Trey slapped Ted on the back. “Good for you, man.”
“Not like regular morning sickness. It’s on steroids or something.”
Ted maneuvered around Trey until he stood between us. He leaned closer to me, maybe hoping the increasing din of the bar would make his words private. It didn’t. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Trey looked straight ahead. No way he couldn’t have heard Ted or the pity in his voice.
I waved my hand and surprised myself with the casual tone I manufactured. “No problem. Congratulations to you both. I know you always wanted kids.” I wanted them, too. We’d plotted and planned and put it off for years. Three months before I found out about Ted and Roxy’s affair, we’d decided I’d stop taking birth control. I’d even thought I might be pregnant once, though it turned out to be a false alarm.
He started to put a hand on my arm and stopped himself. “It’s got to be hard, watching me and Roxy get married and you aren’t even dating. And now this.”
What the hell? Was he trying to be an ass, or was he a dimwit? Trey fidgeted, and I clenched my hands, my jaw, my gut. Back came the easy smile, at least I hoped it looked that way. “It’s fine, Ted. I wish you happiness. I’m moving along myself. Really enjoying this sheriff gig.”
He frowned, and when he came up with words, they sounded a little less than sincere. “Yeah. It’s a good job. Lots to keep you busy. ’Course you ought to let the state patrol handle the murder investigation.”
“Murder?” I glared at Trey.
He looked as guilty as a puppy caught chewing a favorite shoe.
I snarled like a caged badger. “Even a rookie knows not to compromise an investigation by giving sensitive information to citizens.” I hopped off the barstool and grabbed my coat. “I’ll be handling the investigation from here on out.”
Trey sputtered, “That’s not … You can’t.”
Someone tugged on the collar of my coat, keeping me from shrugging it on. I spun around to the pale, short woman with stringy gray hair. I went cold all over, and I barely got her name out without choking. “Vicki.”
She let go of my coat and whipped out a stenographer’s spiral notebook and poised her pen. “I want to know about the railroad accident.”
What had she overheard? Next week’s headline might read “BNSF Engineer Murdered,” or it might be “State Trooper Maimed in Barroom Altercation.”
I studied Vicki Snyder. If she’d picked up any mention of murder, she didn’t give a sign.
Ted slinked backward as I faced the determined newspaper editor. “You have a week before deadline, right?”
She narrowed her slightly rheumy eyes at me. “Five days. And it takes some time to write, you know. It’s not like magic.”
As I hurried away, I said, “I’ll get back to you.”
She took a few steps after me and whined, “Ted always cooperated with the press.”
I whirled around and nearly plowed into her. I strode to Trey. “If you want to help out, be here first thing in the morning, and we’ll take a road trip to Broken Butte.” Before Vicki could stop me or Trey could argue, I pulled Ted’s cap out of my coat pocket, stuffed it on my head, and stomped into the night.
11
The forecast called for dry but cold. I layered long underwear under my ever-stylish sheriff brown. But underneath that, I added a slightly padded push-up bra. I even managed to put on a pair of simple gold hoop earrings and a touch of makeup. Not Roxy-full-out-twenty-products-complete-with-perfume display, just some mascara to keep my eyes from disappearing and that good kind of Burt’s Bees lip balm with the slight tint so I didn’t look dead.
Maybe I wasn’t on the prowl for a boyfriend, but it wouldn’t hurt me to not look like a ranch hand at the end of calving season. I stared at myself in the old vanity mirror my sisters and I had fought for space in front of while we prepped for dates. The glass was scratched and streaked with black from old age. It didn’t help my glum image.
Should I take Bill Hardy’s offer? Yes. No. The ethical thing to do was finish this investigation before flitting off to another job. I owed Grand County that much, at least. Dad would say I owed them the four years I’d agreed to when I won the election. I wasn’t above a little Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll-worry-about-that-tomorrow procrastination.
I forced a smile and tilted my head, pulling my curls up and behind my head with one hand.
“You’re not a Victoria’s Secret model, but you’re no dog either.” I smooched myself.
A burst of girlish giggles made me close my eyes. Of course. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
Michael’s two daughters, Lucy and Kaylen, flew into the bedroom and tumbled onto the bed. Lucy, four years old and cuter than was legal, started to jump. “I don’t go to school.” Just being around her forced me to grin.
Kaylen, grown up at age eight—the consummate big sister—sat cross legged and stared at me through the mirror. “You do too go to school. And you know you’re not supposed to jump on the bed.”
Lucy flopped her head back and forth while she jumped, keeping a close eye on herself in the mirror. “I go to pretty school.” That was Lucy’s understanding of preschool. She gave one giant thrust and blew raspberries on the way to landing on her butt with her legs crossed in perfect imitation of Kaylen.
I let my hair fall and picked up an elastic to corral it into a ponytail.
Kaylen assessed me like a model’s agent. “You are a very lovely young woman.”
I met her serious gaze. “Thank you. I needed that.”
Lucy jumped up and threw her arms around my neck, leaned over my shoulders, and kissed my cheek, all the while watching herself in the mirror. “You are beautiful.”
“And late.” I stood up with Lucy still attached to my back. We bumped down the stairs, and Kaylen followed. I deposited them in the kitchen with their mother, Lauren, and grabbed my sheriff’s coat and debated about appropriate headwear.
Lauren held a steaming cup of coffee. No sign of Dad or Mom. Mom was either asleep and would stay that way for forty-eight hours, or she was downstairs in some kind of scary sleep-deprived artist’s trance.
Lauren gave me an apologetic wince. “Sorry about that. I hope they didn’t wake you up. The heating system broke down at the school. They got it fixed but delayed start for an hour to let the building warm up.”
“Things fall apart in this kind of cold. No problem. I was on my way out.” It was never a problem. Family came and went, flowing like a noisy tide. At any moment of any day someone was bound to burst in on me. I loved my family. Loved them. Really, really loved them.
I wouldn’t allow myself to add the “but” that begged to follow. Without giving Lauren time to press me about taking a puppy, I hurried out the door.
My patrol car didn’t get her heat blowing before I parked her behind the courthouse. It. It. It. Ethel and Betty probably got to the courthouse at the stroke of seven. Days start early in the Sandhills. Band practice, sports workouts, and school activities had students in town by six thirty some days, so it made sense for the courthouse and bank to open early, too. I stopped into Betty’s office to tell her I’d be in for a while. She didn’t need to know, but I counted it as PR to stay friendly and keep her on my side. I left Ethel alone, afraid if I poked my head in and there were no witnesses, she might take the opportunity to lop it off. Her unrequited love for Ted ran deep.
Seven thirty. Trey might show up anytime, ready to get a good start after striking out yesterday. I probably should set the office to rights, but my mind trotted down another trail. Trey didn’t show up to interrupt me as I spent an hour on the phone, mostly with Louise. I had to walk her around a few pastures first to throw her off my real purpose.
I ended up with only a few interesting bits of gossip for all the pain of listening to Louise. Chad Mills, though he had no kids of his own, volunteered with little kids’ basketball in Danbury. Because he had a railroad job and couldn’t plan to be in tow
n for practices and games, he couldn’t be head coach, but whenever he was in town, he showed up. According to Louise, the kids loved him because when they did something good, he rewarded them with nice gifts. Last year, when they’d won the holiday tournament in Broken Butte, he’d given them all iPad minis.
Louise’s opinion of that galloped on for long enough I worried I might have rusted in place. I speculated about why Trey was so late. While she chatted about the new house Chad and Meredith built and how you could afford that if you didn’t have children, but why would you want a life so lonely, I searched an office store online and ordered a new chair to be delivered in seven to ten business days.
She started in about Meredith and her thin model’s appearance. And if you didn’t have a family to cook for and your husband gone several days every week, you could probably stick to a diet. I Google Earthed Bill Hardy’s Double T and was surprised to see an aerial shot of the ranch. The date stamp was from last year so I got a pretty accurate shot of the house roof, green yard, a long stand of lilacs and a new pole barn. Peace and quiet, cows and solitude.
I interrupted Louise mid-rant about how she’d give up a perfect figure for having a family any day. “What about Josh Stevens?”
She made a choking sound. “J-Josh? I don’t really know him. He went to Danbury and was a year ahead of me.”
“Oh.” I waited, curious about her reaction now and in the kitchen yesterday morning. “Thought you might be friends.”
Her laugh sounded like a strangled kitten. “No. He’s Black Socks, you know.”
That might be why I’d never been around him much. From what I knew of the Black Socks, they held tight to their strict Christianity and didn’t mingle much with outsiders. Not Amish or Mennonite, but with that mysterious and set-apart air. Obviously, he’d drifted from his restricted upbringing or he’d never have been drinking a beer in the Long Branch.
The back door of the courthouse clanked open, the sound rattling up from the basement above Kasey Musgrave’s ranting on Betty Paxton’s country radio. “Good chatting with you. We ought to do this more often.” I pulled the phone from my ear to the sound of Louise’s voice.
“Wait. I wanted to tell you—”
Wearing his gray-blue uniform and clutching a McDonald’s coffee cup he’d had to have bought in Ogallala, Trey walked around the corner. Without preamble, he started in, “I plan on going to Josh Stevens’s ranch first thing this morning, then back to the depot in Broken Butte to talk to Clete Rasmussen this afternoon.”
I sat back in my folding chair, made a point of focusing on my industrial wall clock, and said, “First thing this morning is long gone. If we don’t get trucking to Broken Butte right away, we’ll be too late.”
“Late for what?”
I stood and grabbed my coat from the back of my chair. “I’ve got to work with the sheriffs’ co-op at the monthly traffic stop this afternoon. And the engineer’s union meeting’s at noon so we’ll catch a few railroaders at the depot for their pre-meeting bitch-fest. And Clete will be out of there before noon.”
“How do you know?”
I squeezed around him and started for the back stairs. “I have snitches all over. Let’s take your car.” Not only did it have seats that weren’t worn to the nubbins; it didn’t smell like Ted.
He followed me. “I’m sorry for that whole awkward scene in the Long Branch, and I understand why you told Ted you were working the case. But it’s okay. I’m not going to tell him otherwise.”
I stopped halfway down the stairs and craned my neck up to him. “Thanks. Now let’s go.”
He grinned at me in a teasing way. “You’re not serious.”
I hurried down the stairs. “I’ve already spent half the day waiting for you.”
A gust slapped my face when I opened the back door of the courthouse and stepped out. I sucked in a breath before the wind whipped it away from me. I ducked into the passenger side of Trey’s car, thankful it still held the warmth from his drive. I kicked a McDonald’s bag at the same time I identified the telltale aroma of hash browns and sausage.
Trey slid in behind the wheel but hesitated to put the keys in the ignition when the bag of food trash appeared under his nose. He jerked back, surprised.
“One of the first things they taught us at the academy was to keep the car clean.”
He turned as red as the ketchup smeared on the side of the bag. “I don’t usually eat this stuff.” He grabbed the bag. “But this drive is killing me.”
“I’m not judging you. In fact, the only reason I want you to get rid of the evidence is because it smells so good.”
Compared to the nauseating smell of Dad’s oatmeal, the warm grease of fast food smelled like paradise. It reminded me I hadn’t had anything this morning except coffee.
He lurched out of the car and dropped the trash in the county Dumpster, where it could keep Ted’s chair company.
We drove down Main Street, past the grocery store and the ever-popular post office. A half-dozen people gathered in the lobby of the post office behind the plate-glass windows. This was the unofficial meeting place for those who didn’t have the leisure to hang out for coffee at the Long Branch. Mail was always out by 9 A.M., or Barbie Drake, the postmistress, would be in for it. For rural small towns, the post office took the place of the well in ancient villages or the water cooler in office buildings. A body could wander into the post office somewhere from 9:07 to 9:28 on any given morning and be guaranteed the latest news.
I had no doubt today’s headlines included Chad’s death. I just hoped they hadn’t started wondering about murder. In fact, more than a few pairs of eyes homed in on us as we idled down the hill toward the highway.
I sat up and punched the button on my seat belt. “Pull in here for just a second.”
Trey whipped into a parallel spot across the highway from the Long Branch. I jumped out and ran across the highway in front of the car and pushed through the glass door into the small vestibule. I hip-checked that door. Bacon, coffee, and the crush of an overheated room threatened to drown me.
Twyla stood behind the cash register, deep bags under her bloodshot eyes. Wranglers draped from her hips, as lean as a turkey carcass on Thanksgiving night. I could almost see the headache from her usual hangover. Her raspy, cigarette-abused voice greeted me. “Hey, Sweet Pea.”
“Can I get a couple of your cinnamon rolls and two large coffees to go?”
Twyla nodded and winced. I followed her to the window between the kitchen and the dining room and leaned on the counter while she went through the swinging doors. She appeared on the other side and reached for the Styrofoam boxes. “They say the funeral is tomorrow.”
I pulled two cups from the stack next to the coffee machine. “Already?”
She grabbed a spatula with the surface area of a small airport runway. “They say Meredith’s dad railroaded the whole affair. Seems he doesn’t want to stick around here any longer than he has to.”
I filled both cups with steaming brew not much darker than a yellow lab. “Is this tea?”
Twyla looked up and I showed her my cup. “Oh for Chrissake. That bimbo Bud hired is about as good as a four-sided penny. I’ll make another pot.”
Twyla’s mood tended to improve as the day went on and the hangover faded. I waved her off. “That’s okay. We’ve got to go.”
Twyla thrust the spatula into the pan of cinnamon rolls like it was a sword into the bimbo Bud hired. She lifted a brick of baked goodness, slathered with cream cheese icing and thick with gooey cinnamon heaven. “Can you believe they wanted to have a private service at the Episcopal church?” She plopped the first roll in a box and stabbed the spatula with deadly purpose back into the pan. “But the priest, what’s her name, you know, the one they send from Broken Butte.…”
I didn’t know the name of the priest and poured another cup of weak coffee.
“Anyway, she talked sense into them. They’re having the funeral at the high school.”
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This wasn’t unusual for a young person, well known and liked.
“But they’re having a private reception at Chad’s house.” Twyla landed the second roll in the box and smacked both the lids down. “That’s snooty if you ask me. Like we’re not good enough for the likes of them.”
“I’m sure that’s not it. It’s probably the way they do things in Omaha.” I paid Twyla, grabbed my rolls and a stack of paper napkins, and bolted for Trey’s cruiser.
Trey might deny being a junk food aficionado, but he didn’t turn down the roll. Smells of warm cinnamon tickled my nose, and the sweet icing melted on my tongue.
I sipped with dissatisfaction. “Sorry about the coffee. Uncle Bud and Aunt Twyla don’t offer a big menu, and the food is mostly fried or heavily calorie-fortified, but they generally make a good cup of joe.”
He smacked his lips. “Best rolls ever, though. You said uncle and aunt?”
I swallowed and said, “Uncle Bud and Aunt Twyla own the Long Branch. My father’s sister and brother-in-law.”
“Are you related to everyone around here?” Only one bite remained of his roll.
I took another sip of coffee. “There are dribs and drabs of the county where I couldn’t even tell you a person’s name.”
He shoved the last bite in. “But not much.”
I pushed the second half of my roll at him. “I’m done.”
He picked it up. “You sure?”
I nodded and didn’t say anything while he finished the roll and licked his fingers. He kept giving me a sideways stare, and I finally couldn’t stand it. “What?”
He colored like Lucy when I caught her snitching cookies. “Nothing.”
I gave him the evil eye my nieces and nephews knew well.
He laughed. “Okay. It’s just that you’re … well, you’re not what I expected.”
Damn. This conversation took a fork I hadn’t intended. “You expected something?”
He squirmed. “Not really. I don’t know. It’s just … Well, a woman, only six weeks of training at the academy. I didn’t think you’d be so…” He trailed off.
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