Fred's Excerpt from Deadly Secrets
_ Jake Butler pulled the Jeep Cherokee into the parking lot of Shady Oaks Nursing Home. Steering into the nearest space, he muttered the nasty suspicion he had harbored all morning. "Fool’s errand." He said it louder so his companion could hear him. "Fool’s errand, Fred." From the back seat, Fred made sympathetic sounds.
"Yep, old buddy," Jake went on. "This whole project has been screwy from the git-go, and now I'm interviewing a woman who doesn't talk." Sighing, Jake killed the engine and sat staring at the nursing home. Shady Oaks was an expensive care facility for people suffering from dementia.
"Fred? Do me a favor. If I go nuts, toss me in the river. I'd rather be crab bait." Fred snorted in agreement.
With another sigh, Jake stuffed the tools of his trade--notebook, tape recorder, pens and pencils--in a battered leather bag. His man-purse, his business partner Zoe called it. Chuckling to himself, he checked to make sure he had plenty of business cards for the consulting firm he owned with two friends: Lowcountry Archaeological Consultants, Inc.
Consulting can be risky, but here in coastal South Carolina there was plenty of work for LAC. Jake could have turned down this crazy project, but it had been offered by Eleanor Bishop, the leading real-estate mogul here and soon to be a leading developer if she got Rivermist Plantation and Marina up and running. Developers were the mainstay of LAC's business, and Eleanor Bishop could help LAC along. If she didn't drive Jake crazy first.
"I want no stone unturned, Mr. Butler," she had told Jake. "You make sure that the title to that property is squeaky clean and there're no--what do you call them? cultural resources--to muck up my plans." Jake had taken on the project convinced from the beginning that it was going to be a headache and, sure enough, he was right.
"Well, I'd love to stay and shoot the breeze, Freddie, but I got to get this over and it looks like it's about to pour." Turning in his seat, Jake gave Fred a steely glare. "You know the rules: no barking, no poodles." Fred, a massive, yellow Labrador Retriever, groaned in resignation and flopped down on the back seat.
"Yeah? We all have our trials and tribulations, buddy," Jake said, shrugging into his leather bomber jacket and slinging the man-purse over his head and arm. As he opened the door, a boom of thunder rolled across the pearl gray sky. In response to the chilly dampness, Jake flipped his collar up, hunched his shoulders and jogged across the parking lot to the shelter of a vast portico.
"Yep, old buddy," Jake went on. "This whole project has been screwy from the git-go, and now I'm interviewing a woman who doesn't talk." Sighing, Jake killed the engine and sat staring at the nursing home. Shady Oaks was an expensive care facility for people suffering from dementia.
"Fred? Do me a favor. If I go nuts, toss me in the river. I'd rather be crab bait." Fred snorted in agreement.
With another sigh, Jake stuffed the tools of his trade--notebook, tape recorder, pens and pencils--in a battered leather bag. His man-purse, his business partner Zoe called it. Chuckling to himself, he checked to make sure he had plenty of business cards for the consulting firm he owned with two friends: Lowcountry Archaeological Consultants, Inc.
Consulting can be risky, but here in coastal South Carolina there was plenty of work for LAC. Jake could have turned down this crazy project, but it had been offered by Eleanor Bishop, the leading real-estate mogul here and soon to be a leading developer if she got Rivermist Plantation and Marina up and running. Developers were the mainstay of LAC's business, and Eleanor Bishop could help LAC along. If she didn't drive Jake crazy first.
"I want no stone unturned, Mr. Butler," she had told Jake. "You make sure that the title to that property is squeaky clean and there're no--what do you call them? cultural resources--to muck up my plans." Jake had taken on the project convinced from the beginning that it was going to be a headache and, sure enough, he was right.
"Well, I'd love to stay and shoot the breeze, Freddie, but I got to get this over and it looks like it's about to pour." Turning in his seat, Jake gave Fred a steely glare. "You know the rules: no barking, no poodles." Fred, a massive, yellow Labrador Retriever, groaned in resignation and flopped down on the back seat.
"Yeah? We all have our trials and tribulations, buddy," Jake said, shrugging into his leather bomber jacket and slinging the man-purse over his head and arm. As he opened the door, a boom of thunder rolled across the pearl gray sky. In response to the chilly dampness, Jake flipped his collar up, hunched his shoulders and jogged across the parking lot to the shelter of a vast portico.
