“Who is it?” I whispered to JT as a skinny guy bolted from the SUV and stormed our way. “He looks mad.”
“Ay-uh,” was all JT said.
Outside, a big guy sat statue-still in the passenger seat. I couldn't see him clearly. I tensed, thinking robbery, murder, maybe hostage-taking. Great-aunt Ida’s ridiculous prediction about a coming murder raced through my head, and I slipped my hand into my purse and rummaged around for the mace I always carried.
As far as the family was concerned, I’d come here for the reading of Great-grandma Evie’s will, and to get reacquainted with the extended family I hadn't seen since I was ten years old. I am now thirty years old. If I could find out the real reason we left Silver Stream in the first place that would be a bonus. No one knew what prompted me to leave the city in the first place. Some things are best kept secret.
Uncle JT puffed his cigar. Clouds of acrid smoke swirled and blended with the exhaust fumes and oily odors seeping under the garage door creating a toxic mix that would probably kill me.
“Don’t worry, Nora. This is nothing much,” JT assured me, his cigar-hand shaking. “Have a seat behind the counter. I’ll handle this.”
I wondered how many men he had working in this shop–I’d seen three when I drove up–and whether they’d come to our aid if needed. Would they hear a cry for help? The sound of a pneumatic drill rasped from one of three open bays beyond the office door, cutting into the harsh sounds of rap blasting from a boom box.