CHAPTER SEVENAn oval bronze plaque embedded in the stone wall beside the tall iron gates held three gleaming brass words: BEST OF TIMES.
Ash parked the Jag and tried the gates. They weren’t locked. He pushed them open and returned to his car. Backed up and slowly drove inside, leaving the gates wide for his return.
Followed the curving drive between a jungle of overgrown grass under tall trees in need of pruning. A strong smell of decay rose from dead leaves and rotting branches that had fallen to the ground. The only sound came from the birds, disturbed by his car.
The drive continued to curve until he lost all sense of direction.
He braked as the Jag shot out from the drive into bright sunlight and came to a stop facing the distant mansion. Best of Times was an impressive sight. The
