No one really knows, but it was rumored they had headed for Nashville in hopes of becoming big recording stars. Maybe she meant to call; maybe an eighteen-wheeler hit her before she reached her destination. All I know is she left me with a brokenhearted father who, if you ask me, still grieves for her, though he never shows it anymore. But the worst part of it all is the rejection. To be rejected by your own mother, wow, that hurts today as much as it did twenty-eight years ago.
But dear, sweet Vonnie didn’t abandon me. She and her husband, Fred, have been like family. I was the child they’d wished for but never had. It’s their friendship, especially Vonnie’s, that’s kept me from giving in to the demons that continue to haunt me today. In fact, they’ve haunted me ever since the night that . . . Well, it would take too much energy to explain that right now.
Even so, Vonnie doesn’t know the thing that happened to change me so much. She doesn’t know why I resigned from the Boulder County Sheriff’s Department and came back to Summit View. She’ll never know if I can help it. I couldn’t stand to be abandoned by her as well. Now my pain is bearable. It hurts, but I’m tough. Though there’s no point in asking God for help. He’s allowed my mother to leave me, and he’s never once been there when I needed him. Oh, I’ll go to church and pretend we’re on speaking terms. But we’re not, and we never were. The way I see it, who needs a God who fails?
People like Evangeline Benson serve a God like that.
Evangeline Benson, the old flirt, always saying things like, “Oh, Vernon, you look so powerful in your uniform!” Once, after dinner, Dad asked me what I thought of Evangeline. As the chief cook and dishwasher, I’d been busy scraping cold spaghetti off the bottom of one of my best cooking pots. Even though I was only nine, Dad talked to me like I was a grown-up. There he sat, with his gun tucked safely on top of the refrigerator, reading the paper and sipping the remainder of his iced tea. He looked up. “Donna, do you know Miss Evangeline, that woman from church?”
I’d been surprised when he’d mentioned the church. He hadn’t darkened the church door since Mom and Mr. Shelly had publicly humiliated him with their great escape. If it hadn’t been for Vonnie picking me up every Sunday, I probably wouldn’t have gone back to church either.
When I didn’t answer immediately, he’d asked, “Do you know the woman I’m talking about?”
Did I ever. Miss Evangeline had always made me feel lower than a squashed bug.
“Yes,” I’d finally answered, “I know who she is.”
“She invited us over for pie tonight. But I told her I’d check with you. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t eat her pie if she paid me a million dollars.”
Dad looked over his paper with an arched brow. “Wouldn’t you, now?” He chuckled. “Fine, then. I’ll tell her we have other plans.” That was the day I thwarted Evangeline’s intentions to marry my dad. And that was the day the real war between us began. Apparently, Miss Evangeline, being fairly sharp, had traced the rejection back to me. I could tell the very next Sunday.
“Donna, dear, don’t you like pie?”
“No ma’am. Not your kind.”
To think, after all these years, I’m a member of Evangeline’s own Potluck Club.
Okay, I take back what I said earlier. There are actually two reasons I take part in this silly gathering. The first reason has already been stated: I love Vonnie. The second reason is I love to rub Evangeline’s failure into her face. And that’s just what I represent to her. I’m the family she couldn’t have.
Her pointed looks no longer bother me, because I’ve learned the real secret to life. True power comes from dispassionate hate. Such an emotion has the power to keep the whole world at bay.
I flipped on my radio. “Dispatch, 10-8. All clear.”
Now to the real problem at hand. How about a store-bought crust filled with a can of cherries?
No, I brought that last time.
What about a carton of Blue Bunny ice cream?
No, too little effort.
I zipped up my leather jacket against the evening chill. What was I thinking? It was autumn, after all. It’s time to bring a Crock-Pot full of my spicy apple cider.
Yes, that should go over very well.
I glanced over at my mounted portable computer jutting out of the dashboard of my Bronco. My shift ended at 3:00 a.m. If the evening slowed down, maybe I could slip behind the old Gold Mine Bank and enjoy a good game of solitaire. Besides, who would know? And who would dare to complain to the sheriff?
I’m still his daughter, after all.
It was about 1:00 in the morning when the trouble started. I’d been trying to entertain myself by watching the drunks as they left the Gold Rush Tavern. I knew most of these repeat offenders, and I often dropped by near closing time to scout out for those who needed a ride home, especially on Friday nights. That’s when I noticed the red Ford Mustang, Colorado tag Z15–991. It was the same rental car I’d stopped earlier in the evening. That’s a stop I’ll never forget. I’d just finished writing the ticket when Lisa Leann drove by in her Lincoln Continental. With a jolly wave, she plastered me with icy slush.
There I stood, trying to seem authoritative, when suddenly I looked like a drowned rat. But I didn’t get soaked as bad as the man in the Mustang. A Mr. David Harris had taken it right in the kisser.
“Is this a Colorado welcome?” the stranger sputtered as he wiped his eyes then his mouth with his sleeve.
I handed him his speeding ticket. “Nope, I’ve got your welcome right here. Sign, please.”
Mr. Harris looked up. “Can’t you give a guy a break?” he asked, pen in hand.
“Sorry. No breaks allowed for Californians. Not around here, anyway.”
“I didn’t know we were outlawed.”
He must have caught my hint of a smile; he cleared his throat. “Say, while I’ve got you . . . I’m looking for someone.”
“A missing person? I haven’t gotten a briefing about anyone who’s disappeared around here. A friend of yours lost out in the backcountry?”
“It’s not like that. And I don’t have a lot to go on. I’m looking for a woman . . . Jewel?”
Whoa. This guy could be some sort of stalker. I looked at him hard and mentally rehearsed the statistics I had just read on his driver’s license. For starters, he didn’t look as goofy as his photo, even with a splash of muddy ice on his cheek. And according to his license, he was born in 1968, was five foot eleven, with black hair and brown eyes. Dispatch had informed me that he had no priors or warrants, at least not from Colorado. So he might be on the level. But one couldn’t be too sure.
Before I could ask for more details, an eighteen-wheeler baptized us once more. That did it. I tucked my soggy ticket pad into my back pocket and headed back toward the Bronco. I called over my shoulder, “I don’t know any Jewel, but good luck.”
That splash-down had happened in the afternoon, and now many hours later, there was Mr. Harris’s car parked near the back of the tavern. I should have known a good-looking guy like that would hit the bar. That meant he was single—or married and on the prowl.
If he was looking for trouble, chances were he’d find it, especially this time of night, and especially with Wade Gage’s pickup parked in the lot. That meant trouble for just about anyone, especially anyone from California.
Suddenly, I spied Dippel and his girlfriend coming out of the joint. It wasn’t bad enough he was dating a local; he was taking her out in public. Practically under Goldie’s nose. To make matters worse, these two were having a rather loud lovers’ quarrel. Here was a fine example of a Grace Church member if I ever saw one. Another case in point as to why I don’t take the business of God very seriously. Jack Dippel was just another instance of God’s failure.
Charlene Hopefield was drunk and angry. “Jack, you jerk! It’s my birthday and all you could buy me was a lousy beer or two while your wife sparkles like a jewelry store? Don’t I mean anything to you?”
“Honey, of course you do. I took you out on the town, didn’t I?”
Dippel looked over his shoulder and spied me. I nodded and lowered my window. “Evening, Jack. Charlene. Problem?”
Charlene slurred her words. “The problem is my boyfriend here’s a jerk.”
I got out of my car and glared at Dippel with my hands on my hips. “Obviously.”
Dippel cleared his throat. “Sorry, Donna, it’s not what it looks like. This is my brother’s girlfriend—people often mistake my brother and me, and Charlene here is a little tipsy. Allen’s still inside. You know, my brother from Denver?”
Now that was lame. If his brother was in there, then my instincts were so far off I might as well become a beautician.
I smiled sweetly and looked at Charlene. “Well, now, is that so?”
Dippel answered for her. “It’s so, unless she never wants to see my brother again.”
Charlene’s anger turned into fear of abandonment. She sighed, then meekly followed Jack to his Expedition and slid in the passenger’s side of the car. Jack said, “Deputy, I’m just going to run Charlene home, then come back for my brother.”
I stared hard. “Sure, Dippel, you do that.”
The car slowly pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. I sighed. How I’d love to arrest that man, but what could I do? Being a no-good liar wasn’t a crime. If it were, this whole town would be behind bars.
It continued to amaze me the way people I’d known my whole life lied right to my face. Practically everyone but Vonnie had done so at one time or another.
The barber would say, “Donna, I wasn’t speeding. Your radar must have picked up that car that passed me when you hit your radar gun.”
Right.
Larry, the short-order cook from the grill, told me, “Donna, I put my credit card in the gas pump before I pumped the gas. It must have malfunctioned. You’ve known me since grade school; I’d never drive off without paying, not on purpose.”
I rolled my eyes and wrote the ticket.
Somehow my skepticism makes me a bit unpopular. But I don’t care. I’m mad at this town for lying to me. How dare they be mad at me for calling them on it? That’s my job.
Besides, I only have the people of Summit View to thank for helping me create my life thesis, which states: “Most folks are liars, period.” And those who claim to be honest? Well, I just hadn’t caught them in the right circumstance yet.
I watched Jack’s Ford disappear. When it didn’t wobble, I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew Jack wasn’t too drunk to drive Charlene home.
Good thing, because if I arrested him, well . . . I could just imagine the scene. I’d pull him over, take him and his honey to jail, then call Goldie to pick them up. I snickered at the idea until I thought of Goldie. Though it would serve Jack Dippel right, it would certainly not serve his wife well.
I turned to walk back to my Bronco and glanced at the Harris car. Something was odd there. I walked over. There was Harris slumped over his steering wheel.
I tapped the window. “Harris?”
No response.
“Harris, are you okay?”
He seemed too young to be a heart attack victim. Maybe he was dead. Or dead drunk.
I tried the handle and found the door to be unlocked. I swung it open, then shook the unconscious man. “Harris, David Harris?”
He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so with a tug, I jerked him part of the way out of his car. Suddenly, he bolted upright and stood, albeit wobbly, in front of me.
“Harris, are you okay?”
“I . . . I must have fallen asleep.”
I pulled my flashlight off my belt and shone it in his eyes. “Have you ingested narcotics or alcohol?”
He blinked and looked away. “What? No, no, I wasn’t feeling well. I pulled over to rest.”
“Are you sick?”
“Maybe, but I think it was just the enchiladas from Rosey’s Mexican Food.”
I nodded. “That could be. I try to avoid that health violation myself.”
Harris looked down at his shoes, then back up. “Say, I hate to bother you again, but you’re the deputy here. Are you sure you don’t have any knowledge of a woman, probably in her late fifties, named Jewel?”
I squinted my eyes. “Who’s this woman to you, Harris?”
I saw him swallow hard before answering. “My mother.” He grimaced and touched his stomach.
I clicked off my flashlight and jammed it back on my belt. “Harris, on a scale of one to ten, how sick are you?”
“I’d say a two. Mainly I just need to be near a restroom. I’ll be okay in an hour or two.”
“I could take you to the ER.”
Harris rubbed his eyes and stretched. “No, I’m fine.”
“Then why don’t I follow you back to your hotel and make sure. Where are you staying?”
“My California bank canceled my credit card when it picked up both a California and then a Colorado charge today. They said they considered the card stolen until they could confirm my whereabouts. Never mind that they had me, in person, on the phone, telling them I was indeed in Colorado and needed to use my card.” He laughed bitterly. “They just said they were sorry for any inconvenience but had to follow bank protocol.” He sighed. “I didn’t know I needed my bank’s permission to travel.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t have a place to stay?”
“Not till tomorrow, when I get this mess cleared up.”
“Well, then, I see you’ve got two choices: I can either haul you to jail for loitering or take you to the ER.”
A loud voice called out from the tavern doorway. “Deputy Donna, is this man giving you trouble?”
I cringed. I knew that voice all too well. Without turning around, I said, “Wade Gage, how are you?”
“Half drunk, as usual.”
I turned to look at him. Wade is a good-looking man. There he stood, six foot tall, his muscular silhouette framed in the doorway, his blond hair backlit in a golden halo. Of course, he was wearing his signature Coors belt buckle, his brown cowboy boots, jeans, and a black muscle tee.
I pretended to be glad to see him. “Wade, you’re just the person I’ve been waiting for. Let me make you an offer. My friend Harris here is sober. That is correct, Harris?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, Harris will run you home, so you won’t get arrested for DUI, if you let him stay tonight in that spare bedroom of yours.” Wade walked up to Harris and gave him the once-over.
“I don’t know. He ain’t a Texan, or worse yet, a Californian, is he?”
I put my hands on my hips. “Wade, I don’t see that’s any of your business. However, Harris doesn’t feel too well, and his credit card down at the hotel is temporarily out of commission. Besides, I don’t think he’s even got a record. Do you, Harris?”
The man’s eyebrows shot straight up. “No. No, ma’am.”
I turned back to Wade. “So, how about playing the good guy for once and giving him a bed. Your act of kindness will win you a get-out-of-Donna’s-jail-free card, especially if you don’t cause any trouble tonight.”
Wade stared at me, then said, “That would make you indebted to me, now wouldn’t it?” He flashed his white teeth into a grin. “Now, a guy like me could get along with a proposition like that.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I snarled.
“Of course not, Deputy. Why, I would never dream of laying a hand on the meanest woman around, even if she is as cute as you.”
I felt my face color. I swallowed down my displeasure. “Well, good. Then, Harris, you’re driving?”
Harris walked over and opened up his passenger door for Wade. “Yes, ma’am.”
Wade ducked into the car as Harris said, “Just tell me the way home.”
As I watched the two men drive into the night, I felt pretty good. Most people think my job is all about arresting criminals, but actually, I see it as problem solving. It also means I don’t h
ave to waste my time writing reports. Problem solving seems to be my so-called “spiritual gift,” as Vonnie would say.
I couldn’t help but think about Harris. Like mine, his mother had apparently abandoned him. As for the mystery of who she was, I figured he must have been adopted, probably through one of those private arrangements complete with instructions never to reveal the identity of the birth mom. But somehow, through hook or crook, he’d managed to discover her name and maybe a possible location. Somehow, I hoped he’d find her.
By 3:00 in the morning I felt half dead. It would be so good to hit the shower and climb into my bed. My telephone message light was blinking when I got home, but at that point, I couldn’t care less. For now, all I wanted was a ham sandwich and to sleep till 11:00 in the morning. Then I would grab my Crock-Pot, stop at the grocery for apple cider, and head for Evangeline’s house for the next installment of our little Potluck Club.
9
No one can call her
a cream puff . . .
If Clay had said it once, he’s said it a thousand times: Donna Vesey is no cream puff. She doesn’t tread lightly, and she says just what’s on her mind. “Believe me, I know,” he said to Larry, Higher Grounds’s chief cook and bottle washer. “I’ve been on the other side of her sharp tongue enough times to testify.”
“Who hasn’t?” Larry asked with a wry grin. He leaned over the countertop of the bar, resting his elbows against the edge. “Knowing that girl can leave a man with scars he doesn’t want to talk about.”
Clay nodded in agreement. “But on the flip side,” he said, “I know enough about Donna Vesey to write a book . . . and I just may one day. I’d call it Feisty, because that’s a good word for her.” “That ain’t what I’d call it,” Larry said. “But I can’t repeat what I’d call it.” He grabbed at the damp cloth nearby and stepped back. “Gotta get back to work before Sal fires me,” he said with a wink.
Clay gave him a “take care” salute, then flipped open the notebook he kept handy at all times.
The Potluck Club Page 6