by Meg Benjamin
Grandview shook her head. “No one was questioning his ability as a policeman.”
“On the contrary.” Horace’s voice was clipped. “That’s exactly what we were doing. Or anyway, that’s what the mayor was doing. Now take a look at the date on that last commendation.”
Grandview squinted at the page. “June twelfth.”
“It’s the year that’s important,” Horace said quietly. “Three months after his suspension, he earned his fourth commendation.”
Albaniz and Grandview both turned toward Erik. Craven frowned slightly. “Interesting.”
“The mayor mentioned that this perp, Kronhauser, brought suit against the county. Don’t know how much he got out of that—records are sealed. But I got an e-mail here from the chief in Davenport. He says Kronhauser got ten to fifteen years for assault when he went to trial after he was released from the hospital. That was on top of his conviction for selling methamphetamine.”
“Drugs.” Albaniz’s lips narrowed.
“Oh yeah, the mayor forgot to mention it, but Mr. Kronhauser was high as a kite from his own product when he attacked Officer Romero, Toleffson’s partner.”
“I didn’t ‘forget to mention it’,” Pittman snapped. “It wasn’t relevant.”
“Wasn’t it? I’d disagree with that idea.” Horace picked up another sheet from farther down in the pile. “If you want some more relevant information we can look at Toleffson’s military records. Davenport wasn’t the only place he got commended. He’s also got almost seven years of outstanding police work along with that single screwup with Kronhauser. We should all have records that good. I know for a fact you don’t, Mr. Mayor.”
Pittman’s face turned a dirty pink that made Erik think of Ham Linklatter. “That was uncalled for, Rankin.”
“Now there, once again, we disagree. But we can discuss it later.”
Erik sat very still, afraid to say anything for fear of saying something wrong.
Horace began polishing his glasses again. “Anybody got anything else to add? Any questions for the chief?” He glanced around the table. The council members stared back blankly.
He nodded. “Okay, then, Chief. Why don’t you step outside so we can vote.”
“He doesn’t need to step outside.” Grandview sounded tired. “None of us wanted to fire him before except for Mayor Pittman, and we don’t want to fire him now. Right?”
Albaniz and Craven nodded.
Horace cleared his throat. “All right then. I move we end the chief’s probationary period and hire him on full-time. Any discussion?”
The council members all shook their heads. “Sounds good,” Craven said.
“All in favor?”
Three hands rose simultaneously.
Pittman slammed his fist on the table. “I object! This meeting is a farce.”
“No, Pittman.” Horace turned to look at him, his jaw tensing. “Your charges were a farce. Play time’s over. You got other things to worry about now. Any other business?”
There was a flurry of head shaking as the council members began gathering their papers.
“Meeting’s adjourned then,” Horace said, rapping his gavel on the table in front of him.
Pittman stared around the table, then jerked his briefcase open beside him. His complexion was back to putty again. “You’ll regret this,” he muttered as he tossed his papers back inside the case. “You’ll all regret this.”
None of the council members glanced his way. Doralee, on the other hand, gave him a triumphant smile.
Pittman stalked out of the room without looking at Erik.
Erik took a deep breath, trying to unclench his fists as his brain struggled to process everything that had just happened. The council members headed for the door. Albaniz clapped him on the back on his way out. “Good job, Chief.”
Erik nodded numbly. “Thanks.” He stood, watching them go, then turned back to the council table. “Thanks, Horace.”
Rankin shrugged. “Don’t thank me. Pete’s the one who did it.”
He picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to him. Erik stared down at the yellow highlighting and the notes scribbled in the margins.
“He went through your file and showed me a bunch of stuff he thought I could use. Turns out I didn’t need more than a third of what he found, but it was enough.” The corners of Horace’s mouth inched up. “Congratulations, Chief. I didn’t think we’d ever get rid of that asshole Pittman. You done good, son. Glad to have you aboard.”
Erik wasn’t entirely surprised to see Pete standing on the other side of the chamber door when he walked out.
“Well?”
He shrugged. “They went for it. Ended the probationary period. Looks like I get to stick around.”
Pete blew out a breath. “Praise be. The good guys win one. Now will you tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing?”
Erik blinked at him. “Which time?”
“When you didn’t tell any of us what was going on. When you decided to go it alone. Goddamn it, Erik, if you weren’t two inches taller than me, I’d kick your butt. Hell, I might do it anyway.” Pete’s eyes were burning. He looked like he might actually take a punch at him.
“I thought…” Erik paused, trying to figure out just what he had been thinking. That he’d just as soon not talk about it? That it was better not to let his family know he’d blown something else because he couldn’t control himself? That they wouldn’t care?
“You thought you could do it all on your own. And that we wouldn’t give a shit. You were wrong. On both counts.”
Erik shrugged. “It was my problem. I just didn’t want to pull you all into it.” He blew out a breath. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
“You’re my brother,” Pete said slowly. “You’d do the same for me. Hell, you have done the same for me, for all of us. You took out that asshole Friedrich when he threatened Janie and you caught that bitch who was after Jess’s son. And you pulled the freakin’ police department together and saved the town from Ham Linklatter. Come on.” Pete gave him a shove toward the exit.
“Where are we going?”
“My house. Everybody’s waiting. Not that we had many doubts about what was going to happen.”
Erik licked his lips. The thought of walking into a room filled with people who were waiting for him, maybe judging him, made his stomach clench tighter.
“Come on, Erik,” Pete said gently. “They want to congratulate you.”
For a moment, he thought about dinner with Morgan. But it would have to wait. Seeing, talking to his family took precedence over everything else in his life right then. He’d make it up to her tomorrow. One way or another.
He pulled out his cell. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
The corners of Pete’s mouth edged up. “Give her my best.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The news about Pittman and Erik had apparently spread around town at the speed of light. When he finally dragged himself out of bed around eight in the morning, he’d had to run a gauntlet of grinning citizens on Main, all of whom had wanted to shake his hand or buy him a cup of coffee, sometimes both.
All Erik wanted to do was go to bed and sleep for about sixteen hours, preferably with Morgan at his side. Unfortunately, he had a festival to police.
Breakfast was another interesting experience. He went to the Coffee Corral again, just as he had the day before. Al Brosius handed him his coffee and breakfast taco without comment, although Erik had the distinct feeling eyes were boring into his back as he headed toward his table. He sat where he usually did, facing Al’s mural of Konigsburg and the hills. Somehow seeing Helen Kretschmer dressed as a cowgirl always started the day off right, not to mention the recent addition of Docia as a dancehall queen, apparently drawn from memory since Docia currently looked more like the Hindenburg.
He ran his gaze across the mural and its characters without paying much attention. And then he stopped.
A new
figure had been added to the small western town in the lower right corner. He wore a white cowboy hat and a western shirt half covered by a leather vest. On the vest was a large gold star.
Erik blinked. The lawman’s face was very familiar, largely because he saw it in the mirror every morning when he shaved.
Once again, he felt the heat of eyes watching his back. If it really had been the old west, he’d have been a dead man. He took the last bite of his breakfast taco and regrouped, popping a plastic lid onto his cup of coffee.
“Nice mural, Al,” he muttered as he walked by the cash register. “Thanks.”
“Any time, Chief. You earned it.” Al didn’t bother to look up.
Around noon, Erik took a quick tour around the perimeter of the city park. All three pavilions were in use. The largest had the winery booths. The varicolored silk banners dangled over each one, with the winery’s name and logo. Across the front of the building was a table with the silent auction baskets full of wine bottles and gift-wrapped boxes with floppy ribbons. Hostesses from the Konigsburg Merchants Association milled around, dressed in cowboy hats and vests that made them look like waitresses in a kiddy restaurant.
He could smell meat sizzling in the food pavilion, along with peppers, onions and garlic. His stomach had started to rumble as soon as he’d set foot on the grounds. He’d eat something when he could grab a minute—assuming he had a minute when he wasn’t being pulled from one crisis to another.
He wandered slowly through the winery pavilion until he saw the Cedar Creek banner again. Esteban Avrogado was stacking cases of wine behind the table, while Kit Maldonado set up a display of bottles.
Erik stood watching for a moment until Kit looked up and grinned. “She’s in the parking lot,” she called, “getting more wine.”
He cut back through the crowd toward the parking lot, only to be waylaid by Arthur Craven. “Chief, are your men providing security in here or is it the private cops? I need somebody to watch the ticket booth.”
“Who’s supposed to watch the parking lots, Chief?” Curtis Peavey was at his other elbow. “I thought it was us, but the private cops are wandering around out there.”
Erik sighed and mentally gave Morgan a rain check. Wait for me, Bambi. He headed back toward the ticket booth to straighten out the rent-a-cops.
Morgan started pouring wine at one thirty and didn’t look up for an hour. People stood in line four deep, waiting for the chance to give her a couple of tickets in return for a third of a glass of sangiovese or viognier or table wine or—knock on wood—Bored Ducks.
She didn’t have much time to do a sales job, just to explain what grapes were in Bored Ducks when people asked. She got some snickers on the name—about what she’d expected. Snickers were good, right? It meant they were paying attention.
After an hour, Kit tapped her on the shoulder. “Want to sell bottles for a while? Looks like it’s letting up a little anyway.”
Morgan glanced around and saw the crowds had thinned a bit. She could hear snatches of melody from the blues band playing out on the lawn. Some of the tourists were taking their glasses outside to sit in the shade and listen. The price of a full glass of wine got them a Cedar Creek wineglass as a bonus.
“Sure. I’ll take a break.” She looked back at the cases piled behind her, their remaining supplies. Once they were sold, the Festival was over as far as Cedar Creek was concerned.
Three cases of sangiovese were left. Around two and half for Creekside White. Three for Creekside Red. Two for viognier. One for Bored Ducks.
Morgan blinked. One?
Esteban grinned at her. “They’ve been selling hand over fist, Morg. People try it because of the name, and then they want to buy a bottle. I already sent Tito back to pick up another case. That’s all we can spare right now, though.”
Morgan’s shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time in weeks. “Thanks Esteban. Your blend did it.”
“Don’t thank me.” Esteban grinned more broadly. “My blend. Your idea. Looks like we won on this one, Morg.”
Morgan glanced out across the room. Her father was standing near the silent auction table, checking to see what the current bids were on their basket. She tightened her hold on a Bored Ducks bottle as he looked up.
He glanced at the bottle in her hand, his smile becoming dry. Then he walked over to the table. “How are the sales?”
“We’re doing well. Up from last year.” She took a breath. “We’re almost out of Bored Ducks.”
Her father sighed. “I still hate that freakin’ name, but the wine’s okay. A little heavy on the merlot, but good overall.”
At the other end of the table, Esteban gave her a quick grin.
Morgan smiled back. “It’s selling very well.”
“So it is.” Her father glanced at the cases stacked behind the table. “Write up your marketing plan. We’ll go over it next week.”
Morgan’s shoulders relaxed a little further. One problem down. One to go.
Erik kept waiting for the fights to break out. Given the amount of wine being consumed, he figured they were inevitable. He didn’t put much trust in the private cops on duty in the pavilion either. If something broke loose, most of them looked like they’d either head for the nearest exit or join in the mayhem.
What with checking on possible problems among the drinkers and the rent-a-cops, he didn’t make it back to the wine pavilion for a couple of hours.
But as the afternoon wore on, nobody took a swing at anybody. People lounged on blankets spread across the grass, listening to the music from the bandstand. Some had glasses of wine, and some were sipping iced tea or soda. Most had plates of food—fajitas, chalupas, the occasional burger. Erik himself had managed to grab a sausage kolache from Allie’s booth.
Konigsburgers were everywhere, taking advantage of the wine and the food and the music. Horace shared a bottle of red with his wife, Bethany, at a picnic table in the shade and ignored everybody else. Cal and Docia waddled around the edge of the dance floor, cheered on by Wonder, who waved his bottle of Spaten. As he walked along the perimeter of the lawn, Erik glanced into a shaded area where the city had set up a row of park benches and blinked.
Ozzie Friesenhahn sat side by side with Helen Kretschmer, each of them holding a glass of white wine.
Erik shook his head to clear it. He hadn’t had anything alcoholic to drink, and he was still seeing things.
Nando appeared at his elbow. “Everything quiet, Chief?”
Erik nodded. “Looks like it. So when do the fights start?”
“They don’t.” Nando grinned. “I told you. Wine festivals are mellow. And besides, everything closes down at seven so nobody has time to get too blitzed.”
Erik nodded, glancing around the lawn. People lounged on the grass. Another band was setting up in the bandstand.
“Of course this could get a little raucous,” Nando mused.
“What could?”
Nando gestured toward the band. “This. Frankie Belasco. Tex-Mex Zydeco. Like the Texas Tornados. Felix Burton will be doing his thing.”
Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. “Felix Burton. That would be the banker, Felix Burton?”
Nando nodded. “That’s the one.”
“He’s at least eighty. What kind of thing can he still do?”
“You’d be surprised. He’s the dance leader. Not official or anything, but he usually takes on the duty.”
Erik thought about asking Nando to explain what duties being dance leader entailed, but he decided against it. Whatever Felix Burton was going to do, he’d find out soon enough. “Long as it doesn’t involve assault, it’s okay by me.”
On the bandstand a man with a silver ponytail and sunglasses who was probably Frankie Belasco lifted an accordion and played a quick riff. Behind him a fiddle player joined in, then a guitar, a bass and a drummer.
The crowd cheered a little woozily.
“Hey, y’all,” Belasco called, “time to boogie.”
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People got to their feet around the dance floor, sliding across in ones and twos. Erik found himself tapping his toe to the rhythm.
He scanned the crowd, inspecting the faces along the edge of the wine pavilion for possible problems.
And stopped short.
Morgan was standing just inside the main entrance. She wore a white peasant blouse trimmed in lace and pulled down so that her elegant shoulders showed above the top edge. Her skirt was long and black, with panels of bright embroidery around the bottom. Her wildly abundant curls tumbled along her throat. Long, dangly earrings almost touched her shoulders.
He had a sudden overwhelming desire to nibble on her collarbone. He started wading through the crowd in her direction.
“Chief,” Curtis Peavey shouted close to his ear. “You want me to patrol the parking lot again?”
Erik nodded. “Sure. Anywhere. Go for it.”
He had an image of Peavey’s startled face, but he kept moving in Morgan’s direction. If he didn’t take his eyes off her, maybe she’d stay put.
Morgan turned to say something to someone behind her, then looked out again. Her gaze met his.
Erik half-smiled, but it probably looked more like a grimace. He needed to get to her. He really needed to get to her.
Morgan watched him for a moment, a slight furrow between her eyebrows. She pressed her fingers against her lips, staring at him, then absently slid the tip of her index finger into her mouth.
Erik felt every muscle in his body go rigid.
Suddenly, a crowd of people pushed in front of him, a line snaking across the dance floor. At the front of the line, Felix Burton, the eighty-year-old banker, wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, a Hawaiian shirt, and something that looked like pajama pants printed with huge blue flowers. He threw his hands above his head, and everybody in the line followed suit. He swayed back and forth, and the entire line became a swaying jungle. He pushed his hands up and down at the sky, while a dozen pairs of hands copied him.
“Go, Felix, go!” somebody shouted.
Erik looked back at the entrance to the pavilion. Morgan was gone.