Read Online Dial M for Meat Loaf by Ellen Hart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ellen Hart
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paper clipped to the back of the bankbook, she unfolded it.
“What’s this?” she muttered, looking at the lines her husband had drawn on the page. It was a map. “Sixteen paces due north of the Devil’s Tree. East four paces. South twenty-two paces.” What on earth was the Devil’s Tree? Kirby had obviously hidden something there because he’d used an X to mark the spot.
“You greedy old pirate,” she whispered. “That’s where the money is.”
It had been Kirby’s tragic fate to die before he could spend his fortune.
“What a dirty shame,” said Cora, an evil smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
9
Sophie had a feeling Bram wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that she’d decided to accompany him on the drive up to Grand Rapids for his Monday afternoon radio show. For Bram it was a business trip. He wanted to leave early Monday morning, do the show in the afternoon, and be home for a late dinner on Monday night. Sophie convinced him to leave Sunday afternoon and combine the work with a little R and R, saying it would be good for them both.
Just over a year ago, Sophie’s cousin Sulo had bought a summer cabin on Pokegama Lake. Since Sulo was forever telling her that she should come up and spend the weekend, Sophie insisted that this was the perfect opportunity. They could take out the houseboat. Enjoy a little twilight ride around the lake.
“You mean spend the evening swatting mosquitoes,” Bram grunted. He wasn’t known for his love of the great outdoors.
They’d just passed the town of Garrison on their way around the northern part of Lake Mille Lacs.
“While you do your live broadcast from the Itasca county fair,” said Sophie, turning off the music they’d been listening to, “I’ll spend the time scouting out the local cafes for possible review.” Just because that wasn’t the real reason she wanted to visit Grand Rapids didn’t stop her from using it as a ruse.
“You’re planning to make me eat some godawful small-town cafe food, aren’t you?” muttered Bram, sulking. “Breaded pork chops. Chopped iceberg lettuce with that red, sickly sweet French dressing. Little Jell-O salads covered in Cool Whip. Canned green beans. And everything, absolutely everything else covered in cheese or deep fried.” He shivered at the thought.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a snob?”
“Frequently. And I accept the title . . . with my usual grace. I repeat, I don’t like eating in greasy spoons.”
“You had a greasy grilled cheese last Thursday, before your show.”
“I did not. I had a salad.”
“You never eat salads for lunch.”
“I am a man of many surprises.”
“But you said the sandwich gave you indigestion. That’s why you were popping Tums. And hey, don’t change the subject. Why do you assume a small-town cafe would be a greasy spoon? Maybe they have someone in the kitchen who’s an artist, a culinary wizard. You love good home cooking.”
“Only when it’s served by a restaurant with at least two stars.”
She threw up her hands in disgust. The fact was, she probably wouldn’t have time to visit the cafes anyway. She intended to spend as much of the afternoon as possible digging up information on Morgan Walters, the man who was the spitting image of John Washburn— right down to his tattoo.
Sophie had failed to fill Bram in about that little detail because she knew he’d think she was either A, wasting her time, or B, meddling. But Bram didn’t have the same history with Morgan as she did, so there was no way he could truly understand her fascination. Under the circumstances, a little plausible misdirection was the better part of discretion.
Just after seven, Bram pulled his Jeep into the dirt drive next to Sulo’s cabin. “Not exactly the Ritz,” he said, staring at the dilapidated log structure. Pokegama Lake spread out blue and hazy behind it.
“Sulo said he’s been working on it little by little. He figures he’ll have it in tip-top
“What’s this?” she muttered, looking at the lines her husband had drawn on the page. It was a map. “Sixteen paces due north of the Devil’s Tree. East four paces. South twenty-two paces.” What on earth was the Devil’s Tree? Kirby had obviously hidden something there because he’d used an X to mark the spot.
“You greedy old pirate,” she whispered. “That’s where the money is.”
It had been Kirby’s tragic fate to die before he could spend his fortune.
“What a dirty shame,” said Cora, an evil smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
9
Sophie had a feeling Bram wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that she’d decided to accompany him on the drive up to Grand Rapids for his Monday afternoon radio show. For Bram it was a business trip. He wanted to leave early Monday morning, do the show in the afternoon, and be home for a late dinner on Monday night. Sophie convinced him to leave Sunday afternoon and combine the work with a little R and R, saying it would be good for them both.
Just over a year ago, Sophie’s cousin Sulo had bought a summer cabin on Pokegama Lake. Since Sulo was forever telling her that she should come up and spend the weekend, Sophie insisted that this was the perfect opportunity. They could take out the houseboat. Enjoy a little twilight ride around the lake.
“You mean spend the evening swatting mosquitoes,” Bram grunted. He wasn’t known for his love of the great outdoors.
They’d just passed the town of Garrison on their way around the northern part of Lake Mille Lacs.
“While you do your live broadcast from the Itasca county fair,” said Sophie, turning off the music they’d been listening to, “I’ll spend the time scouting out the local cafes for possible review.” Just because that wasn’t the real reason she wanted to visit Grand Rapids didn’t stop her from using it as a ruse.
“You’re planning to make me eat some godawful small-town cafe food, aren’t you?” muttered Bram, sulking. “Breaded pork chops. Chopped iceberg lettuce with that red, sickly sweet French dressing. Little Jell-O salads covered in Cool Whip. Canned green beans. And everything, absolutely everything else covered in cheese or deep fried.” He shivered at the thought.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a snob?”
“Frequently. And I accept the title . . . with my usual grace. I repeat, I don’t like eating in greasy spoons.”
“You had a greasy grilled cheese last Thursday, before your show.”
“I did not. I had a salad.”
“You never eat salads for lunch.”
“I am a man of many surprises.”
“But you said the sandwich gave you indigestion. That’s why you were popping Tums. And hey, don’t change the subject. Why do you assume a small-town cafe would be a greasy spoon? Maybe they have someone in the kitchen who’s an artist, a culinary wizard. You love good home cooking.”
“Only when it’s served by a restaurant with at least two stars.”
She threw up her hands in disgust. The fact was, she probably wouldn’t have time to visit the cafes anyway. She intended to spend as much of the afternoon as possible digging up information on Morgan Walters, the man who was the spitting image of John Washburn— right down to his tattoo.
Sophie had failed to fill Bram in about that little detail because she knew he’d think she was either A, wasting her time, or B, meddling. But Bram didn’t have the same history with Morgan as she did, so there was no way he could truly understand her fascination. Under the circumstances, a little plausible misdirection was the better part of discretion.
Just after seven, Bram pulled his Jeep into the dirt drive next to Sulo’s cabin. “Not exactly the Ritz,” he said, staring at the dilapidated log structure. Pokegama Lake spread out blue and hazy behind it.
“Sulo said he’s been working on it little by little. He figures he’ll have it in tip-top
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