Page 45 of Cursed
“Two.”
“The machine will tell you the charges.”
“Thanks.”
He looked speculatively at her book bag. Need some help?”
“I think I can manage,” she answered, hoping the response didn’t come out sounding too sharp. “Where’s the machine?”
He pointed to a service area near the restrooms. Before he could insist on helping, she was rescued as a woman came in and asked for a cup of coffee.
While the clerk was busy, Morgan scanned the instructions.
The second map was halfway through the machine when the door opened, and another customer walked in. This time she recognized the ruddy complexion and blond hair of Dwight Rivers, the president of the Chamber of Commerce. When he spotted her, he strode in her direction. Morgan gave the map a tug, hoping she hadn’t screwed up the transmission, then stuffed the paper into the carry bag.
Rivers eyed her. “You could have come to me if you needed to send a fax.”
“Oh, thank you. I didn’t know that.”
“I guess you weren’t just vacationing in town,” he observed with an edge in his voice.
She gave him an apologetic smile. “You probably heard about my run-in at the gas station. I didn’t want to get into another discussion about Andre Gascon.”
“Right. I understand. But I’m not like those guys.”
She answered with a small nod, turning her shoulder away from him.
Ignoring her body language, he asked, “Doesn’t Gascon have a fax machine?”
“It’s broken.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Aside from that, how are things going out at the estate?”
“Fine.”
“Good you got your car back.”
“Yes.” She kept her eyes on his and asked, “So what brings you out in the heat of the day?”
He waited a beat before answering, “We’re out of tea bags at the office.”
“Um hum.” She knew how small towns worked. Probably somebody had called him up and said that the librarian was in town and that she’d gone to the convenience store.
He took a step closer. “You know, I always thought Gascon got a raw deal from the town. I mean their blaming him for stuff going on in the bayou—just because it’s near his house.”
“Why do you think it happened?”
“Partly because he keeps to himself so much. People get suspicious of a guy who isn’t friendly. Who doesn’t fit in.”
Morgan nodded, thinking that Rivers was twisting the facts. Andre had come into St. Germaine a lot more before other people had started looking at him with suspicion. But she didn’t bother to argue the point.
“You take care,” Rivers said as he turned and walked down one of the aisles.
With the fax sent, Morgan drove to the gun shop. After a few moments’ hesitation, she took the carry bag with her and walked toward the front door of the shop. The sign in the window saidJacques Malvaux, Proprietor. The man himself, at least she assumed it was him, was leaning against the counter cleaning a twenty-two revolver.
“I assume that’s unloaded,” she said.
“What do you think I am, soft in the head?” he asked.
