Welcome the Little Children Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAIN MYSTERIES

  “GREAT !! BOOK This is one fine read. A good mystery that reads like a literary piece.” —Wooley, Amazon Vine Voice Reviewer

  “A LIFE FOR A LIFE is one of the most satisfying books I’ve read this year. Everything about the book delighted me. A Life for a Life has also been compared to To Kill a Mockingbird. Both are character-driven and back a strong message of forgiveness, redemption and acceptance.” —Ana Manwaring, writer, blogger, creative writing instructor

  “FIVE STARS! Lynda McDaniel has that wonderfully appealing way of weaving a story, much in the manner of Fannie Flagg. The tale immediately drew me in.” —Deb, Amazon Hall of Fame Top 100 Reviewer

  “GREAT PACING—I COULDN’ T PUT IT DOWN. I highly recommend this book, but read A Life for a Life first, so you can truly appreciate all that Abit accomplishes in The Roads to Damascus.”

  —Malena E., author and playwright

  “ABIT—AN UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTER. I was so happy to see the whole gang from A Life for a Life back in Book 2 of the series. Lots of twists and turns in both the mountain roads and the clues.” —Virginia McCullough, award-winning author of Amber Light and Greta’s Grace.

  “THOROUGHLY ENJOYABLE and intriguing with descriptive powers and beautiful mountain scenery. Intense family and friend dynamics with character vulnerabilities and complex relationships that steal the reader’s heart and make this mystery a must-read.” —Pam Franklin, international best-selling author of My Five Sisters

  “THE STORY HAS A WONDERFUL BALANCE of drama, mystery, and suspense that easily left me wanting more. What made the story that much more appealing is that it is more than a just a cozy mystery, as the author interweaves Della’s personal journey of self-discovery and sense of community that she finds along the way in the small Appalachian town.” — Kathleen Higgins-Anderson, Jersey Girl Book Reviews

  ​

  “THE MOST SATISFYING MYSTERY I've read in ages.” — Joan Nienhuis, book blogger

  “MARVELOUS READ! A compelling story told through the eyes and voice of two remarkable narrators [who] possess the same hopes and dreams for a new life. They describe their home life in such great detail that you feel like you have been transported to a small mountain town and are fortunate enough to catch a stunning glimpse into living and working in the deep woods.” — Yvette Klobuchar, author of Brides Unveiled

  MORE REVIEWS FROM READERS

  “I JUST FINISHED THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS, having previously read A Life for a Life. Like delicious hors d’oeuvres, they left me panting for the next installment. I hope to God the delightful Fiona becomes Abit’s second half. Ireland is a very important part of Appalachia’s soul; it seems fitting that Abit finds fulfillment in an Irish rose. I find Lynda’s fiction revealing of the human condition.”

  “A GENTLE SOUL. I found it difficult to put the book down. It flowed so easily. … Read this one. I think you’ll fall for Abit.”

  “RIVETING SUSPENSE AND PLOT TWISTS. In contrast to the often inauthentic characters in so many novels I have read, Abit, Della and Alex (and now Fiona!) come across as utterly real – people I would like to meet.”

  “SWEET, EXCITING COMING-OF-AGE STORY of Abit Bradshaw. We met and fell in love with Abit in A Life for a Life. Now Abit is challenged to explore a world he didn't know existed. Come along on Abit’s adventure; it won’t disappoint!”

  “I COULDN’T PUT IT DOWN. Once again, it left me wanting more ... The characters are well drawn and totally engaging, but what is most captivating is the metaphysical thread that gently supports each character’s journey of growth.”

  “AFTER A LIFE FOR A LIFE, I WAS EAGERLY ANTICIPATING THIS SEQUEL, and I was not disappointed. The suspense and plot twists were as riveting as before. … I also appreciated the author’s insights into the complicated relationship between the local people and the increasing numbers of former city-dwellers moving into their communities.”

  Welcome the Little Children

  A Mystery Novel

  Lynda McDaniel

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and are used fictitiously. All others are products of the author’s imagination.

  Published in 2018 by Lynda McDaniel Books.

  Welcome the Little Children. Copyright © 2018 by Lynda McDaniel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission request, please write to the publisher at LyndaMcDanielBooks.com.

  ISBN: 978-0-9977808-7-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedicated to loving families of all stripes.

  1994

  1

  Della

  “I don’t know what to do with this.”

  I was working in the back of the store, and I could’ve sworn I heard someone calling me. But when I looked out front, no one was there.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d heard phantom customers. Probably wishful thinking, though over the past ten years, I had built up the trade at Coburn’s General Store, a small grocery I’d bought in Laurel Falls, N.C. (Not even the locals knew who Coburn was, but the name came with the deed. And no one would’ve called it anything else, no matter what I renamed it.)

  I’d gone back to cutting a large round of cheddar into wedges when I heard: “I said, I don’t know what to do with this.”

  That time I walked to the cheese counter and looked around. “Down here,” someone barked. “I want to know how to use this.”

  I glanced down at a little girl dressed in standard-issue jeans and T-shirt who couldn’t have been more than seven years old. Her round, full face framed by blond curly hair frowned at me as she held up a bulging can of chickpeas. “Some old woman gave this to us from the Rolling Store.”

  “Oh, I see,” was all I could think to say. I’d learned that catch-all expression from my neighbor Mildred Bradshaw, perfect for times when I found myself at a loss for words. And the sight of a remarkably composed little girl holding a can of beans that could’ve blown any minute had that effect on me.

  I stepped around the counter and bent down. “May I?” I asked, taking away the bean bomb and setting it on the floor behind the counter where it couldn’t do much harm. “The Rolling Store took its last run out of Laurel Falls in 1990, so you’ve had that can at least four years.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “It was in the back of the cupboard when I was scrabbling for something to make dinner with. And like I’ve been trying to tell you, I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “You’d better not do anything with it. It’s about to explode, well past its expiration date.”

  “What a rip-off. You give away something that’s no good.” She punctuated her feelings with a stomp of her little sneaker-clad foot.

  “I stand by my merchandise,” I said, motioning for her to follow me. “Why don’t you pick out something to replace it?”

  Her frown eased as she wandered the aisles, picking up different items and studying them. Eventually, she grabbed a can and said, “I’ll swap for this.” A tin of Petrossian Caviar, something I stocked for a rich customer who ordered it more to impress her guests than a love of the delicacy. (Normally, no one else would be buying caviar at $90 a can, but this new customer was shaping up to be anything but normal.) I must have made a face at the costly swap, because the little i
mp started chuckling. “I was just kidding with you. I figured it was the most expensive thing in the store, whatever it is. How ‘bout this?” She held up a $4 can of salmon.

  “Let’s make it two of those.” I reached for another can and set them both on the counter. “How many are you cooking for?

  “Four, though Mama doesn’t eat much. But Daddy and my brother, Dee, eat plenty. I have to serve myself first to make sure I get enough nourishment.”

  Why is this child shopping for her family and making and serving them dinner? I thought. And why isn’t she in school? Then I remembered it was Saturday. But still, something about the scene unnerved me.

  She interrupted my thoughts. “I’m fussing over dinner because Mama’s sick,” she said, her hands on her hips, standing her ground.

  I was trying hard to keep a promise to mind my own business. At least most days. A few years ago when I helped my next-door neighbor and best friend, Abit Bradshaw, track down a trio of con artists, I told everyone afterwards that I planned to stay clear of other people’s problems. They laughed, but I’d managed to confine my enduring reporter’s nosiness (from a former life) to friends and family.

  Until now.

  Something about a little girl cooking for her father and brother irked me enough to ask more questions. She beat me to it.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t my father do the cooking? He’s just awful at it, and I don’t think he’s fakin’ it. And my brother is only a little feller. Dee’s just six years old.”

  I looked closer to make sure she wasn’t really a miniature adult. She was bossy and self-assured in a way I never was at her age. But I liked her spunk. “So, what’s your name?” I asked.

  “Astrid.” She thrust out her chin in a defiant way.

  “Oh, that’s a nice name. You don’t hear it much anymore.”

  “Yeah, there’s a good reason for that. The kids at school make terrible fun of it.”

  When I asked what they said about it, her face crump led, and I could tell she was struggling not to cry. “I’ll tell you what,” I added quickly. “Let’s not sully this space with anything from the schoolyard, okay?” She looked puzzled. “What I mean is, it’s a lovely name in my store. You can consider this a safe zone.” She nodded and relaxed her stance. “Why don’t we have a Coke or cookies or something?” I asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Do you have anything that’s not sugary? I haven’t had any lunch, and I get a little dizzy if I eat sweets when I’m this hungry.”

  “How old did you say you were?”

  “I didn’t. But I’m eight years old. What’s it to you?”

  Wow. That little bruiser didn’t hold back. If I were still a reporter writing profiles as I did back in D.C., I’d have started taking notes. I wondered again about her size and age—and worried she may not be getting the “nourishment” she needed.

  I grabbed some of the cheddar cheese I’d been cutting and a few rounds of dry-cured salami, then sliced whole wheat bread and an apple. I set them on the table in the back and added a couple of fizzy waters. I wasn’t sure if a kid her age would like the sharp cheese and peppery meat, but she gobbled it all down, as if she thought she’d better stock up while she could. But I also got the impression she’d be a force to reckon with at her own dining table—she positioned her elbows in a way that told me she was well-practiced at protecting her food. I had to scramble to get some, though I didn’t care about that.

  We finished our snack with coffee. I fixed hers like I used to for Abit—mostly milk with a slug of coffee. She drank that right down. When I opened a tin of chocolate chip cookies I’d made the night before, her eyes opened wide; she took two of the biggest ones.

  While she ate them, systematically nibbling around the edges, I tried to think who she reminded me of. I chuckled when it hit me—Nancy Drew. I’d read all those books when I was a girl, and I still remembered how composed and worldly she seemed for someone her age. I asked Astrid if she’d read those books, too, but she wrinkled her nose.

  “Actually,” she said between bites, “I prefer the Hardy Boys.” She wiped her mouth on a paper towel and asked, “Do you have any recipes for what to do with that salmon (pronounced SAL-man)? I don’t believe I’ve ever had it before.”

  After I set her up in the back with a couple of easy cookbooks and paper and pen, she got busy copying. I had to explain what some words meant, but otherwise, she sailed along. As I cleared our plates and cups, I asked, “Say, Astrid, would you like this tin of cookies to take home?”

  Her face lit up, but just as quickly a shadow fell over it. “I’d better not,” was all she said before returning to her recipes.

  She was working away when I left to check on my dog, Jake. He was getting older, and I liked to bring him down to the store in the afternoon, once the nosy health inspector was safely on his way back to Newland after spot checks around the county.

  As we came in the back door, I called out, “Hey, Astrid, I’d like you to meet my dog.” Jake was already sniffing around, eager to see who or what was new in the store. But she’d left. Just a slip of paper on the counter with the words: THANK YOU.

  A sadness crept over me as I read her eight-year-old’s scrawl. The same feeling I had when I first saw her. I laid the note back on the counter and told myself I was being silly. She was just fine.

  2

  Abit

  “Whoa! Stop! You almost backed into the band saw I’m running over here. Dangerously close to being like the butcher who backed into his meat grinder and got a little behind in his work.”

  That was Shiloh. I’d hired him because, well, I was a little behind in my work. And he made some of the prettiest dovetail joints I’d ever seen. We’d met at The Hicks, or the Hickson School of American Studies in Boone, N.C. After my jaunt through the Virginia mountains to find con artists who’d messed with me and the school, I went back there to learn more about woodworking and wood carving. Two year ago, I moved home to Laurel Falls and set up my woodshop in a corner of the family barn. Next door to Della Kincaid, right where I wanted to be.

  Della had seen somethin’ in me no one else ever had, and I didn’t want to venture too far from that. And she’d brainstorm with me sometimes when I was designing new furniture. So would Alex, her ex-husband and now boyfriend, when he wasn’t in D.C. or somewhere covering a news story.

  Even though my woodshop stood in the shadow of my parents’ house, I liked working there. I’d taken out the dividing wall between two stalls so I had a good-sized space for making large pieces of furniture. The walls were mostly logs and chinking, but I covered one in rough-cut pine that gave me space to organize tools and such. I added a strong floor so I had a sturdy place to set all them power tools.

  At first, when I started building furniture, I didn’t know what to make. But then I recalled the things that stirred me the first time I saw them—like that sideboard at Ila Pittman’s while I was traipsing through Virginia. Or the dining table at Alex’s. And hoosiers had always been a favorite. Ever since I was a kid, I’d watched Mama crank the sifter handle under the built-in flour bin to make it snow into her bowl. Hoosiers also have a pull-out countertop for more room to pat out biscuits and a large cabinet below for storage. All them nooks and crannies gave me places to add special touches. Mostly carvings on the legs or at the top, but sometimes I’d chisel out a place for ceramic or enameled inlays from local artists. As more tourists and second home people came to live nearby, my business was on the rise.

  Shiloh, aka Bob Greene, had a religious conversion of sorts while at The Hicks. He hooked up with some of the Buddhists who came there every summer, but unlike their serious devotion, he seemed to cherry-pick whatever suited him. He changed his appearance by dressing only in loose clothing, mostly black hippie pants and black T-shirts, and growing a long wispy mustache that gave him the air of a magician. That impression grew stronger when, after a meditation break, he’d slip into the woodshop without me knowing it. />
  Shiloh seemed to have specially taken to the notion of the laughing Buddha; he liked nothin’ better than telling jokes. His repertoire was growing, though he repeated his jokes a lot, or at least I heard them over and over when different folks came into the shop. Even so, some of them made me laugh every time. Some of them.

  I needed a break, so I headed over to Della’s. I dusted off my overalls (I used to worry they made me look like a hillbilly, but they were the best thing for the kind of work I did); whistled for my dog, Millie, a black-and-white fiest who took up with me in Virginia; and walked down the mossy steps to the store. It was a blustery day for May; I figured a rain storm was on the way. When I opened the front door, a gust of wind snuck in behind me and blew some papers onto the floor. I picked them up and couldn’t help but read the top one.

  “Hey, Della. Who’re you mad at?” I shouted toward the back, since I couldn’t see her anywheres out front. I looked down to see Millie and Della’s dog, Jake, some kind of yellow hound, already tussling—their way of saying howdy.

  “I’m not mad at anyone,” Della said, carrying a case of homemade jams to the front.

  I’d swear in the ten year I’d known her, Della hadn’t changed a lick, but somehow that day, she looked different. It took a minute before it dawned on me she’d cut her hair to an inch or so below her ears, like she wore it when I first met her. Her hair was still that pretty reddish gold, though there were more gray streaks. But that was it. Me? I’d grown to almost six feet three inches and filled out a lot. Of course, I’d started as a kid and come June I’d be twenty-five.