A bead of sweat run down Scott Blanchard's forehead. He wiped it away before it could reach his left eye and pushed his black hair away from his damp forehead. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt so he could loosen his necktie. It wasn't quite eleven o'clock and already it was over eighty degrees. Scott tugged his suit jacket off and tossed it through the open window on to the passenger seat of his black Volkswagen Jetta. He turned to his left and watched the amber digital numbers on the gas pump changing as it filled the tank of his car.
"Hey, do you know how to get to Grant Bradshaw's house?" Scott turned towards the man in the grey overalls with blue pinstripes cleaning his windshield. He had short salt and pepper hair and wore glasses with square, dark brown frames. Sewn to the upper left side of his overalls was an oval patch with OWEN embroidered in bright yellow thread on a white background with a red border.
"It's about three miles away," the man in the overalls told Scott. "Just keep going in the direction you were; you can't miss it. It's on the left, and the only place 'round here with a barn that's half burnt to a crisp."
Scott gave Owen a thin smile. He nodded. "Thanks. I shouldn't have any trouble finding it then."
Owen dropped the squeegee into a pail of murky brown water on the pump island and cast his narrowed brown eyes towards Scott suspiciously. "You a friend of Grant's?" he asked.
"No. I'm an insurance adjuster." Scott knew that the gas attendant's question was his way of probing him for information, but tried his best to sound friendly, without divulging more than he had to.
"I see. You must be here about his barn then," Owen said. "That was an awful thunderstorm we had. I heard it when it hit Grant's barn. I live just down the road from him. Made a hell of a crack, it did. I knew it musta hit someone's house or barn -- maybe a tree if they was lucky." The gas pump clicked off and he turned and pulled the nozzle from Scott's car. "I hope the insurance is gonna pay out on this. Grant didn't just lose his barn; he lost his tractor and a bunch of other stuff too."
Scott pulled his credit card from his wallet. "That's why I'm here," he said. "To look over Mr. Bradshaw's barn and settle his claim."
"Uh-huh... well, you can ask anyone around here -- they'll all tell you you won't find anyone in Knox County who's more honest than Grant," Owen said, sounding indignant. "He served with me in Korea. The guy's like a brother to me. They'll also tell you that storm was the worst folks has seen around here in years. You talk to Edith Baldwin; she lives across the road from Grant. She told me she was up that night. She couldn't sleep 'cause of the thunder, and she saw it hit Grant's barn. She'll tell you alright." Once he finished speaking, the man's thin lips grew taut and his eyes locked on Scott's once more.
Before Scott could reply Owen had snatched his credit card from his hand and strode inside to ring in his sale. Scott leaned against the side of his car, waiting for his credit card to be returned.
The air coming through the open windows of his car cooled Scott off as he drove along the narrow street running through downtown McAllister. His meeting with Grant Bradshaw wasn't until two that afternoon. That left Scott with plenty of time to get something to eat. He mentally scolded himself for having left Columbus so early. But until two days ago he had never heard of the town of McAllister and had wanted to give himself enough travel time so he would not have to risk getting a speeding ticket. Now he had almost three hours to kill. Still, that was preferable to being late for a meeting with a client. And Grant Bradshaw was an important client. This was the first insurance claim he had ever filed in twenty years and Scott expected it to be a routine interview and inspection, followed by him releasing a cheque to Mr. Bradshaw.
When Scott saw the diner to his left with the sandwich board on the sidewalk advertising lunch specials he slowed down. There were several parking spots available across the street from the diner and he pulled in to one of them. He pressed the button on the side of the door to close the windows, then stepped out of the car and locked it. Scott dashed across the street towards the front door of the eatery. Painted on the window of the door in navy blue lettering was BAXTER'S RESTAURANT. Below that were their business hours. He pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Scott found an unoccupied table towards the middle of the small restaurant -- far enough from the kitchen to avoid the noise and traffic of the staff, and far enough from the front door to escape the sounds and smells of the traffic on the street outside. Scott had a routine when he was working away from the office and his habits when at restaurants were an essential part of it.
Soon after he got settled at his table a waitress approached Scott. She was wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. The name tag pinned to her blouse above her left breast indicated that her name was Mary. Her dark blond hair was pulled back and silver hoop earrings dangled from her lobes.
"How are you today?" she said as she placed a menu and a glass of water on the table.
"Fine, thanks," Scott said. "But I won't need a menu. I'd like a clubhouse sandwich with fries and a Coke, please."
"A man who knows what he wants," Mary said with a foxy smile, running her hazel eyes down over Scott. "I like that."
Scott nodded and smiled uncomfortably.
"Are you in town on business?" she asked. Her blue eyes sparkled as they met his.
"Yes, I am," Scott said, nodding slightly.
"I thought so," she replied. "You look too young to be a cop."
Scott laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"What? That you look young, or you don't look like a cop?" she asked, planting the palm of her hand on her right hip.
"Both," he replied. "And I'm an insurance adjuster, actually."
"And not a day over thirty I'd guess." The corners of Mary's mouth curled up as she met his gaze.
"I wish. I passed thirty just over six years ago," he said, frowning a bit.
"I'm dreading turning thirty," Mary said. "But it's a few years off yet, so I'm not worrying."
"More than a few, I bet." Scott smiled into her eyes and noticed how smooth her cheeks were.
"You keep handing out compliments like that and I'll have to be giving
you
a tip." Mary giggled as her cheeks turned red. "I'm Mary, by-the-way." She thrust her chest out and pointed towards her name tag.
"Nice to meet you," he said, noticing the faint outlines of her nipples pushing out at her taut blouse. "I'm Scott."
"So, you must be here about the fire at Bradshaw's barn then. If you work for an insurance company, that is," she said, her voice growing rapid and clipped.
"I really can't say who our clients are," Scott said. "I hope you understand. But I'm not saying you're wrong either." He shot her a boyish grin.
"I thought so," she said. "That was a huge fire. My uncle's on the volunteer fire department and he said it was about the biggest he's seen in fifteen years."
"It's a good thing no one was hurt," Scott said.
"No, no one, but they lost three barn cats. The poor things couldn't get out in time." Mary's voice faded out and she stared at the floor, looking forlorn, then cleared her throat. "I'll be back with your order in a little while," she said before turning and returning to the kitchen.
A clubhouse sandwich is the one thing that is almost impossible to ruin, and Scott virtually lived on them whenever he was on business trips. He had long ago convinced himself that they were even almost healthy. Or at least less hazardous to his health than eating at fast food burger places. Besides, he genuinely liked them and he had never been served one he considered bad. The one that Mary had brought him was no exception and he ate it quickly.
"Can I talk you into having some dessert?"
Scott was poking at one of his back teeth with a mint-flavoured toothpick, trying to dislodge a piece of bacon when Mary returned and posed her question. He looked up at her and smiled awkwardly. After getting her to list the types of pie available, he ordered a piece of banana cream. Scott rarely had desserts when he was on the road, but he was especially hungry and found it hard to resist when Mary asked. She was very pretty and had an enticing air about her which, no doubt, earned her many tips, he thought.
Once he had paid Mary for his meal and left a tip, Scott got back in his car. He began driving north. Keeping in mind the directions that Owen had given him, Scott scanned the oncoming fields and properties to his left for a burned barn. After driving for almost fifteen minutes he came upon what could only be Grant Bradshaw's farm.
Scott drove up the gravel driveway and parked in front of the charred skeleton of what was Mr. Bradshaw's barn. To his left was a spacious two-story white house with a large porch. Sheets and clothes hung from a clothesline between the house and barn, swaying in the afternoon breeze. In back of the house and the remains of the barn was a large pasture with cows grazing in it. Scott picked his briefcase up from the passenger seat and got out of his car. As he was walking towards what used to be the door to the barn he heard the sound of a screen door creaking open, then closing with a bang. Scott turned to his left and saw a man approaching him.
"You must be Mr. Blanchard," a man said.
"Yes, Scott."
"Pleased to meet you, Scott. I'm Grant Bradshaw."
Mr. Bradshaw smiled as he shook Scott's hand. He was tall, with a slight pot-belly. According to the file on him that Scott had in his briefcase, he was fifty-eight. He had a thin, neatly trimmed beard and greyish-blue eyes that peered from behind silver wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was grey, like his beard, and swept back over his nearly-bald head.
"I guess you'll want to take a look at the barn," Grant Bradshaw said.
"Yes," Scott said. "To be perfectly honest, it's really just a formality. We have the report from the chief of the fire department, and there are plenty of witnesses who've said it was lightning that struck your barn. I mainly want to take an inventory of what you lost and get some photographs."
Bradshaw nodded and lead Scott inside the remains of his barn. To his right Scott saw a green John Deere tractor that had been burned almost beyond recognition. It's tires had melted into the charred concrete. Beside the tractor was a disc harrow, a disc cultivator, and four-wheel ATV that Scott thought was once red. Like the tractor, it's tires had melted into the charred cement floor.
