A two-story building sprang from the gloom. The ground-floor windows of the restaurant spread golden squares of light into the gloaming. Cars were parked four deep already.
Bobby hit the brakes, cursed when the rental slid a bit, then parked in the last space available. We got out and started for the door.
Considering what he’d just said, I probably shouldn’t tell him the place was haunted.
*
Bobby was grouchy. He had good reason to be.
For one thing, he was going to be stuck in Podunk longer than he’d planned. Of course he hadn’t figured on not only finding his killer, but shooting him too.
Second grumpy reason—the discussion of ghosts. He hated anything that smelled of the supernatural. Sure, he lived in the land of voodoo. According to family legend one of his grandmothers—many greats removed—had been a priestess. But the religion of the slaves was one thing, woo-woo was another. Too many had had their hopes lifted and their pockets picked by people saying they could do things they couldn’t. Like talk to ghosts.
He growled.
“Hungry?” Raye asked.
Reason number three. He hadn’t eaten since the hoppel poppel. His head was starting to pound. Though that might just be because of the day he’d had.
He opened the door on what appeared to be a well-preserved two-story farmhouse—again in the middle of the forest, which made the entire farm thing iffy.
“What’s the name of this place?” he asked.
“Thore’s Farm.”
“Thor,” he repeated. “The god?”
“No. Thore, the Swedish farmer.”
Was she being sarcastic? He didn’t think so.
She lifted two fingers in the direction of the hostess. The woman—blond, who wasn’t around here, it was starting to freak him out—nodded. “Ten minutes.”
“We’ll wait at the bar,” Raye said.
Inside was as rustic as the outside. Weathered wood walls, tables, chairs. There were two empty seats at the far corner of the bar, and they took them. The bartender—another blonde—gave Bobby the once-over then smiled at Raye as if she’d just brought her the top prize in the local scavenger hunt. Bobby pointed at Raye, who ordered Cabernet.
“You have a specialty?” he asked.
The bartender’s smile widened, and Raye muttered, “Sheesh.”
“A house drink,” he blurted. Didn’t most bars have them?
“Old-fashioned,” the woman said. “We make our own mix.”
“All right.” The woman continued to stand in front of them expectantly. “Please?” he prompted, and she glanced at Raye, brows lifted.
“Brandy, whiskey, or Southern Comfort?” Raye recited.
“Whiskey,” he chose.
The bartender continued to wait.
“Jack, Jim, Evan, Knob Creek, Maker’s Mark?” It wasn’t until Raye uttered the fourth choice that he realized she was listing whiskeys and not people. He usually drank beer. Maybe he should …
He glanced at the taps. There were at least ten, several of them variations of Leinenkugel. He didn’t even want to try and pronounce that.
“Jim,” he said.
She still didn’t move. He spread his hands.
“Sour or sweet?” she asked.
“Dear God.”
“Sweet,” Raye answered for him, and at last the woman went away. “Don’t they make an old-fashioned in New Orleans?”
“They make everything in New Orleans. I just don’t drink them.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been much of a drinker.”
Except for that one time, which was more than one time, although he hadn’t sobered up for months, so maybe it was “one time.” But he certainly hadn’t been drinking top-shelf-whiskey old-fashioneds.
Their drinks came. They tapped glasses, sipped. Bobby’s was surprisingly good, the glass pleasingly large. He twirled it this way and that in his palm, admiring the swirl of amber and ice. “How fast do trees grow?”
She’d been about to take another sip of wine and instead set her glass down. “That was random.”
“Not in my head. I’ve been wondering how this place could be Thore’s Farm when it’s surrounded by a forest.”
“Ah.” This time she did take a sip. “Reforestation.”
He lifted his glass to indicate the bar taps. “Is that like Leinenkugel’s?”
Her smile made the tight angry knot that still pressed against his throat loosen. He might enjoy himself if he didn’t try too hard not to.
“You mangled that pretty badly. Leinenkugel’s is a brewery in Chippewa Falls. I’m not sure if they give great deals to all the taverns in a two-hundred-mile radius so that they carry their product on tap, or if folks just like that one of our small businesses has done so well and want to show it off.” She shrugged. “We call it Leinie’s around here.”
He could see why.
“Reforestation is replacing trees lost through deforestation. There are several government programs. A big one is CRP—Conservation Reserve Program—where farmers are paid a fee not to plant crops but instead plant things that will improve the environment.”
“Like trees?” he asked, and she nodded. “Why?”