"I'm sorry for your loss," I said automatically.

Eugenia Price's head went up. "Oh, sugar," she said, "that weren't no loss. Nosmo King was the meanest man alive. I've been after Bess for years to leave him. I'm only sorry he died and left things in such a mess. No will. No instructions. And her with them two kids and Nosmo's gas station to run."

I could see Bonnie outside leaning on the hood of my car, a cigarette in hand and a scowl on her face.

"That's terrible," I said.

Eugenia nodded. "Yeah, but at least she won't be hurting for money. That gas station is a gold mine. Sits right out at the corner of Summit Avenue and Wendover. I never knew there was so much money in gasoline!"

Eugenia shook herself and looked back at me. "I'm sorry, here you are worried about your husband, and I'm running on about my own worries."

I smiled again. "Vernell'll turn up," I said, "he always does. You know," I said, "I think I may've seen your Bess around here before. She have short brown hair, kinda curly, and a real pretty smile?"

Eugenia Price smiled. "That's her," she said. "Prettiest smile in Guilford County, I always say."

Chapter Ten

There was a crown on the sign in front of King's Gas and Go, but that was the only thing golden or regal about the place. The gas station was packed tight into a corner that had to see traffic all day and night long. In years gone by, Summit Avenue had been the hub of the cotton mill village that took up the southeastern edge of town. But now the mill was closed and the houses and businesses that had flourished with mill money were falling into disrepair.

Fast-food restaurants and used car lots had moved in. Summit Avenue was now a stopping point in a journey to somewhere else. Folks just didn't stick around to find out what was going to happen next, because something bad was always happening next on Summit Avenue. The cops had even set up a field station there so they wouldn't have so far to go between calls. At night, Summit became a drug-dealing, whore-peddling, one-stop-shopping opportunity. By day it merely looked dirty and hung over.

King's Gas and Go had been celebrating. Grimy red and white triangles like dragon's teeth spun their way down a thick white tape, framing the entrance to a new car wash that sat on a little hill to the right of the station. Nosmo King had packed every bit of his corner lot with money-making opportunities, leaving his customers to fend for themselves when it came to parking and maneuvering their way off of the tiny lot and back into oncoming traffic.

I pulled my VW up to the pump and took the opportunity to fill it up while I studied my approach. Bonnie was back at the salon, so I couldn't rely on her to bulldoze her way inside and run the interrogation. Anyway, this situation probably called for a softer approach. Nosmo King was dead, but the station still stayed open. I figured whoever was running it had to be a minor peon, but still, they might know something. I looked up at the dirty white building. The bay doors were open and an ancient pickup sat high atop a lift receiving some kind of care. The front window was mirrored with tinted glass making it impossible to see inside. On the whole, you couldn't tell that the owner had just been murdered.

Mama always said, "A potato's just a potato, until you start peeling." I figured that was true of King's Gas and Go too. I walked across the tiny lot and pulled open the tinted glass door. A bell tinkled and the dark-haired woman behind the cash register looked up for a second, then went back to poring over a huge black notebook.

My heart started beating faster, my skin prickled, and I just knew it had to be her. Dark hair, kind of curly. I walked down the aisle, looking at the potted meat and saltine crackers. I stepped to the window and pretended to study the rows of trophies that stood on display.

They were huge gold and silver monuments, the kind they give out to sports teams when they win championships, only these weren't sporting trophies. They were made out, in most cases, to Bess King. Grand Champion, Maggie Valley Clog-off, 1999; First Place, Georgia Nationals, Town and Country Cloggers. There wasn't a second place among them, and there were enough to completely fill the ledge. I began to peel the potato.

"Those trophies," I said, stepping up to the counter, "they're amazing. What is clogging?"

The woman looked up and favored me with a faint smile. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked as if she'd maybe been standing in the same spot for days. Her white cotton shirt was rumpled and stained with blue ink marks. Her hair fell in ringlets around her face. The little lines that women get in their late thirties had deepened with fatigue, and she looked almost relieved to see a stranger.

"You on pump one?" she asked softly. I turned and looked out the window. I was the only one at the pumps.

"Yep," I answered. She wasn't going to talk to me.

"Okay, that's eight dollars even," she said. "That gets you a free car wash. Here's your token."

She slid the brass coin across to me and I picked it up and turned to go.

"Oh, you wanted to know about the trophies, didn't you?"

I spun back around. "Yeah. I've heard of clogging, but I'm not sure I know what it is."

Bess King ran her hand through her hair and sighed. "Clogging is a form of dance, brought over to the Appalachians by our English and Irish ancestors. It looks a little like tap dancing."

I pointed to the biggest trophy, the Grand Champion, 1999. "Is that yours?" I asked.

"Yeah. Clogging's what keeps me going," she said. "You've probably seen my team, the Town and Country Cloggers? We dance all over Greensboro."

The potato was unraveling. "Hmm," I said, pretending to think, "I don't know." I looked up at her, as if an idea was slowly dawning in my head. "You dance to country music, don't you?" She nodded. "You know, I sing for the house band out at the Golden Stallion. How come y'all haven't been there to dance?"

Bess King grinned quickly. "Haven't been asked," she said. "It's not like we charge a whole lot, either. We dance for donations, we dance for food, sometimes, we just flat-out dance!" Her eyes sparkled, and for an instant I saw why Vernell had been drawn to her. She looked alive and happy. But the curtain of fatigue and pain quickly dropped back into place.

"My name's Maggie Reid," I said, and watched her reaction. Her head shot back up, and her eyes studied me, a startled expression on her face.

"Maggie Reid?"

Vernell had told her about me. I could see that as plain as day. I decided to hit it head on.

"Vernell's my ex-husband," I said. "Your husband was found in his car last night."

Bess King made no more pretense of looking at the papers in front of her. "You're Vernell's ex?" she asked.

"That's why I'm here. I need to find him."

Bess's eyes narrowed. "Why did you come to me? What makes you think I'd know where he is?"

I hated to do it. She seemed like a nice woman under an incredible amount of strain, but I didn't know her. What if she'd done something with Vernell? What if she were lying to me and hiding him? Worse yet, what if she'd killed her husband?

"I'm coming to you because you were the last one to see him, Friday morning, at the Twilight Motel." I said it hard, like maybe she had some explaining to do.

Bess King's face crumpled. "Go away," she said softly.

"Where's Vernell?" I demanded. "Your husband's dead. You were fooling around with Vernell, and now he's gone. So far, honey, you're looking like the missing link."

Through the door leading out to the bay, I could hear the sound of the impact wrench, loosening tires. She wasn't alone on the lot. If she needed reinforcements, all she had to do was call out.