Page 6 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

Mabel stopped pouring. She looked at Margaret’s $800 Italian leather boots, the smudged designer sweater, and then met her frantic, exhausted eyes.

“I have tap water in a plastic cup with ice, or I have Sprite,” Mabel said flatly. “And the only alcohol in here is the rubbing kind in the first aid kit.”

“Tap water will be quite satisfactory, thank you,” Margaret replied promptly, offering a composed smile despite the warmth rising to her cheeks.

Mabel nodded and walked away. A moment later, a large plastic cup clanking with ice was deposited on her table without a word.

For the next twenty minutes, Margaret sat in agonizing isolation. When the meatloaf arrived, it was a massive, intimidating slab covered in brown gravy, flanked by a mountain of mashed potatoes. She ate with surgical precision, keeping her elbows pinned to her sides, hyper-aware that she was a sideshow for the regulars. She didn’t know where to look. She didn’t know what to do with her hands when she wasn’t holding her fork. Every clink of her silverware against the heavy diner plate felt deafening.

Finally, unable to eat another bite of the heavy food, she placed her knife and fork at the standard four-o’clock position to signal she was finished—a gesture entirely lost on the room. She sat there for another ten minutes, staring into her murky coffee, wondering if she was supposed to walk to the register to pay, or if a check would be brought to her. She had absolutely no idea how this worked.

Mabel returned with a plastic bus tub and began clearing the plates. She paused, looking at the neatly arranged silverware, and then at Margaret, who looked like she might shatter if someone spoke too loudly.

With a sigh, Mabel dropped the dirty plates into the tub. With a surprising lack of ceremony, she plopped down heavily into the seat opposite Margaret, making the vinyl sigh in protest.

“Alright, Margaret. Let’s skip the dance,” Mabel said, leaning her elbows on the sticky table. “You look like a woman who just fell out of a spaceship. You need help?”

Margaret blinked, entirely disarmed. In her world, people danced around issues for years. Nobody just asked.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back with quiet resolve. “I find that I need a place to stay, if only for a short while. Is there a hotel nearby? Or perhaps a leasing office for furnished apartments?”

Mabel let out a short bark of a laugh. “Honey, this is Highland County. We don’t have leasing offices. There’s a motel out on Route 250, but if you’re looking to stretch whatever cash you’ve got in that fancy purse, you want to talk to Mrs. Gable. She rents out the rooms over the old pharmacy. Nothing fancy, but the locks work and she minds her own business.”

“Thank you. I shall do that.” Margaret pulled a napkin from the dispenser and began tearing it into small, anxious strips. “And I find myself in need of employment—a position, if possible. May I ask how one typically proceeds here? Is there a central registry, or would it be customary to present a letter of introduction to the town council?”

Mabel stared at her, her jaw slightly slack. “A letter of introduction?”

“A résumé, rather. I do not possess one. I have never been employed in the conventional sense.” Margaret swallowed hard, humiliation washing over her. “I managed a very large household and organized philanthropic galas. I am well versed in managing budgets, coordinating caterers, and navigating the demands of temperamental board members. Yet, I am uncertain how to convey that upon a formal document.”

Mabel’s expression softened from amusement to profound, motherly pity. She reached across the sticky table and patted Margaret’s trembling hand.

“Lord have mercy, child. Where on earth have they kept you?” Mabel sighed, shaking her head. “You don’t need no letter of introduction. You just need grit. And you’re in luck, sort of. There’s a fella who’s set up a spot here in town called the Monterey Care Clinic. At least, that’s what folks are told it is. It isn’t open to the public yet. It’s just a kind of office, some say a consultation place, mostly tied to that bigger project he’s working on.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Way up the mountain, Dog, that’s what they call him though nobody knows his real name, is putting together Blue Ridge Recovery & Rehabilitation. Most folks think it’s just some fancy resort, but I hear it’s a place to help his army buddies and others dealing with the hard stuff.”

“Dog?” Margaret repeated, furrowing her brow in disbelief. “Like a canine?”

“Like the animal, yes. He’s got a crew of fine-lookin’, hard-workin’ fellas up there swinging hammers and hauling lumber. But from what I hear when they come in for breakfast, they’re drowning in paperwork and logistics. They need somebody to organize the chaos.” Mabel gave Margaret a long, appraising look. “You might not know how to order off a chalkboard or pump your own gas without gettin’ it on your sleeves, but if you can handle temperamental rich folks, you can probably handle a bunch of grumpy soldiers.”

Margaret looked down at her hands. Organizing chaos. That was literally what her marriage had been.

“How do I apply?” Margaret asked.

“You drive up there, find the man who looks like he’s running the show,” Mabel said, sliding out of the booth and grabbing her bus tub. “He’s a big fella, got some scars on his face and a bit of a limp. You just tell him you’re the answer to his prayers. Now, I’ll take care of this check. Consider it a welcome to town. And Margaret?”

Margaret looked up.

“Around here, we don’t care who your daddy is or what your last name is or was,” Mabel said kindly. “We just care if you work hard and tell the truth. You’ll be fine.”

As Mabel walked away to the kitchen, Margaret wrapped her cold hands around the thick ceramic diner mug. For the first time since she packed that single suitcase in the dead of night, the tight knot of terror in her chest loosened, just a fraction.

Find the man who looks like he’s running the show, she thought, a small, wry smile touching her lips. The one drowning in paperwork. Now that, she had experience with.

4 - DOG

The usual clang of hammers and buzz of saws was noticeably absent. Dog glanced at his watch. Lunchtime. Most of the crew would be out back, taking a much-needed break from the relentless construction. He could faintly hear the rumble of male voices and an occasional booming laugh carried on the crisp mountain air.

Dog breathed in the scent of fresh pine and sawdust, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and burning jet fuel that still haunted his dreams. He stood in the main reception area of the two-story building attached to the local medical examiner’s office, which was run by his SEAL teammate Bear’s wife, Flora. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, shimmering ghosts.