by Jeff Shelby
Mikey nodded.
“And what can you tell me about the statue?”
“Nothing,” Mikey said.
“Nothing?”
Mikey shook his head.
A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched. “When did it go missing?”
“I don’t really know.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a cow statue,” Mikey said. “It looks like a super big cow.”
Sam sighed, loudly. “How do you expect me to do a story on this if you won’t answer my questions?”
“I don’t,” Mikey said pointedly. “I don’t want a story done.”
“Then why did your partner call me?”
Mikey shrugged. “I have no idea. But I don’t want a story done, period.”
I was just as confused as the reporter standing next to me. Why would Mikey not want the theft publicized? More eyes could only mean that it might be recovered sooner.
Sam asked the question I was thinking. “Why not?”
“I just don’t,” he said stubbornly.
“That isn’t much of a reason,” Sam said.
Mikey’s eyes narrowed. “Well, it’s the reason I’m giving you.”
Sam Walz squinted at him. “This makes me think there's a bigger story now.”
Mikey folded his arms across his chest. “You can think whatever you want.”
Sam stared at him for a minute, tapping his pen against the pad of paper in his other hand. “Fine,” he finally said. Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and stormed out of the restaurant.
Mikey’s shoulders sagged as soon as he left, but then stiffened when the door opened again. I frowned, ready to give Sam Walz a piece of my mind. He was definitely living up to a journalist’s reputation.
But Sam Walz wasn’t standing in the doorway.
Sheriff Lewis was.
I tried not to grimace.
“Well, well, well,” Sheriff Lewis said as he strolled into the dining area. “What do we have here?”
His tone made it sound as though he thought he’d walked in on an active crime scene. Not that he would've recognized one.
“Good morning,” I said brightly. It felt like a better idea to kill him with kindness than to outright scowl at him.
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“I just stopped by to say hi and to see the new restaurant. Right, Mikey?” I stared at him, widening my eyes to try to silently communicate with the man who had gone mute next to me.
Mikey blinked and then nodded. “Good morning, Sheriff.” His smile was tight.
The sheriff tipped his hat in response. He was dressed in his standard uniform of pressed khakis and a white button-down shirt, his trusty pipe tucked into the breast pocket.
“So this is the new restaurant.” Sheriff Lewis took in the décor, his gaze sweeping the room. He sniffed. “Is that bacon I smell?”
Mikey nodded.
“Sure smells good.”
“I’d offer you some but there isn’t any left,” Mikey said quickly.
Sheriff Lewis looked around the empty restaurant. “You already open?”
Mikey shot me a confused look before answering. “Well, no...”
“Then why are you cooking bacon?”
“I was trying out some new recipes,” Mikey explained. “And I was hungry.”
The sheriff gave him a cool nod and grunted. “So what’s this I hear about a missing statue? Some cow thing?”
Mikey swallowed and said nothing.
Sheriff Lewis frowned, his bushy eyebrows drawing together, his equally bushy moustache drooping. “Chuck called it in, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but—”
The sheriff cut him off and looked at me, his frown deepening. “You have anything to do with this?”
“Me?”
“You got a farm,” the sheriff said. “Maybe you want that statue for yourself.”
“I do not want a cow statue,” I said firmly. “It's a farm and my home, not a place for tourists. And I did not take it, either.”
The sheriff grunted again, and it was clear that he didn’t believe a word I said.
“The statue isn’t missing,” Mikey blurted out.
“It isn’t?” The sheriff took the words right out of my mouth.
“It’s...uh...it’s been misplaced.”
Sheriff Lewis reached for his pipe and stuck it in his mouth. “Misplaced?” he said, shifting the pipe to the side so he could speak.
Mikey nodded.
“Then why did Chuck call it in?”
“We had some...miscommunication,” Mikey said.
“Miscommunication?” Sheriff Lewis repeated.
Mikey nodded.
“So it’s not missing?”
Mikey hesitated.
I cleared my throat. “The statue needed some...some repairs for the grand opening,” I said, scrambling to come up with something to say.
Sheriff Lewis narrowed his eyes, his caterpillar-like eyebrows dipping into a V. “Repairs?”
It was my turn to nod. “I think there’s been some confusion as to whether or not it was picked up for the repair work to be done. No one seems to know who has it, where it is...all that...” My voice trailed off.
“Is that true, son?” the sheriff asked Mikey. “If she’s not telling the truth, you can tell me. If she’s blackmailing you, holding something over you, you let me know, you hear?”
I stared at him incredulously. “What are you even talking about?”
Sheriff Lewis ignored me and waited for Mikey to respond.
Mikey glanced uncertainly at me before addressing the sheriff. “We’re, uh, trying to figure out where it is.”
“You’re sure she wasn’t involved?” Sheriff Lewis asked, jerking his thumb in my direction. “You can tell me.”
Mikey shook his head.
The sheriff tugged on his belt loops to readjust his pants. “Alright,” he said. “I guess that’s good news.”
“You guess?” I said.
“It means I don’t have to looking for a missing statue,” the sheriff said. His expression darkened. “But it also means you’re off the hook. Again.”
I was never on the hook to begin with, but I didn’t say this out loud. It was useless trying to argue with the sheriff. He was convinced I was the devil incarnate and that my sole goal in moving to Latney was to wreak havoc on the tiny town and the surrounding county. And nothing I said or did was about to convince him otherwise.
“Guess I’ll be on my way,” he said, tipping his hat once more, this time in farewell. “You let me know if you need anything.”
He was most definitely not talking to me.
Mikey nodded and mumbled his thanks, and the sheriff left.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
“What was all what about?”
“That,” I said, pointing toward the door.
“That was the sheriff being his usual incompetent self,” Mikey responded.
“Well, yeah, I get that.” I paused. “You don’t want him to look into the statue?”
I had my own reasons for not wanting him involved, but that seemed like kind of a moot point. He represented the law in Bueller County, regardless of how I felt about him and his abilities.
Mikey sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He's more likely to make it worse, don't you think?”
He had a point. “That's fair.”
“Plus, I just don’t want the publicity, you know?” Mikey said.
I didn’t know. “No, I don’t. Why not?”
He pulled out a chair and sank into it. “Because it’s admitting failure, okay?” He propped both elbows on the table. “And I don’t want to go blasting that around.”
“How is having a statue stolen from your property a failure on your part?” I sat down next to him. “It’s not like you asked for someone to come steal it.”
“I know,” h
e said. “It just...it feels like bad karma.”
“How?”
He dropped his chin into his hands. “What if publicizing it just opens the floodgates for more bad things to happen?”
“I think that’s very unlikely.”
“Maybe,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “But what if it does?”
“Mikey.”
He forced his eyelids open.
“You’re exhausted,” I told him. “You aren’t thinking straight.”
He gave a slight nod of his head. “I guess,” he said. “I just wish we could delay the opening until we had the stupid statue back and everything was back to normal.”
“The restaurant is more than just a statue,” I reminded him. “It’s your food, and the wine Chuck is bringing in. It’s the décor and the ambience and the awesome person running the show.”
He was frowning, and I could tell my pep talk wasn’t working.
I reached out a hand and touched his elbow. “We’ll find it,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
He offered a tired smile. “Easier said than done.”
THIRTEEN
I LEFT THE RESTAURANT and drove back to Latney, my thoughts shifting between Mikey’s condition and my new suspect, the former owner of the restaurant.
I was worried about my friend, but I knew the best thing I could do to help him would be to find the statue. If he was talking about delaying the opening of the restaurant because of the missing statue, I knew this was really bothering him, and I knew the morning of the disappearance he’d been in shock rather than expressing ambivalence. His reaction today was proof enough of that.
I thought about Lance Larson. I’d pegged him almost immediately as a potential suspect, especially since he appeared to be so bitter over losing the restaurant and seeing ownership change hands. But one thing didn’t jive with him being responsible for the theft: he’d seemed genuinely surprised when Sam arrived and mentioned the missing statue. I don’t know how he’d managed to come to the restaurant without noticing it was gone, but his reaction when Sam and I began talking about it supported this was indeed the case.
It could have just been an act, I thought. Maybe he’d purposely reacted that way, especially since Sam was there asking questions. He might have gotten spooked.
I wasn’t ready to cross him off the list quite yet.
I drove past Toby’s and glanced in the direction of St. Simon’s. I hadn’t had a lot of time to dwell on Declan’s impending return, which was probably a good thing. Idly, I wondered if Gunnar had heard the news. I hadn’t told him.
To be fair, though, I hadn’t mentioned the missing statue to Gunnar, either. Not because I was keeping it from him, but because we hadn’t seen each other since I’d learned about its disappearance. We hadn’t spoken since he’d left my house yesterday morning, and we’d only exchanged a couple of texts since then. He had an appointment down in Richmond—something about picking up some farm equipment—and I knew he’d be busy inspecting tools and machinery and negotiating prices. It was one of the things I appreciated in how our relationship had evolved. Where once Gunnar had displayed jealousy, and even a little bit of controlling behavior, he’d backed off that almost completely. We each had our own lives, and we gave each other the space we needed. He’d figured out that just because we didn’t talk daily didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about him or that our relationship had changed. It just meant that we were busy with our own things, and that we would reconnect eventually. Because we always did.
And just because I was thinking about him, my phone buzzed and a text message pushed through.
Be back tonight. Dinner?
I waited to respond until I was stopped at the stop sign. A school bus lurched through the intersection, spewing exhaust, and I tapped out a quick “yes.” The school bus trundled on and I pressed down on the gas.
Someone waved at me from the sidewalk as I drove by. It was Martin, Dawn’s husband.
I waved back.
He put both arms in the air, trying to get my attention again, and his height and girth reminded me of a costumed character at an amusement park, waving to the crowd as they paraded by. Martin was like an enormous teddy bear: not obese, but just solid, like an oversized linebacker.
I slowed and rolled down my window.
“You have a nail in your tire,” he called, pointing to my rear tire.
I glanced into the rearview mirror but couldn’t see what he was pointing at. “I do?”
He nodded. “Saw it glinting in the sun when you were at the stop sign.”
I sighed. I was not a fan of car problems. At all.
“Pull over,” he said. “I can take a look at it for you.”
I pulled to the curb and Martin trotted over. He was holding a drink from the Wicked Wich. He set it on the trunk of my car and then crouched down to inspect the tire.
“Yep. Definitely a nail,” he announced as he stood up and dusted off his hands.
“Do I need a new tire?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not in the shoulder or the sidewall, so you should be able to just plug and patch it.”
“Uh...how do I do that?” But before he could respond, I said, “I’ll just take it to the repair shop.” I knew there was no way I was going to be yanking nails out of a tire and trying to plug it up.
Martin snorted. “Yeah, and they’ll charge you an arm and a leg for a totally easy fix.”
“It might be an easy fix for you but I don’t know the first thing about cars,” I pointed out with a rueful smile. “My expertise is limited to filling the tank and checking my tire pressure.”
“You know, I have some stuff in my truck,” he said. “Give me a few minutes and I can go grab it. We’ll have you squared away in no time.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to ask Martin to fix it.
He shook his head. “It’s no problem.”
“I don’t want to impose,” I said. “I’ll just take it in.”
“No. I’ll do it,” he told me. “It’ll give me something to do.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You need something to do? Have you not had many runs lately?” Martin was a trucker, and he did mostly short hauls.
“No, I’ve been...” He hesitated. “I’ve been...sick.”
I tried to keep my frown at bay. Why was he so reluctant to tell me he’d been ill?
“Just a cold,” he added quickly. “But it took me out good. Haven’t done a run in four days. I start back up tomorrow.”
Out of nowhere, my imagination kicked into overdrive. Because I suddenly started thinking about Martin sitting at home sick for four days. If he’d been stuck at home, his truck had been home, too.
His big, massive semi truck.
He might have not used it for any short haul runs, but could he have used it for something else? Like to steal a cow statue from the next town over?
I tried to clear the thought from my mind. I knew Martin Putnam. He was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. There wasn’t an angry or mean bone in his body.
But there were several mean and angry bones in his wife. And maybe, just maybe, she’d convinced him to help her with the theft. The only reason I’d ruled her out as a potential suspect was because I couldn’t explain how she would have transported the statue from the restaurant parking lot. If Martin had been on board, though—either of his own volition or because she’d coerced him—she would have had access to a perfect vehicle. His enormous semi truck.
Martin jogged down the street to get the supplies he needed while I mulled all this over. He was back less than ten minutes later and I was still consumed with thoughts about how Dawn could have convinced him to take part in the theft.
“That was fast,” I said.
His cheeks were flushed, his breath coming out in short gasps. He had a small tool bag in one hand and a portable air compressor in the other.
“Are you okay?” I asked, a little alarmed.
; He nodded. “Probably shouldn’t have run after being sick.” He coughed. “Lungs aren’t fully back, I guess.”
And just like that, my newest theory went out the window. Martin didn’t look good, and his cough didn’t sound good, either. It was pretty evident that he’d been telling the truth about being sick. And if he’d been that sick, would Dawn really have forced him to get out of bed and go steal a statue?
Probably. I could see her snapping at him, demanding he help. But if he hadn’t been in good enough physical shape to do it, there was nothing she could have said or done to get him behind the wheel of the truck.
“You don’t sound good,” I said. “Look, I can get someone else to do this for me. Really. You should go home and rest.”
But he was already kneeling down by the tire, using some type of pliers to extract the nail. “I’m fine,” he said. “Besides, it feels good to be doing something useful. Especially for a friend.” He glanced up and smiled at me.
I smiled back. “I appreciate it,” I told him. “I hope Dawn took good care of you while you were sick.”
He chuckled. “Dawn? She’s not exactly...nurturing. Besides, I was fine. She left me alone and I just took cold medicine and slept it off.”
“That’s good.”
“I gotta say, I tried some new meds and they made me really loopy.”
I knew he was just making small talk as he worked on my tire. “Oh, yeah? How’s that?”
“Just completely knocked me out, gave me really weird dreams. Never experienced anything like it.”
I made a sympathetic noise.
“A couple days ago, I thought Dawn drove the truck through the house.” He chuckled again. “Woke up in a cold sweat, thinking the wall was caving in on me.”
“That’s terrible!”
He held up his thumb and forefinger. “Here it is.” He dropped the nail on the ground and it landed with a ping. He worked quickly then, shoving something into the hole, something that looked like it had a cord attached.
He nodded. “Turns out she was just getting the mower out,” he said, continuing the conversation. “Had to move the truck to access the shed. Couldn’t believe I didn’t hear her start up the engine.”
I stared at the back of his head, grateful that he couldn’t see my mouth hanging open. I forced it closed and swallowed a couple of times. “Dawn drove your truck?”