Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Garrett never mentioned his stint at college when he brought up my hometown of Boston. He had a good run there from the looks of it, too, as captain of their rugby team. Based on what I found, he’ll be thirty-five in May. A Taurus. Too bad for him, I’m a Leo. We were doomed from the start.
Scarlet leans over my shoulder. “Polson Falls Citizen Bulletin? When did you join that?”
“Thirty-eight minutes ago.” The admin for the town’s Facebook group accepted my request immediately, and since then I’ve been scouring the page to familiarize myself with the town and the types of things the ten thousand members are posting. “How are you not on this? It’s a gold mine of information.”
“Really? I heard it’s mostly people complaining and weird stuff.”
“Oh yeah, there’s definitely that.” Today alone, a man is asking for opinions about a bite on his arm—festering pictures included—and another man dressed as Pennywise is offering his services for children’s parties. A woman went on a rant about the plow that cleared the snow in front of her house leaving too big a drift for her sedan to manage and how it’s the mayor’s fault.
Most people who complain find a way to name and blame the mayor, and if not him, then unruly teenagers.
But there are also plenty of helpful posts—recommendations for small-business owners, “free to good home” offers, questions about upcoming events, and volunteer opportunities.
What I came here for were the people concerned about how much Polson Falls is changing for the worse—subdivisions running from one end of town to the other, farmland being sold off and rezoned, old homes being torn down and replaced with mini mansions that eat up the lot and ruin the aesthetic of the quiet street, excessive traffic, and constant power outages because the town is running on outdated infrastructure.
I found them.
They’re noisy, and at the root of their fury is the lack of support from the council to protect Polson Falls’ identity.
These are Shirley’s and Ned’s people. These are the ones we need on our side.
“I’m going to bed,” Scarlet says through a yawn.
“Give Shane a good-night blowie for me. Oh hey, do you know where the library is?”
“Yeah … Why?” Caution lingers in her voice.
“Research. Can we go on Sunday?”
“Sure.” She pauses. “Just … don’t bring my name up in whatever it is you’re up to. I have a career to protect.”
“You’ll stay squeaky clean, promise.” I crisscross my chest with my index finger, but she’s already on her way up to her room, the stairs creaking beneath her feet.
If anyone’s about to get dirty, it’s Garrett John Harrington III.
I crack my knuckles.
Chapter Seven
Shirley tracks me as I march through Bonny Acres’ common room toward her customary table on Monday afternoon, notebook in hand.
“Well? What’d you find? Anything worthwhile?”
“Three-story building. Condominiums on top of storefronts.”
Shirley scowls as I download what I learned on Friday night while antagonizing Garrett from across the booth. I don’t mention how firmly entrenched in my mind the man has become despite my anger, how the thought of my next run-in with him has my pulse racing with excitement about the verbal sparring session.
“So it’s official. Tearing down history for condominiums on Main Street. And no need for rezoning.” She shakes her head with disgust. “Did you do that research like I asked?”
“I did.” I pull out my list of notes. Four hours at the library yesterday with a lesson in microfilm from Alice Grant proved fruitful. This building’s past has more colors than Joseph’s Technicolor dream coat. “Have you ever heard of the Stavro brothers?” They were the original owners, pooling their money to buy the empty lot on the tail end of Main Street. They’d come from the city to live a quiet country life—or so they claimed—living in the apartments upstairs and running a popular diner for years.
“Yes!” She snaps her fingers, her eyes lighting up with recognition. “That was their name. Criminals, right? What was it they were into again?”
“Bootlegging.” A robust Prohibition-era operation out of the dank, dark basement, distilling and shuttling their product from New York to Philadelphia, and everywhere in between. The police were paid off to look the other way, and so they thrived in Polson Falls for years, until one snow-coated Sunday morning, all four were found shot to death in the basement among empty crates and smashed gallon stills, caught in the middle of a poker game. The articles I found pointed toward a Mob hit, but the killers were never caught.
Dieter Senior had opened his shop six months prior to the murders, having no clue who he was renting space from—or so he said. When the building went up for sale, he purchased it for a steal, given its dark connection.
“I don’t know if a Mob-style hit is grounds for preserving the building, but it’s notable, right?”