Mountain Top(6)
“Lancaster?”
“No, silly. Judge.”
Recently, Mike had suggested they might sell their home and look for a house closer to the church, but Peg cut him off. Her social orbit had the town, not the church, at its center. So, they stayed put. Mike’s salary from the church was barely enough to pay the mortgage and their other bills. Mike kept reassuring Peg that the growth of the church would soon justify a significant increase in salary. Her response was a slight twist of her lips that communicated skepticism more effectively than words.
Mike drove down the hill into town. Shelton had twelve traffic lights. Each light had a number on a tiny sign above it that provided a convenient way to give directions—turn left at number six and right at four. The courthouse square was flanked by numbers one through four.
Mike parked on the west side of the courthouse square, across the street from the law firm formerly known as Forrest, Andrews, and Lambert, the most respected law firm in Barlow County. The gold letters over the front door now read Forrest, Lambert, Park, and Arnold. Mr. Forrest claimed it had taken two lawyers to replace Mike.
Mike entered the Ashe Street Café, a long, rectangular room with booths along two sides and tables down the middle. Waitresses brought plates of hot food from the kitchen at the rear of the room. Several men were waiting for a place to sit. He nodded in the direction of Butch Niles, the manager of the trust department for the Bank of Barlow County and a popular young representative in the General Assembly. Standing beside Niles was Jim Postell, the longtime county clerk of court and a savvy local politician.
“Hello, Preacher,” said Niles, slapping Mike on the back. “I’ve been hearing good things about you. What are you going to do next? Run against me for the legislature?”
“The only election I need to win is a majority vote of the church elders,” Mike responded. “And there’s no way a lawyer turned minister could ever be elected to anything. Half the people in Barlow County are mad because I sued them, and the other half wouldn’t vote for me because I’m not part of their denomination.”
Niles chuckled. “What if I didn’t run and could get Jim to endorse you?”
“Then I could be governor.”
A table opened for Postell and Niles.
“Why don’t you join us?” the clerk of court asked. “The regulars will be here in a few minutes. We’ll argue politics, but it won’t amount to anything.”
“No, thanks, I have an appointment.”
Other members of the legal and business community drifted into the café. There was no sign of Saxby. Mike looked at his watch and inwardly kicked himself for not confirming the appointment. He checked his PDA but hadn’t entered a contact number. He then called the church, but Delores had left and turned on the answering machine. He looked at the table where Niles and his cronies were sitting. There weren’t any empty seats. Everyone else in the café was preoccupied with lunch and conversation.
Laughter came from the direction of the rear of the restaurant. Mike suddenly wanted to get out of there. After one more glance at his watch, he turned to the blond-haired woman behind the cash register.
“Sue, if a man named Dick Saxby comes in looking for me, tell him I waited as long as I could but had to leave for another appointment.”
“Sure thing, Mike. Do you want anything to go?”
“No, thanks.”
Mike breathed a sigh of relief. Walking down the sidewalk toward his car, he muttered, “I don’t have another appointment.”
Blurting out a false excuse as a way to get out of the restaurant didn’t make sense. Bogus meetings had never been part of Mike’s strategy for managing his day, and he considered a lie an act of cowardice. He stopped at light number four and waited for it to turn green. No one was harmed by his misstatement, but it still made him feel uneasy. It would be awkward to return to the café, but—he stopped.
He could visit the jail and make his statement true.
The light turned green, but Mike didn’t cross the street. He glanced in the direction of the jail. Not visible, he knew it stood two blocks away, set back from the street with a small parking lot in front and an exercise yard surrounded by a high fence and razor wire in the rear. He looked again at his watch. He’d set aside more than an hour for lunch and didn’t have any reason to return to the church. He began walking slowly down the street toward the jail. Muriel Miller might not deliver his advice to her husband about keeping his mouth shut. It wouldn’t hurt to do it himself.
THE VISITORS’ WAITING AREA HADN’T CHANGED IN SIX YEARS. Same plastic furniture and light green paint on the walls. Except for the presence of a thick metal door, it looked like the reception room for a cheap insurance agency. Mike knocked on a small glass partition in the wall. A young female deputy slid it open.