“James P. Lanahan?” I said aloud. “That's Patrick, isn’t it? That's the year he graduated from Virginia Tech.”
“Yes,” Ms. Ellie said. “Goes by J. Patrick these days, but it's him. Makes you wonder how likely it was that Blake would be helping him out now.”
I flipped to the next article. This one had pictures. Blake's grandson had been a good-looking kid. Lanahan's picture was minus the interesting scar, so I assumed he’d acquired that in the accident.
“It says Blake's grandson was driving,” I said, perusing the article. “Maybe the crash was his fault, and the other two were lucky to have escaped with their lives, and Blake wants to help them out.”
“If that was the case, he could have helped Lanahan find a better job anytime over the last fifteen years,” Ms. Ellie said. “I think he's up to something.”
“Like what?”
She shook her head.
“And Dad thinks Blake's going to rescue the zoo.” “Maybe,” Ms. Ellie said. “But I wouldn’t count on it.” I brooded on this for a few moments. I found I was more upset over the prospect of Blake disappointing Dad than I was over
the possibility that he’d killed Lanahan. Shallow of me, perhaps, but that was how I felt.
“Should be interesting to see how long he keeps up the pretense, then,” I said. “If he has a clean conscience over Lanahan's death, he’ll probably pack up and leave immediately. But if he stays around—”
“Could mean he's guilty,” Ms. Ellie said. “Or just that he's afraid someone will suspect him.”
“Mind if I make copies of these articles?” I asked, holding up the folder.
“You can borrow the whole file if you like,” Ms. Ellie said. “Just promise you’ll make good use of it.” “I will,” I said.
I’d planned on going home, but as I drew near the road to the Caerphilly Zoo, it occurred to me that if I took it and kept on past the zoo, I’d eventually come to Clay Hill, the county seat of Clay County. In fact, Clay Hill was the only place in Clay County that even vaguely resembled a town. And if the mapping site I’d consulted at the library was correct, a mile or so before I came to Clay Hill, I’d find the Clay County Zoo.
Maybe it was time I checked up on Ray Hamlin.
Chapter 31
No protesters outside the Caerphilly Zoo. No hostile Clay County natives patrolling the borders. The peaceful rural vistas of Caerphilly County blended seamlessly into the peaceful rural vistas of Clay County. All very soothing until about two miles outside town, where what Michael and I called the seamy industrial district of Clay County began—a series of sprawling rural businesses. Most of them looked unprosperous, and all of them would have been on my target list for demolition if someone had put me in charge of the “Keep Clay County Beautiful” campaign. The Clay County Farmers’ Market—converted at some point from a drive-in theater—didn’t have much produce on sale. But from the number of pickups in its parking lot, the nearby Clay County Bait and Ammo shop across the street was thriving. It also seemed to serve as the headquarters for the nearby Clay County Gun and Archery Range. The Clay County Antique and Junque Market seemed to focus more on the junk side of the business, judging from the sprawling delta of merchandise strewn over the brown grass in front of it. In smaller letters at the bottom of the sign I saw the words “R. Hamlin, Prop.” Ray Hamlin, the owner of the Clay County Zoo, or a relative?
Next to the antique and junk store was a small off-brand filling station and mini-mart—no sign, but I deduced this was probably the Clay County Service Station and quite possibly the Clay County Supermarket. Between the gas station and Ham-lin's Used Autos was a small dirt road with a sign pointing the way to the Clay County Zoo.
About half a mile along, the road dead-ended at a gate with a barbed-wire fence. On the left side of the gate was a small wooden shack, looking rather like the temporary fireworks shacks that spring up by the side of the roads throughout Virginia in the weeks leading up to the Fourth of July. To the right was an unpaved parking lot, its muddy, rutted expanse nearly empty. I stowed my car in a spot where I thought I could escape the mud without a tow and went to the ticket shack, where a bored young woman in a NASCAR T-shirt took my five-dollar admission fee and handed me a ticket, all without looking up from the supermarket tabloid she was reading.
I was tucking the ticket and my wallet back into my purse when a pickup careened up the road. I recognized the driver— Ray Hamlin.
“Well, hello there!” he called as he pulled up beside the ticket shack. From his tone, you’d think my visit was the most exciting thing that had happened in the history of the zoo. “What brings you to our neck of the woods? Checking out whether we’re fit to take on your animals?”