Gone South (10 page)

“Now there’s a woman with a lot on her mind,” he said quietly as he and Calv retreated toward the back of the store. “How to fill her house with the most antiques for the least money, for instance.”

“Someday her kids will sell ’em for pennies on the dollar. You can buy ’em back and start over with somebody else.”

George grinned. “I like the idea, but hush. She’s about to commence haggling.”

Sure enough, Mrs. Rose strolled slowly toward them, pausing to feign interest in everything from fishing creels to spatterware crocks. At last she drew up in front of the ornate old cash register and fixed her pleading eyes on George.

“It’s a shame about the scratches on the umbrella stand,” she said.

“Yes ma’am, it’s showing its age. That’s part of its charm, though.”

“Seems like you’d come down a little on the price.”

“I might, at that. I’d take, say … two hundred.”

“Dollars?” she asked in an incredulous tone.

Did she think he meant pennies? “Yes ma’am.”

“Oh, I don’t know. That’s still awfully high.”

“It’s an awfully nice piece.”

Mrs. Rose shook her head slowly, as if overwhelmed with grief. “It’s not
that
nice.” She turned and walked away without saying good-bye.

George took a deep, relaxing breath when the bell tinkled again to mark her exit. “Frankly, my dear, you’re not that nice either.”

Calv chuckled. “But she thinks she is.”

“How did I wind up in this business?”

Calv gave him one of those Yoda looks. “Had something to do with wanting to sell used merchandise instead of sweatshop merchandise, didn’t it?”

“It was a rhetorical question, Calv.”

“No it wasn’t. And don’t be embarrassed. I was young and idealistic once too.” Calv started whistling, then broke off. “Hey, I was gonna ask you. Have you heard anything about Miss Mel coming home?”

“Mel Hamilton?” George looked at his uncle. “No. Did you?”

“I thought I saw her last night, hustlin’ down the sidewalk, but I couldn’t be sure.”

“If you’d stopped to say hey, you could’ve been sure.”

“But if it was Mel, she might’ve picked my pockets.” Calv said, with a hint of humor in his voice.

“You wouldn’t have let her get away with it.”

“That’s probably what her dad thought too, the day she got away with his gold watch in her pocket.”

George scratched his chin. “I heard she hid it in her hair because she knew they’d check her pockets.”

Calv narrowed his eyes while he thought about it. Finally he shook his head. “Somebody must’ve made that up. She’d be the only one who would know, and she sure wouldn’t tell. She hasn’t even been around to tell.”

“Good point.”

“Have you noticed her mess-ups always have something to do with abusing other folks’ property? Taking things and breaking things. She swiped the watch and her granddaddy’s car. Put a dent in her daddy’s truck. Dropped her mama’s library books right into a mud puddle. And who knows what else.”

“Books shouldn’t be treated that way.” George shut his eyes.

“They were just paperbacks, but you’re missing my point. Think about it.”

There was something to it, George had to admit. Yet Mel had never been careless with her grandfather’s car. She’d loved it a little too much.

He opened his eyes. “You’re saying it’s all deliberate? Even the so-called accidents?”

“Seems like it to me. Maybe her folks hurt her somehow, so she tries to hurt them back.”

George thought back to his younger days, when he and Mel’s brother had been good friends. “Could be,” he admitted. “She used to be a sweetie, though. At least until she was three or four.” He chuckled, remembering the holy terror on a Big Wheel.

“One thing’s for sure. If she’s home, Dunc and Suzette won’t kill the fatted calf.”

George sank onto the tall stool behind the register. “I don’t think she’d have the guts to go home. If I were her, I sure wouldn’t.”

“I’m just glad I’m not the one who had to raise her.” Calv laughed softly. “Remember the time she rode her Shetland pony up the back steps and into her mama’s living room?”

George smiled. “In the middle of the tea party. I think the whole town remembers.”

But when Calv walked away, George stopped smiling. Young Mel, if she was in town, wouldn’t find much of a welcome anywhere. She’d be about as popular as a McComb. If anybody needed a goodwill gesture, it was Mel.

And if anybody didn’t deserve one, that would be Mel too.

The heavy glass door closed behind Tish, and she took stock of her surroundings. Muldro National Bank looked remarkably like her bank in Michigan. Two tellers stood at their stations, chatting with customers, while a third dealt with a drive-through window. On the right, the door to the vault stood trustingly open. Behind her, more employees worked in small, glass-walled offices.

A tall woman with steel-gray hair and eyes to match emerged from one of the glassed-in cubbyholes. “May I help you?”

“Yes, please. I’d like to open a checking account.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she said with a smile. “If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll be back directly.” File folder in hand, she motioned toward her office.

Tish took one of the two cushy red chairs posed at an inviting angle on the customer side of the desk. Family photos and a small bowl of lollipops sat atop the gleaming surface and gave the room a faint air of coziness. A shiny
nameplate on the desk indicated that this domain belonged to Marian Clark-Graham. The name sounded too snooty for semirural Alabama.

The woman returned, offering her hand. “I’m Marian. Welcome to Muldro National Bank. Are you new in town?”

“Yes, I just moved to Noble.”

“I live there too.” Marian settled into the chair behind the desk. “Actually, I live between Noble and Muldro, but I have a Noble mailing address.”

Tish smiled at the way the town’s name worked as an adjective. “It’s a cute little town. Not many job openings, though.”

“Frankly, no. Muldro is healthier in that respect. Now, you say you’d like to open a checking account?”

“Yes, please. I don’t have my new driver’s license yet, but I have proof of residence.” Tish burrowed in her purse for the papers she’d brought. “Here’s my name on my utility hookup bills. I hope that’s enough for opening an account. And I have a check to deposit, of course.”

“As long as you bring some kind of money, we’ll work with you, darlin’.” Marian gave a short laugh. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” She reached into a file drawer behind her and pulled out some forms.

Tish spread her papers on the desk with her Michigan driver’s license on top. “I’ll be glad for another chance at a driver’s license photo. This one’s awful.”

“Aren’t they always? My last one makes me look like a serial killer.” Marian slid the forms and a pen across the desk. “Here, you can start on the paperwork.”

Tish picked up the pen, a snazzy little blue number printed with Muldro National Bank—Hometown Loyalty with National Connections. Whatever that meant. It had been a tossup between this bank and the one kitty-corner to it. She’d picked this one because it had prettier landscaping.

“And will your name be the only one on the account, Letitia?” the woman snapped.

Startled more by the icy tone than by the unexpected use of her name, Tish lifted her head.

Marian, holding the driver’s license, regarded her with unfriendly eyes. Ah. She must have realized she was dealing with a Michigander. A Yankee.

Determined to be a very polite Yankee, Tish smiled. “Yes ma’am. I’m single.”

The woman turned to her computer keyboard. For a few moments, there was no sound but the clicking of keys, the hum of the printer, and the scratching of the pen.

Recording 525 South Jackson Street as her home address brought Tish a surge of joy and gratitude. She’d gone from peeking wistfully at online photos to actually buying the place. Now she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

A McComb had bought the McComb house. The symmetry of it gave her a beautiful sense of having come full circle. As if God had ordained it. No doubt about it, God had been good to her. He had blessed her crazy decision to move.

“I’ll need your signature in a number of places.” A reasonable request, but it was, again, delivered in a snippy tone.

“Certainly.” Tish took the papers and signed her name in her best penmanship. Letitia had always been fun to write, full of pretty swoops and loops. Fun to say too. Yes, she could get used to being called Letitia.

“I’ll be right back.” Her jaw set, Marian rose and walked out.

Hometown loyalty, indeed. Tish let out a small sigh. It wasn’t surprising that the locals would turn a cold shoulder to newcomers. It wouldn’t last forever, though.

A friendly person wouldn’t have much trouble making friends. Her father
gave her that pep talk every time they moved. She’d never told him exactly how hard it was to be the new kid on the block, over and over. Anyway, she’d survived.

Finished signing the papers, Tish checked the time. She still had to get the gas turned on and then be home by noon to meet the movers. She turned in her chair to see what was taking Marian so long. In the doorway to the vault, she and a white-haired man stood with their heads together, speaking in undertones. He bore a striking resemblance to Ted Turner in his prime. The guy wasn’t young, but he was a head-turner in his sharp gray suit, shiny black shoes, and tasteful tie. Every inch of him said “quality.”

Marian shot a frown at Tish. Were they talking about her? Tish tried to muster a smile anyway.

The man laughed softly, patted Marian’s shoulder, and strode toward Tish. “Welcome to Noble,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m Ed Farris. My official title here is head honcho.”

Laughing at that, she rose and offered her hand. “Hello, Mr. Farris. I’m Letitia McComb.”

“So I’ve heard.” His hand engulfed hers in a quick, firm shake. “I hope you’ll feel right at home in no time.”

She warmed to his genial attitude, so different from his employee’s chilly demeanor. “I’m starting to. I’ll feel even more at home once I find a job.”

“What’s your background and training?”

“Most recently, I’ve had a managerial position with a large insurance company in Michigan. I’m a good manager of people, computers, numbers, and money, and I have excellent references.” She stopped. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound like a walking résumé.”

Deeper amusement kindled in his eyes. “It sounds like a good one, though. You deal with other people’s money, eh? Your employer must trust you a great deal.”

“Of course. I was at the same firm for thirteen years. Is there any chance you’re hiring?”

His expression sobered. “Before I answer that, let me tell you I require my employees to be of impeccable character. A bank’s most important commodity isn’t money. It’s trust. And the most valuable asset an employee brings to the table is personal integrity.”

“I agree. Absolutely. And I assure you, I’m squeaky clean. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.” She liked him more every minute. He was proof that some locals were as friendly as could be.

His smile returned, broader than ever. “We might have a position opening up soon, but it’s not official yet. Check back in a few weeks. And send me your résumé.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Farris. Thank you. And thanks for making me feel so welcome.”

“I’m glad you’re banking with us, Miss McComb. I’m very interested in seeing what the future holds for you here.”

“I am too,” she said.

He chuckled. “I bet you are. You have a great day, now.” Moving with the natural grace of a born athlete, he turned and walked away, disappearing into an office with real walls, not glass ones.

Marian marched across the room, her eyes cold. “Let’s finish up this paperwork.”

“Yes, let’s. I need to get home and meet my moving van.” Tish’s lips didn’t want to cooperate, but she managed a smile.

Marian didn’t return the smile, and the muscles around her left eye seemed to have developed a nervous twitch. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to see her as a serial killer. A serial killer who hated Yankees.

Black dribbles of sticky goo had run down the sides of the nasty-smelling Dumpster behind the gas station, and every few minutes Mel heard faint rustling and squeaking inside it.