Stray Narrow

by Jerusha Jones

  Pete did the honors. “Sorry, folks,” he said, not having to raise his voice at all since every eye was glued on him and the guests seemed to be holding their collective breaths. The band had quit at some point, too—they were stiff as statues up on the temporary dais. “Bit of a scare there, but Sheriff Marge is fully conscious and ambulatory and able to talk. She was complaining about having to leave the party early, actually.” Several titters and murmurs of approval ran through the crowd. “She probably just needs to rest a bit—you all know how hard she works—and will be mighty embarrassed if she hears the reception fell into the doldrums after she left. So, Mac and Val,” Pete called, lifting an arm to point a challenge at the understandably concerned couple, and his face split into a wide grin. “When are you going to feed these fine people cake?”

  Whoops of agreement sounded from the throng, and then the chant of “Kiss, kiss, kiss!” Just like that, the festivities were in full and unabashed swing again.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was a weird letdown. This being grown-up business. I chafed against the responsibility of staying behind and caring for Burke when I wanted to chase down to the hospital and loiter in the dismal waiting area in order to catch a word—a good word, hopefully—about Sheriff Marge. She’d be okay—Barbara had seemed so matter-of-fact about her condition, but I was accustomed to doing whatever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to.

  My very own little charge was sitting at the kitchen table once again, blissfully chowing down his breakfast. And it was good to see him so unconcerned, so childlike. How desperately he needed that. It was a pity he hadn’t been able to play with the Larsons’ two kids at the reception. They’d have had a blast with hide-and-seek in the mansion’s nooks and crannies.

  Pete seemed to sense my mood, because he corralled me up against the kitchen sink and started laying on the kisses pretty thick. I might have giggled. That just spurred him on, and his hands began roaming into tickle territory in earnest. Plus, he hadn’t shaved yet, and his stubble on my neck made me squirm.

  We were interrupted by an eleven-year-old making gagging noises.

  I jumped back, worried, rapidly scanning my memory about how to do the Heimlich maneuver.

  But Burke was rolling his eyes, and crammed another piece of toast into his mouth. “Gross,” he announced around a wad of masticated bread. “I’m gonna lose my appetite if I have to watch that every morning.”

  I blinked at Pete.

  His body had stiffened, and an exasperated breath escaped. His voice was calm, but slow and in that lower register that carries a warning, when he said, “You have several options. You can close your eyes. You can leave the room. Or you can watch and learn because loving your lady is an excellent skill to have in your arsenal. But the one option you don’t have is making sarcastic comments.”

  Just like that, he’d laid down the law. I was still blinking.

  So was Burke, who appeared mildly shocked. And contrite.

  Pete’s hard gaze was boring into him.

  “Okay,” he mumbled, ducking his head.

  Pete nodded, then wrapped an arm around my waist, pulled me in close, and turned to flick on the kitchen tap. Behind us, a chair was scootched back, and soft footsteps retreated to the stairs.

  I tried to angle my head to look over my shoulder, but Pete squeezed me tighter.

  “Let him go,” he murmured in my ear. “This is a two-way deal. We’ve chosen him, but for this to work, he has to choose us, too. And he needs to know what he’s getting into. That there will be rules, including rules he doesn’t like sometimes.”

  “Loving your lady is an excellent skill to have in your arsenal?” I whispered back.

  Pete cracked a grin. “Did you like that? Came up with it on the spur of the moment.”

  “He’s eleven,” I objected.

  “And interested, in spite of his protestations otherwise. Believe me, it happens.” Pete’s grin spread even wider, then he leaned in to nibble my earlobe. “He might as well learn about proper wooing procedures from the best.”

  I laughed aloud. I couldn’t help it. Maybe parenting wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  oOo

  I had to let Jim Carter into the museum so he could cart away all the tables and chairs before we resumed regular visitor hours. Cleaning up ended up being a family affair of the extended variety because Frankie and Henry and Rupert showed up as well. Many hands make light work, or something like that.

  The truth was, Rupert and Burke hightailed it into the deep recesses of the third-floor office once again. Which enabled the rest of us to converse normally about the highly debated topics du jour as we passed one another with armloads of decorations and bulging trash bags and mops and brooms and the ancient Hoover with the dangerously frayed cord.

  “It means he’s feeling comfortable with you,” Frankie said during one passing.

  “Really?” I croaked. I’d told her about the incident with the fake gagging, and she’d giggled along with me.

  “Right,” she added on the next pass. “It’s like when you bring a puppy home from the pound. It takes a few days for their true personality to emerge, and then they start testing the boundaries. Perfectly normal.”

  “But he’s been through so much trauma,” I mused. “How do we even know what’s normal for him?”

  “He’s still a kid. And he’ll behave in kid fashion. He’ll go through phases. And have hormones. You’ll see.”

  I decided to take her word for it. I needed all the good advice I could get.

  In mid-afternoon, Owen Hobart stopped by. “Figured I’d find you here,” he said after pushing through the double glass doors and scrunching his nose at the stench of Pine-Sol. He looked exhausted and was still in the same khaki uniform from the night before. I was fifty-percent sure, at any rate, khaki uniforms all looking pretty much the same.

  “How is she?” I asked, pausing in the wide arc I was making with a sudsy mop. The wedding cake frosting had turned into thin smears of sugary concrete wherever it had come into contact with the parquet oak floor.

  “Grouchy,” Owen sighed, and rubbed his left eye.

  “That’s a given.” Frankie tiptoed around the wet spots and joined us. “Diagnosis? Prognosis?”

  “Well, she’s pretty groggy from the painkillers, and they’re having her uh, well, uh…”

  “Strain her urine?” Frankie spared him the embarrassment of saying it out loud by doing it herself. To my great delight, I’d been finding that middle-aged (and older) women tend to be fans of stating it like it is. Beating around the bush is a waste of words and time.

  Owen nodded. “Several of my buddies over in Iraq had recurring kidney stones. The desert conditions over there make it harder to avoid. Hurts like hell, or so I’ve been told. Good reason to never get dehydrated.”

  “Amen,” Frankie said.

  “But how is she?” I insisted.

  “Out of commission until the doctor clears her, until she passes the stone. Normally a kidney stone is an outpatient kind of problem, but they’re not taking any chances with Sheriff Marge, much to her intense irritation. Which means”—Owen reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a small notebook in a maneuver that almost exactly replicated his boss’s technique—“I have some more questions to ask, on her behalf.”

  “First things first.” Frankie held out her feather duster like a magic wand. “What about your skills as an investigator?”

  Owen frowned, shifted his weight. “I’ve been taking classes,” he said, trying hard, I thought, not to sound defensive. “I’m about fifteen hours away from meeting the detective training qualifications. Then I need to take the test.”

  “And yet,” Frankie said sternly, “you forgot to ask a young lady for her phone number.”

  Owen blushed furiously. “It was an emergency. I had to go…”

  “Never mind.” Frankie patted his arm. “I covered your behind and made your apologies.” She fished in her jeans pocket and handed hi
m a crumpled piece of paper. “You can thank me later.”

  Owen took a quick peek at the writing on the scrap and shifted some more, most adorably. His flush had turned the color of the volunteer fire department’s engine. “She’s uh…it would be okay?” he croaked.

  “Oh, I’d say better than okay.” Frankie beamed, but then she stuck out a forefinger and tapped his chest. “But no tarrying, young man. You need to make that call by tomorrow at the latest, investigation or no investigation.” In a rare display of role-reversal, she was letting him go with a stiff warning. I’m not sure I successfully hid my grin.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Owen answered meekly and carefully pocketed the precious paper.

  “So, these questions.” I cleared my throat, getting down to business. “Are we going to need coffee?”

  Owen rubbed his right eye. “That’d be good.”

  The poor fellow. He was obviously running on fumes.

  “Coming right up,” Frankie said over her shoulder as she bustled toward the kitchen. “I’ll call the guys, too. I’m assuming you’ll need all brains on deck.”

  It was a familiar scene, this confab around the lunch table in the Imogene’s kitchen, all of us perched on the cold, uncompromising seats of metal folding chairs. Many secrets had been spilled, heartbreaks shared, and puzzles solved in this very place over my short tenure at the museum. Maybe it was an emotional vortex. I wasn’t sure about the magneto-electric vibes, but I was definitely glad to have Pete’s long, strong thigh to rest my own against, and the warmth of his shoulder next to me.

  Pete and Henry had been at the cabin when Cassidy’s body had been found. If anyone had insight for Sheriff Marge’s questions, it’d be them. Frankie and I were there just for moral support—and for the coffee. It’d been a long, rigorous day, and my muscles were starting to ache.

  There was nothing wrong with Owen’s tongue now. He assumed leadership of the session with confidence and a keen attention to detail. He was organizing the disparate facts the same way I outline my research into historical items for display in the museum, trying to flesh out the skeleton of basic information into a compelling story. It was familiar—and therefore somewhat comforting—territory. Even though my analogy gave me the shudders, considering the very real skeleton he was investigating.

  “First off,” he said, wincing after he’d downed half a cup of scalding coffee, “I need to know what the buzz was about at the reception.”

  None of us pointed out the fact that Owen had been present at the reception. He’d just been thoroughly and delightfully distracted. Which we didn’t point out either. And, from my own experience, I knew that different people heard different things, so this would be an interesting experiment.

  Henry glanced around at all of us, then said in response to our nods, “I’ll go first. I did hear a few murmurs about the murder, but those same speakers seemed to quickly divert into tales of other illegal activities up on Gifford Mountain. It’s a place of lore, apparently, and nobody seems too startled by any report of devious behavior up there. They seem to be taking it in stride.” He paused to sip from his Styrofoam cup and then sniffed. “The much more prevalent conversation was about the crops. I’d heard it from some of my neighbors even before the reception—that the winter wheat is coming in strong, with a very high germination rate.”

  “But…” Pete interrupted.

  “Yeah, but,” Henry agreed, nodding. “They’re also upset about not getting their rebates.” He spent the next few minutes reiterating what Pete had already explained to me, about the unfair nature of SeedGenix’s promises and their questionable validation methods—or rather the promises made by their sales reps. No one was sure if the company would honor the verbal agreements of what were perhaps rogue salesmen. Then again, the fact that so many different reps had offered rebates seemed to indicate they’d been prompted to do so by the higher-ups in the organization. It was a matter of much debate and speculation.

  Then it was Frankie’s turn. She was making fingernail indentations in the rim of her Styrofoam cup and biting her lips. “I, uh, I may have heard some of that,” she admitted. “But…” She flashed a concerned glance across the table at me.

  I cringed in sympathy. I knew what she’d been up to during the party, but saying so out loud, in mixed company, was another matter. “Administrative duties,” I offered.

  She jumped at the explanation. “Yes!” And accidentally decapitated her cup, having indented the rim to the point of structural failure. A few dribbles of coffee puddled on the table.

  I leaped up to snatch a paper towel off the roll. The problem was, matchmaking in Sockeye County was women’s work. We didn’t discuss our strategic initiatives with the men. Poor guys probably wouldn’t appreciate all the effort and finagling that went into happily-ever-afters. Too easy to interpret all our carefully laid plans as manipulation.

  “So, I was, uh, introducing people,” she finally said as she accepted the paper towel from me and mopped up her spill. “Making sure everyone was getting along, you know, and meeting new friends.”

  Owen’s eyes had narrowed suspiciously. “Were you in charge of the seating assignments?”

  “I helped,” I blurted before Frankie could answer. “And so did Rupert.” Easier to blame the museum director when he was still embedded in his office upstairs. Also, because it was true, especially regarding the random selection of a certain Darcy O’Hare to fill a slot at Owen’s table.

  Group guilt—that way Owen couldn’t blame one single person for his future happiness. Hopefully.

  “So I was mixing a lot—mingling—and only sticking with any small group of people long enough to make sure they were happy, well fed, and knew where the bathrooms are,” Frankie finished. “Hostess stuff, you know.”

  Prudent man that he is, Owen didn’t pursue her statement further. Instead, he fixed his interrogator’s gaze on me.

  Truthfully, I didn’t have much to add, except the petty theft and vandalism angle.

  Owen snorted softly. “Sheriff Marge told me to ask you how the exhibit is coming along. Even hyped up on Vicodin, she’s dead set on nipping this blight in the bud.”

  I groaned inwardly. “Working on it as fast as I can. It’s just—” I flapped a hand ineffectually—“there’s a lot going on.”

  Owen shared a wry grin with me. “I don’t suppose you’ve found the case from the 1930s where a deputy charged twenty-five cents per person for admission to a grisly murder scene that he was supposed to be guarding? That’s one of my favorites. Before DNA testing existed, but still. Souvenirs were taken, the place was trampled. Needless to say, we no longer allow the general public anywhere near our crime scenes,” he added, “at least not knowingly.” And with that he tipped glances at Pete and Henry who gave him grim nods in return.

  Once again, I wondered just exactly what they’d seen. My mind was intensely curious, my stomach not so much. I swallowed. But Owen’s comments about the developing exhibit rejuvenated my motivation even more, and the idea of a life-size crime scene diorama popped into my head. Who wouldn’t want to walk through a reproduced site from the past and try to solve the crime themselves? Like an in situ game of Clue. I clasped my hands together under the table and started mentally pacing off the open space in the empty half of the former sitting room in the northwest corner of the Imogene’s second floor. It was dark back there, not too many windows, which would make it perfect for a highly atmospheric exhibit.

  “Meredith?” Owen said.

  I snapped out of my reverie and realized everyone was staring at me. “Uh, nothing. I mean, that’s it. I have nothing else to add,” I babbled.

  Pete rubbed my shoulder. Ugh. He, unfortunately, has some knowledge of how my mind works. But he filled in my gap and began his own recitation of his observations from the reception. He kept it short—it was old news by now.

  Having exhausted our civilian gossiping prowess, Owen heaved a sigh and rubbed both of his eyes. “Well, that fits.”
<
br />   CHAPTER 18

  Was that a tiny admission that Deputy Owen Hobart knew more than he was letting on? We all sat up straighter on our chairs. Of course he did. After such a thorough collective grilling, a bit of tit for tat was in order.

  “Spill it, young man,” Frankie said in her no-nonsense voice.

  Owen shook his head. “Where to start? It’s not good.”

  So I decided to refill his cup with lukewarm coffee. It was the least I could do. Outside, snow was falling thickly, almost like the smothering foam from a firefighting aircraft. I could barely see blotchy patches of the trees in the park through the fat, fluffy flakes.

  I stayed by the window after resupplying Owen. My calves were starting to cramp from the day of manual labor and they needed stretching. Besides, who doesn’t want to look at a world of soft and downy purity while hearing the latest details about a grisly murder? The contrast was almost unfathomable.

  “Sheriff McNary over in Whitman County is giving us all the help he can,” Owen began. “The loss of Cassidy has hit their small community hard. She was their golden girl. Through him we have a lead on the pickup. One matching the description—the really comprehensive description—that Burke gave us was reported stolen from the parking lot next to the administration building on the Washington State University campus.”

  “That place is huge,” Pete said.

  “Exactly. And fairly anonymous with as many students as they have. It’s like stealing a vehicle from an international airport’s long-term parking lot. Same sort of acreage, and most pedestrians, if any, not giving a second thought to someone climbing into a pickup.”

  “Are you saying there are no leads, then?” Henry asked.

  “Right. It’s sketchy. We’re ninety percent sure that’s the vehicle that was used, but we don’t know who took it or where it is now. If we could find it now, we might be able to get some evidence—DNA, rope fibers, maybe even muddy footprints from the floor mats, but until then…”