by A. Gardner
“Oh, heavens.” She took a deep breath.
I glanced up and down the hallway.
Ralph was gone.
I directed Clementine toward Patrick’s room, and another group of townies stepped off of the elevator. Patrick’s room would be full of flowers and baked goods before he even woke up. I smiled, finding myself assuming the role of traffic director. Aggie, head chef at the resort, walked by holding a platter of chocolate chip cookies. She’d been less of basket case since discovering lavender oil for stress relief. Stella Binsby, the owner of the corner market, dropped in with a bouquet of roses, and Pastor Tad popped in with a few regulars from his congregation. Even Emmett Brewer’s wife, Charlie the nitpick, arrived with a bunch of balloons that said Get Well Soon. Her thick-framed glasses were an emerald green and her hair was as short as Patrick’s, but she’d dyed it a deep red.
Charlie’s visit had been followed by Cydney and the sheriff.
“Just an accident, huh?” Detective Keene placed his hands on his hips. He was dressed in his usual attire—wrinkle-free slacks and a smooth chin.
“Yes, it was,” I insisted. “I hope the two of you are here to show your support. The last thing anyone needs to see is a video of my brother-in-law resisting arrest in the emergency room.”
“How do you know about that?” Cydney narrowed his eyes.
“You saw them donuts on my boy’s desk same as I did,” the sheriff chimed in. “I’m not here to arrest anyone. I came to ask you what happened. I have reports to fill out.”
“You could have sent another officer.”
“We wanted to make this inquiry in person,” Cydney responded.
The sheriff nudged him backward with his arm.
“We both know these are troubling times,” Sheriff Williams muttered. “I also couldn’t help but overhear a rumor that my brother was involved in all of this. Please tell me that’s not true.”
“He appeared out of nowhere.” I shrugged. “I couldn’t refuse his help. I did what anyone would have done.”
“Ralph was up the mountain this morning?” The sheriff tilted his head. My stomach tied itself in knots. He was asking about more than just the details of Patrick’s accident and rescue story. There was something else ticking away in his brain.
“Yeah.” I watched as the sheriff pulled the edge of his graying mustache. Whatever the Williams boys had against each other must have started way back before I was even born. It had to. The sheriff seemed more concerned about the whereabouts of his little brother than the actual murder of Dalton the bartender.
“I see,” the sheriff responded. He turned to his deputy. “Cydney, start the car.”
“But sir—”
“Those are my orders,” he interjected. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”
Cydney reluctantly nodded and headed back toward the elevator. Miso tried to follow him, which I found amusing since Cydney wasn’t an animal lover and never gave Miso a second glance. I patted Miso on the head as he watched Cydney disappear.
“Are you going for a drive up Pinecliffe Mountain by chance?” I knew the sheriff wouldn’t give me straight answers, especially ones relating to his murder case. But I had to try.
“Essie, listen very carefully.” The sheriff focused on me and only me. The weight of his stare made my chest feel like a cinder block. It was difficult to breathe. “I need you to tell me everything my brother said to you. Everything.”
“What’s going on here, Sheriff? Am I in danger or something? Should I be worried?”
“If you listen to my advice, you’ll be fine,” he assured me. “Now, did my brother say anything to you about his whereabouts the past few days? Did he ask you any questions?”
“Honestly, your brother is the strong and silent type,” I admitted. “He didn’t say much.”
“When you saw him on the mountain was he carrying anything?” The sheriff raised his eyebrows.
“He was empty-handed,” I answered.
The sheriff turned his head, gritting his teeth and muttering a few swear words. “Thanks, Essie.”
“That’s it?” I couldn’t help but raise my voice. I didn’t like being left in the dark. It usually resulted in me wandering into situations that had almost gotten me killed. “No offense, Sheriff, but thanks isn’t good enough. My family is wrapped up in this mess just as much as yours. Tell me what’s going on.” I stamped my foot, and it was loud enough to hold his attention.
Miso barked, grabbing the attention of a nearby nurse, who narrowed her eyes at the sight of Miso’s curly and slightly muddy coat.
“Essie!”
I turned around and saw Joy. She was beaming, her platinum hair glowing under the bright hallway lights and making her look angelic. She waved at me to join her. That could only mean one thing. My heart raced, and my eyes welled up with tears I couldn’t hold back any longer.
Patrick was finally awake.
Chapter 22
“Get that darn thing away from me. That mutt is a cesspool of germs!”
Old Man Simpkins had quite the reputation, and I’d only ever spoken to him a handful of times. He wasn’t fond of the youngins, as he said. In fact, he’d made patronizing kids on their walks home from school an Olympic sport. He rode his horse down Canyon Street on a fairly regular basis even though the sheriff had warned him not to because of the poop. But Old Man Simpkins was most well-known for the time he’d drunk himself stupid and relieved himself outside of the Grizzly. It had been freezing cold, and tourists with cameras had been present.
“Think of him as a smaller version of one of your horses,” I said.
“You leave Minnie out of this,” he snapped, wrinkling his nose at the sight of Miso. He was shorter than me and almost bald. And whether he was cussing out a townie or dishing out compliments, he spoke with a certain sharpness. “You young folks think you know everything. I’m sick and tired of being told what I can and can’t do on my own land.”
“We’re on Canyon Street,” I reminded him. I glanced up and down the sidewalk. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and I’d been waiting impatiently all day for a call from Clementine. Patrick had fractured his leg, and he was in surgery.
“Eh.” He waved his hand. He smelled like week-old body odor as he passed me. It was the scent that every townie had complained about at one time or another. Mrs. Tankle had said that he’d gone sour due to lack of female companionship. She probably wasn’t wrong.
I took a deep breath.
“Wait,” I called after him. “Wait just a minute, please.”
Old Man Simpkins eyed me up and down suspiciously.
“What is it?” he barked, careful not to get too close to Miso. “I need to get to the corner market before it closes.”
“You have a couple of hours.”
“Stella closes early on Sundays,” he argued. “Everybody knows that.”
“I think you’ll be fine.”
“Spit it out then.” He pointed a wrinkled finger at my face. “You ain’t selling insurance, are you?”
“No.”
“I don’t need help finding Jesus,” he added.
“This has nothing to do with religion. I just want to ask you a few questions about last week.”
“Oh,” he responded. “Well, make it snappy. Despite what you young folks think, I have places to be. And I won’t be inviting you over on account that I hate company.”
“Can you tell me about the shootout?” I braced myself for more complaining.
“Read the papers.” He threw his hands in the air. “Everything you need to know is right there. Why are you asking me?”
“Well, you were there,” I said. “You spoke to the other gunslingers right before the accident. Did you know Dalton? Did he seem stressed to you?”
“Did I know Dalton?” His eyes went wide. Even Miso took a step back. “Of course not!” A trail of spit shot from his mouth. “I played my part, and I did nothin’ wrong. Do you hear me? Unlike the pisspots these days who
call themselves men, I know how to handle a pistol. Who are you, the police?”
“It was just a question.” I took another step back and answered in a calm manner. It didn’t seem to help. Once Old Man Simpkins got worked up, he stayed that way. He held the record for most noise complaints filed with the Bison Creek police department.
Maybe I’d stumbled on his trigger word or sound without realizing it.
“You’re worse than that officer who kept asking me when I’d last had a drink,” he went on. “A little whiskey with breakfast never killed nobody.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
He glanced at his watch. “Oh, now I barely have time to pick up my canned corn.” He rolled his eyes and began fumbling with his waistband. It took me a minute to realize what he was about to do—pee in the street to save time. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“Whoa!” I shouted, covering my eyes. “Hey, you can’t do that here. There are tourists walking around, not to mention little kids that don’t need to see that.” I yanked Miso away as fast as I could. I didn’t need him getting any ideas.
Old Man Simpkins rolled his eyes. “You sound just like that Hispanic. She wouldn’t stop shouting at me.” He zipped up his pants. “But she made a bigger mess than I did. Little Miss Hypocrite!”
Hispanic? Chances were he was referring to the Santos family, and I knew that Mrs. Santos would have had a fit if she saw Old Man Simpkins relieving himself in front of Oso Cantina at any hour of the day. I was surprised she didn’t hit him with a broom or make him wash dishes to apologize for the indecency.
“She has a name,” I replied. “Mrs. Santos. And she was right to yell at you. You can’t go around spreading urine in public places, especially Oso Cantina. It’s unhygienic.”
“Your mutt does it,” he argued back. “What does it matter, huh?”
“It matters because it matters.” I stamped my foot. “There are also plenty of bathrooms around here. It wouldn’t kill you to take a minute to use one.”
“Hypocrites and liars! I can’t stand the younger generation.” He gritted his teeth and glared at Miso. “She smashes that fellow’s head on the sidewalk and no one says nothin’ but I go for a quick piss and everyone has an opinion about it.” He muttered a few more things as he walked away.
“Hold on,” I added. “A guy’s head? What on earth are you talking about?”
“That fellow’s head,” he repeated, throwing his hands in the air. “She smashed it into the ground, and it made a huge mess!”
“Did this happen last week?” I asked, the wheels in my head turning.
“Yes,” he shouted, his back turned to me.
“At night?”
“I had a few drinks at the Grizzly, so sue me.” Old Man Simpkins crossed the street mumbling more about the evening. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I’d heard all I needed to hear. I grabbed Miso’s leash even tighter.
“Hungry, boy?” I tilted my head toward Oso Cantina. “What do you say to Mexican food for dinner?”
Chapter 23
I had a hunch, and I hoped that it was right.
“I heard about Patrick.” Mrs. Santos placed a hand on her chest. “He has been in our prayers.”
I sat on a barstool near the register at Oso Cantina and surfed through the menu. I’d planned on a light salad for dinner, but my chat with Old Man Simpkins had derailed my dinner plans. I glanced over my shoulder. Miso wagged his tail as he watched people pass the restaurant. I’d tied him to a table outside after getting a dirty look from one of Mrs. Santos’s customers.
“Thank you,” I said. “I think I’ll order my usual chicken tacos to-go.”
“I’m glad you still have an appetite,” she commented. “Don’t let this setback get you down, chica.”
“Talk to me in a month.” I handed her my menu. “The recovery process is going to be slow and painful. Patrick was already going a little stir-crazy not being able to ski or snowboard. Wheelchairs, crutches, and casts are going to make him even crazier.”
I spoke with the assumption that Patrick would be able to walk again. I had no idea if that would be the case, but it felt strange to utter those words out loud. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to state the obvious out of fear that my words would come true.
One thing at a time. Focus on one thing at a time.
“I’ll get your order started,” she said.
“You’re a lifesaver.” I rested my chin in my hand and watched her pour me a glass of water. “Any updates about the break-in?” My gaze wandered to the shelf above the register that had housed their family heirloom.
“Nothing.” Mrs. Santos sighed. “The police are too busy with this shootout case. I might never know what happened.” She grabbed a rag and began mindlessly wiping the counters. They looked like they’d already been cleaned. “I’ll tell you what. I can already feel the bad luck creeping in. Tina nearly fainted during the lunch rush.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Mrs. Santos answered, still wiping a spot that was already spotless. “Although she has been acting a little strange lately. I think it’s her studies. She has taken on more than she can handle.”
The last time I’d seen Tina, she’d acted strange then too.
I think I knew why.
“Mrs. Santos, is Tina here?”
“She’s in the office,” she responded.
“Mind if I pop back there and say hello?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ll come get you when your order is ready.” She threw the rag over her shoulder and retreated to the kitchen.
I took a deep breath and walked down the hallway in the back of the restaurant. Past the kitchen and the bathrooms was an office. Tina sat at the desk in the center of the room, swiveling back and forth in her chair. Her dog, Tamale, saw me first.
“Hi.” I waved. Tina stopped swiveling.
“Oh, Essie,” she replied. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and the apron she wore while serving was draped across the desk. “How are you? I was sorry to hear about Patrick.”
“Thanks. Only time will tell what sort of hurdles he has in front of him. I hate waiting.”
“The waiting game sucks.” Tina leaned back in her chair so she could see down the hallway. “Sorry. I have to watch my language when Mom is around, or she’ll ship me out to an all-Catholic girls’ school.”
“You’re an adult.”
“To my mother, I’ll always be ten years old.”
“Tina, I need to ask you something.” I cleared my throat. I didn’t like confrontation, but I had no time to wiggle my way toward the truth. My sister thrived on confrontation, but she was stuck at the resort working on some last-minute details of the mayor’s charity fun run coming up.
“Yes, sometimes the guacamole isn’t fresh, but it still tastes good. We use lots of limes.” She chuckled to herself.
I clasped my hands together. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
Tina bit the side of her lip. Tamale stared up at me with a vacant expression. I observed the way Tina flared her nostrils and glanced down at the desk. She grabbed the first thing she could think of. She was trying to keep her hands busy.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the sugar skull,” I responded. My heart pounded. My guess could have been wrong, but I still had the gut feeling that it wasn’t. Old Man Simpkins might have been insane, but he never seemed to forget when a youngin did him wrong.
“Oh, please.” Tina shuffled through a stack of papers.
“Old Man Simpkins saw you,” I continued. “You know he did because you yelled at him when he saw you.” I took a deep breath, watching Tina thumb through papers as she listened. “You smashed the sugar skull, and then you set the whole thing up to make it look like a break-in. You just forgot to steal a few things to make it seem authentic.”
“Why would I do that to my own restaurant, Essie? That’s crazy.” She didn
’t look up.
“I don’t know.” I crossed my arms. “Money? Blackmail? There are lots of different reasons. Obviously, the skull itself wasn’t worth anything or you wouldn’t have broken it.” I held up a finger. “Oh, that’s it. There must have been something inside. What was inside the sugar skull, Tina?”
She slammed both of her hands on the desk, forcing Tamale to let out a yelp.
“Is this why you’re here?” she replied, her cheeks like two chili peppers. “How dare you accuse me of destroying one of my mother’s most prized possessions. You have no proof. I think you should leave.”
“What’s on all of those papers you’ve been looking at?”
Tina glanced down at the stack.
“Stuff.”
“You haven’t been reading,” I said. “You’ve been avoiding eye contact. Tina, just tell me what happened. Were you forced to do it? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
And then the thought floated straight to the forefront of my brain. The last time I’d seen Tina, she’d been startled out of the blue while serving my sister and me on the patio. But there had been someone else around at the same time. Someone who had stirred up trouble in Bison Creek the moment he’d arrived.
“Essie, just go.”
“Oh, no.” I rubbed my forehead. “You see, this why I hate it when people don’t tell me things. Geez. I hate to say it, but the sheriff might be one step ahead of me this time.”
“I think you should go home and lie down,” Tina said. “Or better yet, let me send you with a bottle of tequila. That’ll wash the nonsense right out of you.”
“Along with other things,” I muttered. “Tina, just tell me what was in the sugar skull.”
“I didn’t break it,” she said through her teeth.
“Was it a flash drive?”
“No.” Tina stood up.
“A chip or something?”
“No,” Tina said a little louder.
“A note? A card? An encrypted message?”
“No,” Tina shouted. Tamale took a hard fast stance at his owner’s side.