barn that said it was a tack-and-feed shop, then turned into the parking lot of the Deer Run Motel. The driveway was gravel and there were two buildings: a low single-story block of motel rooms with red doors labeled one through eight, and to its left a small office with a peaked roof. There were no cars in the parking lot.

“Here we are,” she said. “The only lodgings in town.”

A BELL ONthe door jingled as they entered the office, a cramped room that smelled like wet wool and mildew. There were a couple of battered armchairs, a gas fireplace, and a framed cross-stitch on the wall that readMEET AS STRANGERS, LEAVE AS FRIENDS. Above it was a watercolor painting of a deer, but the proportions were all wrong: the neck too thick, the antlers impossibly large. The big black eyes seemed to take up half its face. It reminded Ashley of drawings she’d seen of aliens.

“Help you?” The fortysomething woman in an oversized flannel shirt behind the desk spoke in a tone that suggested the very last thing she wanted to do was help them. She had the radio tuned to a country station and was holding a paperback book of crossword puzzles and a pen. She looked from Ashley to Malcolm, keeping her eyes on Mal.

“Yes, hi, we have a reservation for two rooms,” Ash said. “The name is Ashley Flanders.”

The woman kept looking at Malcolm even though it was Ashley who’d spoken. She wondered if she should repeat herself or perhaps she should speak louder. Ashley watched the clerk’s red, chapped hands as she pawed through some paperwork on the desk.

“Here it is. Flanders. We’ve got your rooms all set. Two nights. I just need a credit card and driver’s license.”

Ash handed them over.

The woman looked down, studying the license and copying Ashley’s name and address.

“What brings you to Boone’s Ferry?” she asked.

“We had family from here,” Ash said.

“And we just inherited a house,” Mal added. He just couldn’t help himself.

“Oh, really?” The woman looked up at them, interest piqued. She looked back down at the registration. “Flanders. Can’t say I know any Flanderses here in Boone’s Ferry.”

“Our great-grandfather was Thomas Endicott, the town doctor,” Mal said. “Died from the flu back in 1919.”

Her face seemed to tighten. “Terrible thing.” The woman shook her head. “Flu hit this area hard.”

“So I understand,” Ashley said. “Did you have family here back then?”

“Me? No. My husband’s people were here. His great-grandfather, he had that big old farm you passed when you drove into town. Right at the base of the mountain.”

Ashley thought of the run-down farmhouse, the leaning barn. The horse.

“Back in the day, the St. James place was the biggest farm in town. My husband and his brothers sold it off years ago, though. The Hollands own it now and I don’t envy ’em. Tough to be a farmer these days.”

She handed back Ashley’s credit card and license. “All set,” she said. “And here are your keys.” They were brass keys on green plastic tags,DEER RUN MOTELin white letters. Rooms 1 and 2.

Ash wondered which room her mother had stayed in.

“Have you owned the motel long?” Ashley asked, trying to prolong the conversation, see what information the woman was willing to give up.

“Going on twenty-five years now.”

“I think our mother stayed here once,” Ash said. “About two years ago.” She studiously avoided looking in Malcolm’s direction.

“Is that so?” The woman shuffled the papers on her desk.

“I was wondering if you might remember her? Louise Flanders?” Ashley reached into her purse, pulled out the photo she’d broughtalong: Mom at the lake the summer before she died, squinting a little in the sun, smiling.