Purgatory, West Virginia
December 15
Finn made his way down the mountain on foot. The old truck still needed some tinkering—Bud hadn’t accomplished much so far—and with the state of the driveway and the long turns, it was nearly as fast to walk. Leaves and snow crunched beneath his boots, and sunlight filtered through the bare branches. Emerging from the trees, he stopped at the massive oak, charred and scarred on one side. Maybelle’s cottage sat like a daffodil just beyond.
He made his way across the muddy grass and opened the picket gate. As he started for the red front door, a distinctive whack caught his ear. He knew the sound. He had chopped wood at his grandparent’s cabin since he was big enough to hold an ax.
Finn recalled Philomena referring to Maybelle as dainty, so he wondered if she had someone else helping her. Feeling put out, he walked around to the back. A low hedge ran along the edge of the side yard, and bare trellises abutted the house. Pausing at the corner of the building, he did a comical double-take. A woman no taller than five feet, wearing fur earmuffs over long, shiny white hair, wielded the ax like a lumberjack. Wham. A chunk fell from the piece of wood resting on the wide stump. The woman picked up the log from the ground and tossed it toward the low pile at the back of the property.
“Maybelle?” he asked.
“Who the hell are you?” Maybelle rested the ax on her shoulder.
“Your sister asked me to come by. Said you needed help around the place.”
The woman huffed and set the ax against the stump. “Oh yeah, which sister?” she asked with her back to him.
“Philomena,” Finn replied.
Maybelle turned, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline. “What kind of con are you running, boy?”
“Look, you don’t want the help, fine. Great. I’ve got a headache like a percussion grenade is going off in my skull, and I would love to go right back to bed. The old lady said you needed help, that you were dainty. I’ve clearly been misinformed on both counts.” He turned to retrace his steps.
“That’s what she said? Dainty?”
Finn turned back. “Yep.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Only Phila would call me dainty. Sorry for the skepticism. Philomena is particular with whom she converses. So, she asked you to help me?”
“It’s part of my rent agreement. Helping you out. I’m staying up at The Gingerbread House for a while.”
Maybelle shook her head with a smile. “Philomena arranged that too, I suppose. She’s the oldest of the five of us. She never could pass up an opportunity to boss everyone around.”
Finn glanced to the left, taking in the torn screen and peeling paint. “I can go. You seem to have everything under control here.”
Maybelle faced him with an imperious once over. “I wouldn’t expect a lot of snark from a man like you.”
Unsure what she meant, he replied, “Yeah, I’m an enigma.” Despite the sarcasm, Finn stood a little straighter.
“You’d like to think so.” She gave him her back as she set another log on the stump.
“I’m here. What do you need?” Finn demanded.
“I like to get busy by seven. If you’re here by six-thirty, there’s breakfast.”
“All right,” Finn agreed.
“Split or stack?” Maybelle tipped her head toward the stump.
“Split.”
“I figured.” Maybelle handed him the ax, donned her gloves, and moved to the pile of cut logs.
With that brief exchange, Finn got to it. It didn’t take long to work up a sweat. Layer by layer, Finn shed the leather jacket, the nylon shell, and his flannel shirt until he was working in just a grey T-shirt and jeans.
About an hour into chopping wood in comfortable silence, Finn sensed movement in the trees. He peered through the dense underbrush, his gaze landing on a pair of yellow-brown eyes peering back at him through the bushes. He bent down and slid the Sig out of its holster on top of the pile of clothes.
“That’s your way?” Maybelle barked. “You walk into someone else’s house and shoot them.”