Between Lost and Found

by Shelly Stratton

  “Look, Connie,” Sam said, rising from his desk chair, “if you’d like to come back tomorrow morning, I’d be happy to—”

  “No, I’m not waiting another damn day! Arrest him now!”

  “Arrest who?”

  Pruitt had linked his thick fingers over his portly chest, looking between Connie and Sam with keen interest.

  “I told you! Tyler Macy!”

  “Tyler Ma—. You mean Evie’s boyfriend?”

  She had nodded, and Sam had loudly groused in response. “Look, Connie, I know you aren’t fond of Ty. Frankly, few in town are, but that doesn’t mean he—”

  “This has nothing to do with me ‘not being fond of him!’ He never liked Bill, and Bill never liked him, either. He hated his guts! I bet Ty had something to do with this. I’d have your men check his trailer for evidence if you haven’t already.”

  “Connie, we can’t just charge into the Macys’ trailer without probable cause. That’s not how this works. There is nothing linking that man to—”

  “Then find the link, dammit!” she had barked. “That’s what you guys are supposed to do, isn’t it? Do your jobs!”

  He had then watched in shock as she stormed out of his office, catching even Rita by surprise.

  “Sorry, Sam,” Rita had mumbled seconds later. She then had shut his office door.

  Sam had turned back to Mayor Pruitt. The middle-aged man was actually smiling up at him.

  Pruitt didn’t have a nice smile, even though he had the pearly white teeth that you saw on display in dentists’ offices, the ones that hygienists said you should aspire to. But Pruitt’s grin made Sam’s blood run cold. It was the type of grin Sam was sure the devil gave right after you traded your soul for a bag of silver.

  “She’s got a point, you know,” Pruitt had said in his heavy baritone.

  Sam had frowned in response. “A point about what?”

  “Tyler Macy.” Pruitt had leaned back in the chair. He did it like it was his chair and his office. “That boy’s got a bad reputation—to put it mildly. He could be the culprit. Searching his trailer might help you boys find Little Bill.”

  Didn’t Pruitt hear him mention probable cause? “I can’t do that, Dick. This isn’t communist China. There are laws, you know.”

  “Oh, come on, Sammy!” Pruitt had pushed himself to his feet. He wasn’t a tall man—certainly not as tall as Sam—but he had a huge presence that he used to his advantage. “Not everything has to be by the book! This search has dragged on long enough. End it before even more press comes to town. Hell, maybe even the goddamn NAACP will get involved if this thing keeps going. They show up for everything else! If you just made an arrest and put Tyler Macy in jail, maybe people could move on. They could start talking about other things.”

  “You mean the festival?” Sam had asked with disbelief, raising his brows. “You really want me to put a possibly innocent man behind bars so that tourists can watch wagon train reenactments and eat funnel cake?”

  Pruitt had angrily narrowed his eyes in response.

  Sam knew he was pushing his luck. Pruitt was a jackass but he was still Sam’s boss and could fire him on the spot if he wanted, though it might be dicey for Pruitt politically to get rid of a popular police chief. But even if Pruitt didn’t go after Sam directly, he had other ways to get to him. Budget line items for new weapons for the officers, equipment for their vehicles, or even the damned microwave in the break room all had to go before the mayor and the town council for approval. And those requests could easily be denied for any number of feeble reasons. Pruitt could make life very hard for Sam in Mammoth Falls, and Sam knew Pruitt wasn’t above doing it.

  They had both reigned as golden boys in their small town in their day. But while Sam had accepted his role reluctantly, Pruitt had basked in all the adoration and attention, oozing authority and superiority from his varsity jacket to his gelled mullet. Inside, even after all these years, Pruitt was that same guy—just with a receding hairline and a paunch.

  “The town needs closure, Sammy,” Pruitt had said in a low voice. “We’ve lost one of our own, and we need time to heal and feel good again. All you would be doing is making an arrest. It’s up to a judge and jury to decide whether Tyler is guilty or not.” He had cocked an eyebrow. “That is the law, isn’t it?”

  “So you want me to wrap this up with a neat little bow? You want me to make Ty the sacrificial lamb?”

  Pruitt had laughed. “Sacrificial lamb? Oh, you college boys and your twenty-dollar words!” The alarming smile had returned. “Call it whatever you want, Sammy. Just make sure this search comes to some kind of a close—either with a body, an arrest, or both.” He had slapped Sam on the shoulder and opened the door. “Keep me updated.”

  He had then walked out, shouting good-bye to Rita, leaving a nasty taste in Sam’s mouth.

  The worst part of all this was that Sam still wasn’t convinced Little Bill was missing. Even though the searchers were sure that the rising temperatures and thaw might uncover more evidence or even a body, Sam still suspected that Bill was hiding out somewhere. The old man was operating under the flawed reasoning that his absence was helping his cause, which was to keep his granddaughter from getting engaged. But it really was only succeeding in creating a vortex of unrest that Sam could feel expanding wider and wider in town each day. People were sharing their own outrageous theories on what had really happened to Bill at barber shops, over gas pumps at the Stop ’n’ Go, and at tables at Toby’s Bar & Grill, and those theories were gaining more credibility the longer Bill stayed gone. Rumors were spreading faster than VD at the Playboy mansion, and in a small town rumors could turn from a nuisance to something dangerous. Sam hoped this wouldn’t get out of hand.

  All this collective anxiety probably was for naught—a massive waste of time and energy. But Sam would continue to tell everyone to keep a level head. He’d perform duties as police chief without complaint. That was the reason he was at Little Bill’s cabin tonight: to give Janelle Marshall an update on the search. Well, it was one of the reasons he was here.

  The truth was he wanted to see Janelle again, though that realization was somewhat unsettling. He barely knew this woman, yet he had already remembered the exact way she wrinkled her nose when she heard something she didn’t like, and how her voice was low and throaty, like one you would expect to be waiting for you on the other end of a sex hotline. He remembered the prim tone she would take when she was cornered or how she’d gnaw her bottom lip when she was anxious. He wanted to catalog more of these tics and details about her and find out what lay beneath them. Who was this woman, really? Janelle Marshall intrigued him.

  Talk about wasting your time. The woman’s already in a relationship, a voice in his head reminded him as he climbed the cabin steps. They’re practically engaged.

  It was the logical voice that told him when he needed to go to sleep or when he had one beer too many. He sometimes loathed that voice, but he often listened to it.

  But they aren’t engaged, and even her own grandfather didn’t think he was good enough for her, Sam countered as he knocked.

  But she thinks he’s good enough, the voice argued. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

  The cabin door slowly opened, and the smell of something warm and hearty cooking on the stove wafted toward him along with the sound of jazz music, a dueling melody of saxophone and piano keys. Sam found her standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She had on jeans and a t-shirt knotted at the waist. Her curly hair was pulled atop her head in a haphazard ponytail. She looked him up and down, assessing him with her dark eyes.

  “Every time I see your police car pulling into the driveway, I’m always torn between not answering the door and opening before you knock. I never know if you’re about to tell me good news or bad news.”

  “Sorry to say that it’s usually no news at all. But thanks for answering my knock either way.”

  She leaned against the door jam. “So
they still haven’t found Pops, then?”

  He shook his head.

  “No trace at all?”

  “I’m afraid not. Not so far, anyway,” he murmured, watching her blow a curly tendril that had fallen into her face.

  “Those cop shows on TV are definitely false advertising. They give the impression that every missing person can be found in a couple days, or at least by the end of the episode.”

  “I wish it were that simple, but no matter what, we’ll keep trying.”

  “Yeah, I know. I know.” She lowered her eyes and nodded, then suddenly lifted her head. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Oh, no! No, no, no, no! Not again!” She then turned and ran toward the kitchen.

  He lingered near the doorway, unsure of what to do next. He had given her the update. He could leave now.

  He should have called a good-bye to her as he watched her rush toward her stove, grab a pan, and remove it from the flame. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a tentative step inside the cabin, then another. He removed his cap.

  “Everything all right?” he asked as he stood on the welcome mat.

  She waved her hands furiously over the pan and set it on an empty burner. “Oh, it’s fine!” she called over her shoulder. “I just thought I had burned dinner again. I scorched a marinade I was working on this afternoon. I was talking to my boyfriend and got . . . well, distracted.” She turned to him. “I was trying to avoid a repeat.”

  An unreadable expression crossed her face when she mentioned her boyfriend.

  “Is he headed out here, then?” Sam asked, taking another step forward, watching her face more closely.

  She shook her head, and he finally recognized the emotion that marred her features: disappointment.

  “There’s just a lot of stuff going on back home, even more than what’s going on here. He’s a financial consultant with big clients. He’s been trying for a while to get a promotion and . . . and . . .”

  Her words faded. She turned her back to him and gripped the edge of the kitchen counter.

  “Are you all right?”

  She didn’t answer him but instead continued to hold on to the countertop, like she needed it to stay upright.

  He quickly crossed the living room and walked into her kitchen. He placed a hand on her shoulder and felt her back go rigid at his touch. He dropped his hand instantly. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That you weren’t gonna faint on me.”

  She turned to face him. Her eyes were red and brimming with tears. “No, no fainting.”

  “I know it’s hard.”

  “ ‘Hard’ is putting it lightly. I’m a fucking emotional wreck!” She laughed bitterly and sniffed.

  “I think anybody would be a wreck considering what you’re going through.”

  “Not me, though. I’m never like this!” She sniffed again. “I actually thought I was holding it together pretty well until the past couple of days. I was sad but . . . I completely fell apart when Mark told me he wasn’t going to make his flight.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with the dish towel. “It may sound selfish, but I thought, ‘Work and obligations be damned, I want him to be here.’ I needed him here.”

  And the bastard should be here, he thought vehemently. What man would leave a woman alone to deal with something like this when he’s supposed to be in love with her?

  You mean like how you left Gabby? the voice in his head asked. He ignored it.

  “I’m . . . I’m losing my footing, Sam.” He could see her reluctance to confess this. “Everything feels so shaky now. Do you get what I mean by that? Am I making any sense?”

  “I get it. I’ve been there before. Not in the same situation, but I’ve been there.”

  “And how’d you get through it?”

  “You handle it day by day.” He shrugged. “Some days are better than others.”

  And some days will slap you right back where you started, he thought, but didn’t say it aloud.

  She nodded thoughtfully, then turned back to the stove. “Well, I didn’t burn dinner this time. That’s an improvement, at least.” She looked up at him and smiled, and something surged in his chest—an old feeling he had long forgotten. She seemed to consider him for a bit. “Are you still on duty? Have you eaten dinner yet?” She pointed to the pan. “I have extra food if you’d like some.”

  He nervously raised his hand to shove his fingers through his hair. “Uh, no . . . that’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that. I was just heading home to—”

  “I know I don’t have to, I want to.”

  Janelle then turned to open an overhead cabinet. She reached up and grabbed two mismatched plates and glasses, making her t-shirt rise, revealing a long torso, and rounded hips over the tops of her faded, wrinkled jeans. His eyes dropped lower, and his gaze was almost magnetically drawn to her ass. Sam experienced another feeling that he also thought had long been dormant.

  “Mark was supposed to arrive today.” She sat the plates on the counter and the glasses beside them. “I overcompensated and bought enough food to feed a small army, but it’s just me now, and I can’t possibly eat all of this by myself. So . . .” She clapped him on the shoulder, startling him, making him focus on her face again. “Let me thank you for all the hard work you’ve been doing . . . for trying to find Pops. Let me cook you dinner.”

  He opened his mouth again to politely beg off. He was intrigued by her, but he wasn’t completely stupid. It was one thing to think about her at odd times of the day and secretly ogle her when she wasn’t looking. But it was another thing to have dinner with a woman who was weighed down with grief over her missing grandfather and dismayed at her boyfriend for deserting her in her hour of need. She’d probably down that bottle of Woodbridge Pinot Grigio he saw sitting near the fridge, have a good cry, and wake up in the morning refreshed and ready to deal with the world again. She’d call back home and make up with this Mark fellow, even though he probably didn’t deserve it.

  Yeah, that’s probably how it’ll all play out, he thought grudgingly.

  Sam began to make another excuse when her cell phone began to ring. He watched as she grabbed her phone, which sat on the counter near the sink. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, before reading the name “MARK” on the glass screen.

  Speak of the devil, Sam thought as he began to ease back toward her opened door, prepared to make his exit.

  “Wait!” she called, setting down the phone. It was still ringing.

  “Go on and take your phone call.” He waved his hand.

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, it can wait! It’s not important. I can call them back later. Please stay. Have dinner with me.”

  Sam stopped in his tracks. Not important?

  He wasn’t completely stupid, but he was certainly a glutton for punishment. “Well, I am hungry,” Sam said.

  It would be the first home-cooked meal he had had in almost a week. So far he had been subsisting on granola, coffee, and bagels.

  “So it’s settled, then.” She gestured to one of the bar stools facing the counter. “Pull up a chair.”

  * * *

  “So I still can’t believe the searchers haven’t found a trace of Pops. Not a hat? Not even a glove?” she asked while slicing into her chicken breast.

  “The snow and forest can cover a lot of evidence,” Sam explained as he chewed and a bluesy tune clicked on to her iPad that sat on the kitchen counter. “It’s a lot harder than you think to find a person, let alone a clue, out there.”

  So far she had spent most of the meal querying him about the search and how it was progressing, but he didn’t mind talking shop with her. He liked talking to her.

  They sat on the two bar stools at the kitchen counter, almost knee to knee. Whenever she shifted, her thigh or elbow would brush his arm or leg, and he would get that old tingle again.

  You’re a man—a living, breathing man—and you aren’t dead below the waist, the tingle said.

  He h
ad been embarrassed by it at first, like it was a burp or a fart he had unwittingly released. But now that he was on his second glass of wine, he welcomed the tingle. He damn near relished it.

  The fatigue Sam had felt earlier had disappeared, too. He now felt invigorated, like he had swilled back three cups of coffee. He’d forgotten what this was like—to eat dinner and have a conversation with a woman he was attracted to. He wondered why he had buried this part of himself for so long. This wasn’t a date, far from it. But it was the closest he had come to one in quite a while, which was sad, he realized. It was damn near pitiful.

  “But they’ve been at it for three days now, Sam! I mean . . . are they going to bring in more people? Maybe the FBI?”

  “The FBI?”

  “That’s what my mom suggested.”

  “Look, I’ve got nothing against the feds, Janelle, but respectfully, we don’t need some suit from Minneapolis or Omaha telling us how to conduct this search. Our boys know what they’re doing.”

  “But maybe they can—”

  “Trust me. They’re good at what they do. They know the terrain like the backs of their hands. If Bill is out there, they’ll find him.”

  “If he’s out there? What do you mean ‘if’? You don’t think Pops is in those woods?”

  “I’m not ruling anything out. That’s why we have the trackers in the forest, patrols on the roads, and officers and deputies from four different departments going door to door.”

  She pursed her lips. “You do sound like you’re covering all your bases.”

  He nodded before taking a sip from his glass, momentarily letting the white wine pool on his tongue, before returning his attention to his plate. “We are . . . at least until we find any evidence that can lead us in one direction. Then we’ll put all our resources toward that.”