Writing was a popular cover with him because it fit with his traveling and afforded him at least a modicum of respect—something the handyman story seldom garnered. But it was always tricky, especially around well-read people. That’s why he stuck to “Small presses, anthologies, that kind of thing. Nothing major. Yet.” He caught her eye drifting back to the Harlequins. “Oh, no, that’s just to read. I don’t have the flair for that kind of story. I write horror for the most part.”

“Oh,” she said, still interested but a little disappointed that he wasn’t some handsome, romantic scribe come to sweep her off her feet. “Is there any money in that scary stuff?”

He laughed into his coffee. “I haven’t seen any of it. But you never know. Maybe there’s a best seller somewhere down the road. In a way that’s why I’m here.”

The old woman with the match in her teeth cocked her neck sideways like a wizened old dinosaur and squeaked, “Billie honey, could you get me another Coky-Cola?”

“Be right there,” she called back. “Are you writing a book about Isherwood or something?”

“Depends on whether I find one worth writing.” He fixed an eye on her and prepared to catch even a slight response with his next question. “You wouldn’t know anything about the name Danner, would you?”

Billie rolled her eyes and nodded her understanding. “I should’ve put that much together,” she laughed. “You must’ve heard about that anniversary stuff, huh? Seventy-five years later, or something like that? There was something about it in the morning paper, if I can remember where I put it. . . .”

From down the counter came, “Billie honey . . .”

“Okay, okay.” She found the folded paper over by the stove and dropped it in front of him. “That should get you started, if you haven’t seen it already. I’ll be right back, so don’t you go anywhere.”

“I’ll be here,” he said, watching her walk away. Then he turned to the newspaper on the counter. She’d been referring to a small local-interest column to one side of the day’s headlines. The title immediately caught his eye. DANNER “MURDERS”: REAL STORY BEHIND LOCAL LEGEND. There was even an old, grainy photograph there, the small portrait of a stern-faced young man whom the caption identified as, SEBASTIAN DANNER: MURDERER? Stiles silently studied the face for a long time, then reached behind the counter for the coffee pot, refilled his cup, and made himself at home. He was going to be here for a while.

2

Chapter Two

Charlie Bean eased the squad car away from the doughnut shop and made another patrol through town, cursing Rusty Sanders every inch of the way.