Malcom Griffith KILLERFIND: noun, a barnfind turned deadly s Ricky topped a hill, the serene blue of Whispering Pines Lake sprawled over several acres in the valley below them. Ricky slowed at a gravel drive. Two square columns, built from cemented creek rocks much like the boulders they’d just driven over, stood like sentries, one on each side of the entrance. A wrought iron arch connected across the top of the two pillars. The name Griffith was welded into the crown of the arch, although the “h” in the sign had come loose from the welds and listed to the right. Definitely a rustic effect. The driveway looked in better shape than the gravel road they’d just traveled. Ricky had pointed out they had come in the back way. The road going away from the cabin was in much better shape. At least, the boulders were smaller. Ricky turned and drove through the gateway and down the hill. As the driveway curled around a century old oak, a log cabin appeared. Ricky pulled up in front.
