Borrowing Trouble

by Stacy Finz

“Hi, Skeeter. Is your mother home?”

  “Nope.” He popped the P. “She’s working at the railroad. What can I do for you, Ociffer?” Skeeter let out a loud belch.

  “Rose had a run-in with a girl at school today. She brought a can of pepper spray to use as a weapon, which is illegal.”

  “They picking on you again, Rosie?”

  Rose started to cry; just fell apart in the kitchen.

  “Fuck that school.” Skeeter got up, put his arm around his sister, and looked straight at Sloane. “And fuck you too. These girls have been ganging up on her, and you people just look the other way. Who cares about a poor, chubby girl from the slums?”

  “I’m not looking the other way, Skeeter. Those girls will get theirs. But Rose can’t be bringing pepper spray to school.”

  He came toward her, invading her personal space. Sloane grasped the handle of her gun.

  “You arresting her?”

  She wiped the spittle from her face with the sleeve of her uniform. “I’ve told Rose she needs to be at the police station at nine in the morning. See that she gets there, you hear?” She turned to leave.

  “I’m talking to you.” He blocked the door. “You arresting my sister?”

  “If you don’t move out of my way, I’ll be arresting you. Just make sure she’s at the station by nine.”

  He slowly stepped away and Sloane got in her truck and drove back to the station. For the rest of the day she fielded phone calls, assisted Wyatt in taking statements after a minor accident on Main Street, and begged for Jake’s advice on the Rose situation. By the time Sloane got home she was dragging ass. All she wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine.

  She went to unlock her door, realized that Brady had her key, and prayed he’d left it under the mat. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her looking like ten hours of bad day. Although she had plenty to say to him. She searched all the usual spots. The boot scraper, the pot of dead geraniums, and the mailbox. Nada.

  No, Brady wasn’t likely to leave her key lying around when he’d become fanatical about security, she supposed. So unless she broke into her own apartment, she’d have to knock on his door.

  Crap! He beat her to the punch, coming out onto the porch, his hair mussed, like he’d been snoozing. And yet he still managed to be drool-worthy.

  “You looking for this?” He dangled a shiny new house key off one finger.

  “Thanks.” She gingerly removed it and tried to make a quick getaway.

  “I want to show you what I did.” Brady followed her to her door.

  “Now? Because I really need a shower.”

  “It’ll only take a minute or two.”

  It was the least she could do after he’d done all the work. She really should’ve changed the locks herself when she’d first moved in. “All right.”

  The snick of the new dead bolt sounded when she turned the key. Inside, Brady took her through her apartment, giving her a 101 on the window locks, which were newfangled and seemed impenetrable unless someone smashed the glass. He took her through her kitchen and demonstrated how the dead bolt on the back door could only be unlocked with a key. No busting through the transom window and turning a knob.

  “If you leave the key in it, it’ll defeat the purpose,” he told her. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that the dead bolt wouldn’t keep anyone who wanted in, out. Instead she turned her attention to a covered dish on the counter.

  “I made extra,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t I refrigerate it?”

  “Not if you want it for dinner. It needs to be room temperature when it goes in the oven.”

  “Wow, Brady. I don’t know what to say, except thank you. Did you do the same for yours?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.” She looked at him directly. “I called Santa Monica PD.”

  “I figured you would.”

  “I think you’re right: She’s not gonna go away. And she’s about as bonkers as they come—and I agree, dangerous. Did you get a gun like Detective Rinek told you to do? Do you know how to use one?”

  He glared at her. “I grew up in the backwoods of South Carolina. What do you think? Don’t worry about me; you’ve got enough problems of your own.”

  “Yet when you found out about mine, you got plenty involved.” She stuck her key in the new kitchen dead bolt and jiggled it to make a point.

  “That’s different. You’re going against a trained cop, maybe more than one. I’m going against a woman half my size. And if she thinks you and I are romantically involved, she’ll come after you too.”

  “We’re not romantically involved, so all’s right with the world.” She couldn’t help the sarcasm.

  “I’m gonna let you take that shower now, Sloane.” He started to walk away, but she grabbed his arm.

  “Thank you for securing my apartment—and dinner. I really do appreciate it. And, Brady, be on the alert. I’m worried about this woman.”

  “Right back at you.”

  The new locks didn’t help her sleep any better, not when she wanted him the way she did. One night of Brady Benson hadn’t been nearly enough.

  The next morning she got to the station at seven and found Rose sitting on a bench out front.

  “I said nine.” Sloane unlocked the door. She and Rose were the first ones here.

  “Skeeter dropped me. He has the morning shift at the railroad.”

  “What do you have there?” Sloane cocked her head at Rose’s ratty backpack.

  “Books. Skeeter said I won’t be able to keep them if you lock me up.”

  “Skeeter have a lot of inside knowledge about these sorts of things?”

  Sloane had meant to run a background check but had gotten caught up with the fender bender and all the other crap the police chief had to deal with. She did not envy Rhys his job. Nugget’s crime rate might be next to nil, but a lot of whiny people lived here. One day in LA, or any other big city, would shut these people up for good.

  “He’s never been in lockup, if that’s what you’re asking.” Rose dropped her head.

  “Come in. As soon as Connie gets here she’ll make coffee. I’m no good at it on that fancy machine.”

  Connie had a thing about her coffee, including grinding the beans fresh for every pot.

  Sloane took Rose back to Rhys’s office. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.” She heard the bell over the door ring and wanted to see who came in. Connie.

  “Morning.” She waved to Sloane. “I’ll get the coffee going.”

  “We’ve got company.”

  Connie walked over and peeked inside Rhys’s office. “The juvie. She’s early.”

  “Her brother had to work a morning shift and dropped her. You know him, Skeeter Jones?”

  Connie shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not by name anyway.”

  Sloane went back in the office.

  “You the boss?” Rose asked.

  “No, I’m filling in for Chief Shepard. He went away for a few days with his wife. My real desk is in there.” She pointed to the cube farm.

  “You don’t seem like a cop.”

  “Oh yeah? What does a cop seem like?”

  “Not pretty enough to go on TV.”

  There were plenty of beautiful female officers at LAPD. Sloane had never thought of herself in that category. “It’s all I ever wanted to be. How about you?”

  Rose seemed taken aback by the question. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to work for the railroad.”

  “Mrs. Saddler says you’re smart, so I suspect you can be anything you want. But not if you keep getting into trouble. I’ve given your punishment a lot of thought. For the two weeks you’re suspended, you’ll perform community service by working as my assistant. No arrest. But I’ll expect you every weekday and I’m going to run your butt off.”

  Rose blinked in surprise. “What’ll I do?”

  “You hear about the skeletal remains found at the Meet Up?” Rose nodded. “I’m trying to i
dentify the person . . . determine whether the cause of death was criminal. You’ll help me with that.”

  “How?” Rose asked, and Sloane couldn’t tell whether the girl was intrigued or freaked out. It might be scary for a fifteen-year-old.

  “By searching data banks for missing persons and flagging anyone who might fit our Jane or John Doe. I’m still waiting for information that will aid our search, but having a second pair of eyes will really help, Rose. You up for this?”

  “Yeah. It beats going to jail, right?” But Sloane saw a flicker of excitement in the girl’s eyes.

  “Will your parents be okay with it?”

  “It’s just my mom and Skeeter,” Rose said. “They won’t care.”

  “Will you be able to get a ride here and home?”

  “Skeeter has a bike he’s fixing up for me.”

  “All right, we’ll work around the transportation. You’ll also have to keep up on your homework. Mrs. Saddler is getting all your class assignments together and will drop them here. Until we get the information I was talking about, you’ll help Connie and the chief with anything they need.”

  Sloane spent the next thirty minutes showing Rose around the office and explaining how everything worked, then sat her at one of the empty desks to memorize police and penal codes—not that she would need them. But Sloane didn’t have anything else for her to do. Jake came in with his cell phone pressed to his ear, looking stressed.

  When he got off the phone, he said, “The minister has the flu.” He sat at his desk, moved a stack of paperwork out of his way, and started booting up the computer.

  “You’ve got a week until the rehearsal dinner. He’ll be fine by then.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Come on, Jake. You’re just psyching yourself out.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I am. But damn, I’m getting married.”

  “Yes you are. Hey, Jake, meet Rose. Rose, Jake’s getting married.”

  Jake walked over to the girl and shook her hand, which seem to startle her. “Welcome.”

  The day went by fast. At two, Sloane lifted her head from the accident report she’d failed to file the previous day and realized she’d missed lunch. Figuring Rose must be starved, Sloane took them both to the Bun Boy for a couple of burgers.

  Skeeter came to pick up his sister at four, just parked in front of the police station and honked his horn. Who knew that piece-of-crap Camaro ran?

  “Have a nice weekend, Rose, and I’ll see you Monday morning at nine, right?”

  “Yep.” The girl ran out the door and Sloane watched her get in the passenger seat.

  Sloane went back in Rhys’s office and called the coroner’s office to see if they’d heard back from the CDOJ, which had its own forensic anthropologist and was better equipped than Plumas County for this sort of case. They were also getting tired of her prodding phone calls. Nothing yet, the person on duty told her. She spent the next half hour talking to her folks. Her father wanted to know when she was coming home.

  She hedged just to keep him off her back, but no time soon. The truth was she didn’t really mind the small department as much as she thought she would. Sloane might not be making a difference in the lives of Nugget residents, but this was a good place to reconnoiter for the time being. Eventually, she’d get back to saving the world.

  By six she decided it was quitting time and called Harlee to see if it was okay to come by and pick out a rocking chair from Colin’s studio. In another month it would be spring. She’d like to be able to sit out on the porch and listen to the birds sing and watch the occasional train chug down the tracks.

  On the way up Harlee and Colin’s mountainous road, Sloane pondered which days she’d take off when Rhys got back. She still planned to tell him about the text, but since the Sweeney picture, there hadn’t been any others.

  Max greeted her in Harlee’s driveway, racing around her car, clearly beside himself to have company. Harlee waved from her front porch and called the dog away so Sloane could get out of the car.

  “Your house is fantastic.” Sloane followed the lines of the ski-chalet roof. “Huge.”

  “Colin built it.” Harlee skipped down the porch stairs. Sloane always marveled at how fashionable she was. Today she had on skinny black pants tucked into furry boots and a ski jacket that looked straight out of a magazine. “Come in. I’ll show you around.”

  Sloane followed her back up the stairs and into one of the grandest living rooms she’d ever seen. The views of the surrounding mountains went on forever. And she could stand up in the stone fireplace.

  “Wow. This is spectacular.”

  “Thanks.” Harlee took her through the rest of the house. All of the furniture had been built by Colin and the work was breathtaking. “How’s it going at the police department? You have any hot scoops for me?”

  “Afraid not. I’m still waiting to find out the sex and approximate age on those remains. As soon as I do, it would be great to get a story on the website, spread the word.”

  “Absolutely. Just don’t give it to anyone first.”

  Sloane smiled, liking Harlee’s go-get-’em attitude. “You’ll be first.”

  “Would you like a glass of wine or some tea?”

  “Sure. A glass of wine sounds perfect, if it’s not too much trouble.” She really needed to be more sociable with her neighbors.

  “Not at all. I’ve got a Russian River pinot noir in the cabinet.” She took out the bottle and poured them both a glass. “We can take our drinks out to Colin’s studio. He usually has a fire going back there.”

  Sloane had only met him in passing once or twice. A quiet guy compared to his bubbly wife. The studio was a mini replica of the house. Same tall ceilings and big windows. When they walked in, Colin had music blaring and the smell of pine hit her nose immediately. Sure enough, there was a potbelly stove in the corner, sending off plenty of heat.

  Colin turned down the tunes and kissed Harlee sweetly on the forehead.

  “Sloane is looking for a rocking chair,” she told her husband.

  “Maddy said you were filling in for Rhys while they went to San Francisco. How’s that going?” Colin asked.

  “So far no catastrophes.” Sloane gazed around the studio. “You have a lot of great things here. Where do you sell it all?”

  “Online, and Harlee’s mom has a store. Between her and her other shopkeeper friends, word’s taken off.”

  “Wow.” There were four-poster beds, benches, farm tables, coffee tables, chairs, and porch swings. Sloane didn’t know where to look first.

  “In the summer I lug some of this stuff to the farmers’ market.”

  “His pieces were in Della James’s cookbook,” Harlee said.

  “The country-western singer?” Sloane didn’t listen to her music but knew she was famous.

  Harlee grabbed a book off a shelf, thumbed through the pages, and shoved it at Sloane. “See. That’s Colin’s farm table. The whole picture was shot at Clay and Emily McCreedy’s ranch. Cool, huh?”

  Colin’s mouth quirked. “She shows that to everyone.”

  God, could they be any cuter? “So if I buy a rocking chair can I tell people Della James has a matching one?”

  Colin laughed. “Not matching, but she occasionally has her people call to buy a few and send them out as gifts. Whether she’s kept one for herself I don’t know. We’re not tight like that.”

  Sloane did another visual sweep of the room. “There are so many to choose from. Which one do you suggest?”

  Colin walked around the studio, grabbing various rockers and lining them up together. “What are you looking for? One seater or two? Comfort or appearance?”

  “One and both. My style leans toward shabby chic—kind of girlie.”

  Colin appeared to flash on something. “Hang on a sec. I’ll be right back.” He made his way around the furniture, out the door, and disappeared through the trees in the backyard.

  Sloane looked at Harlee, who shrugged.
A few minutes later Colin returned to the studio carrying a pine rocker that had been whitewashed.

  “I forgot all about that one,” Harlee blurted.

  The wood grain still showed through the stain, reminding Sloane of old weathered barns and beach cottages. And the chair was less chunky than Colin’s other work, more curvaceous and graceful. “Omigod, I love it.”

  Colin put the chair down in front of her. “Try it out.”

  She sat, wiggled her butt into just the right position, and rocked. Leaning her head back and closing her eyes, she said, “I may not even put this on the porch. I may keep it inside—at least until summer.”

  “You could do that,” Colin said.

  “It would totally go with your stuff,” Harlee agreed. “You could even put a frilly cushion on it.”

  “I could. But it’s beautiful just like this.” Sloane reached into her purse for her wallet and whipped out some plastic. Whatever it cost, she planned to buy it. She’d just paid her bill down so there was plenty of room left on the credit card. “Sold.”

  Colin ran it on his smartphone and got her number so he could text her the receipt. She’d look at it later. Right now she just wanted to enjoy her new purchase. Sloane finished her wine while they talked about Jake and Cecilia’s wedding, Harlee and Darla’s next bowling party, and how Rhys’s baby sister, Lina, was back in town. Apparently everyone was laying bets on whether Lina and Griffin would get back together.

  Sloane was really starting to enjoy herself when she got a call. Wyatt needed backup on a DV situation up in the hills on the other side of town. No one was supposed to do those alone. Too volatile. And after her last domestic violence call, they made her especially twitchy. She ran to her vehicle with the promise that Colin would deliver her chair, turned on her flashing lights and siren, and jammed down the mountain.

  Chapter 12

  At about eight o’clock, Brady heard a truck motor down the driveway. He could tell from the sound of the tires that it wasn’t Sloane. Hers were studded for better traction on ice. Rhys put them on all the police rigs in winter.

  He got off the couch and looked outside the window to see Colin hefting a rocking chair out of the bed, and opened the door.