Would it matter now?
It certainly wouldn’t bring him back.
31
1:15 p.m.
State Route 65
Francisco, Alabama
Montrose had been right. Francisco was basically a curve in the road outside the small town of Huntland and just across the Tennessee state line. The area was thickly wooded, the road narrow, and the houses few and far between. No cell service—at least from her carrier.
She’d stopped in Huntland at the Town and Country Café to grab a bite of lunch, though she wasn’t that hungry. Based on the few offerings in the little town and the lack of patrons at the others, this was the place more of the locals patronized.
A gentleman at a neighboring table had been only too happy to talk about the thirty-year-old murder of the Holmes couple. Their small farm was owned by the Granger family now. Their closest neighbors had been the Wrights, Chester and Gladys. Though advanced in age, the Wrights still lived in the old Victorian just down the road from the house where Charles Holmes spent his early childhood.
This was Finley’s next stop. If the Wrights were able and willing to talk to her, their insights could be invaluable.
Finley was grateful for her Subaru when she turned into the driveway leading to the Wright home. Rocky, rutted, and long. Trees crowded in on either side. The shade was nice, but it made it difficult to see what lay beyond each curve, and there were plenty of tight little curves.
When the gravel drive ended amid a green expanse of lawn in a wide clearing, Finley felt as if she’d slipped into a time warp. The farm implements lined up beneath a metal-roofed shed were old and rusty. The house stood tall and was mostly white. Lots of peeling paint. Chippy style, the fixer-uppers would say. An old truck, a relic from the middle of the last century she would guess, sat closest to the house.
She got out, swatted at a fly, and surveyed the area. No sign of dogs that might not appreciate her appearance. She adjusted her blouse. Since she was interviewing strangers, she had exchanged the tee for a nicer top. Looking the part was generally helpful.
Finley headed up the stone path that led across the green lawn. The porch steps looked solid enough, so she made her way up and stalled at the top.
The reason she hadn’t seen a dog was that it was sprawled on the porch enjoying the shade. The big black-and-white animal lifted its head, looked her up and down, then promptly lowered his head once more without so much as a growl.
“Good doggie,” she murmured.
The double set of doors was narrow and fronted by screen doors. She opened the one on the right and knocked on the wooden door beneath. The lack of sound beyond the doors gave her little hope that the Wrights were home.
A fly or gnat flew around her head again, and she swatted at it.
A couple more knocks were required before someone stirred inside. The flip of a dead bolt, and then the door opened.
An elderly woman with white hair tucked into a bun eyed her. “You lost, hon?”
“Possibly,” Finley offered. “I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. Wright.”
“Who is it?” a male voice called from somewhere deeper in the room. A gray head poked its way between the petite woman and the door.
“You’ve found us,” the woman said. “You selling insurance or religion, girlie?”
Finley smiled. “No, ma’am. I’m from Nashville. I work for the Finnegan Law Firm, and I’m here to ask you about the Holmes family who used to live next door.”
The man, presumably Chester, scowled. “If she’s a lawyer, send her on her way.” He grumbled a few swear words as he ambled away from the door.
“You a lawyer?” the woman asked.
“I’m an investigator,” Finley said without answering the question.
“What’re you investigating? Doug and Wanda Holmes were murdered a long time ago.”
“I have questions about their son.”
Chester’s head was suddenly next to his wife’s again. “Why?”
Finley reminded herself that these folks probably rarely had company and needed to be sure who they were letting into their home.
Before she could answer, the lady glowered at her husband. “Go fix some iced tea and quit giving her the third degree.”
He disappeared again, mumbling more of those colorful expletives. Gladys opened the door fully. “Come on in. You look a little flushed. Let’s have some iced tea, and we’ll talk about your questions.”
The house was filled with antiques and smelled of fresh-cut flowers. Wood floors looked in pristine condition, with vintage rugs here and there. Tall windows were up, allowing air to circulate, and a huge metal ceiling fan turned slowly overhead in the parlor, stirring the air.