A droubble by Shyrewode
Mister Smith bought a lakeside cabin deep in the woods last summer, for cash. The guys with cabins out that way would see him sitting on his dock most days. Seemed to be talking on his phone for hours at a time. Sometimes he'd fish from a dinghy that came with the property.
Apart from a weekly trip to my store, he kept himself to himself. He once said he didn't trust the banks any more, and he'd closed down all his accounts. Smith was civil, but not exactly polite. Not the type you'd socialize with - he always seemed reluctant to converse. He told me he was from Nebraska, but his license plate said Massachusetts. Always did wonder why.
Last time I saw Smith, he asked if any strangers had been in, asking about him. I assured him no-one had. Like they told me to.
Those guys with New England accents - I didn't tell them exactly where he lived. They offered me money, but I didn't take it. I'm not one to get involved. Just pointed 'em Lakeside.
That was three weeks ago. Cabin's empty now. Maybe he's taken the boat and gone. I doubt he'll be missed.