I picked up the book on the top of the pile next to me. A first edition signed copy of The Great Santini by Pat Conroy. I actually felt goosebumps. I had wandered into book heaven right here on the top of Chandler Mountain. Snake handlers and rare-book dealers. What a strange combination.

“I’ve got to find a place to store them,” Albert Lee admitted.

“God’s truth,” Miss Beulah said again. Then, “Y’all want some vegetable soup and cornbread? I promise there’s not even a cookbook in the kitchen.”

Mary Alice didn’t hesitate. I think she beat Miss Beulah back into the kitchen. I wasn’t quite as fast.

Albert Lee was perceptive. “You admiring the books or did you see Mama on TV the other night?”

“Both,” I admitted.

He laughed. “She loves to do that. She’s even got one of those old sunbonnets and a long dress she wears when they’re having a festival at Horse Pens. Hangs Aunt Beulah’s handmade quilts out on the porch. Causes fender benders sometimes people stopping so quick to pay a fortune for them.”

“She makes quilts?”

“Somebody in the Dominican Republic does.”

“Well, my goodness.”

“Come eat some soup,” he said kindly.

A round oak table was set with different colors of Fiesta ware on quilted placemats. In the middle was a tureen shaped like a rooster and on an orange Fiesta platter a large pone of steaming cornbread was already cut. The whole scene could have been an illustration for Southern Living.

Albert Lee lifted the head from the chicken. “Pass me your bowls.”

And we did. The next few minutes were spent concentrating on eating. I looked over at Miss Beulah who was delicately spooning her soup away from her as if she had just graduated from some finishing school.

I was stereotyping her again, I realized, to my shame. Albert Lee caught my glance and smiled.

“Did you find anything at the house?” he asked, passing the platter of cornbread around for seconds.

“Not really.” I said. “Some matchbooks from the Homestead Inn in Nashville. But there was a guy with an old Studebaker, Monk’s brother-in-law, said that Monk had paint jobs in Nashville. This could have been where he stayed.”

Miss Beulah took another piece of cornbread. “A man named Joe Baker?”

“That was who.” Mary Alice took another piece of cornbread and passed the plate to me. “I used to have a car like that. Smelled awful, but I loved the way the front and the back looked the same so you couldn’t tell if it was coming or going.”

“That Joe Baker.” Miss Beulah speared her knife into the butter so hard that it clinked against the dish. “Bad news. Probably the one who killed Monk. Susan, too. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Now, Mama,” Albert Lee admonished.