Sign Off

by Patricia McLinn

  “’Bye now. Well, hi there.” Penny dismissed the audience she’d used up and moved on to fresh meat with no fuss, and barely a breath. Her solid, worn hands moved even faster than her mouth.

  “Well, you do buy—” Oranges and celery rung up. “—the strangest things.” Laundry detergent and the first box of cookies. “Haven’t seen you—” And on, and on. “—since last week. And you bought entirely different things then, didn’t you? All those pretzels and popcorn. I just knew you were depressed. Some folks crave the sweets when they’re blue, some crave the salts. I could tell you were a salt first time you came through my line. But this—” A low-sodium, low-fat, no-cholesterol balanced meal in a box passed under her hand. “—looks like you’re taking a different view of things.” She looked at Mike, still glued to my shoulder. “That’s good, that’s real good. I was worried about you—shopping Friday nights when a pretty thing like you should be out on the town. It’s nice to see you have other plans—” Steak and potatoes were toted up. “—for the weekend.”

  Penny looked from Mike to me with significance dripping from her watery blue eyes. Mike gave her his best smile. I glowered at them impartially.

  “Folks can talk all they want about beauticians knowing what’s going on around here, but I could tell you tales just from the items I see pass by this register. Why, I knew Hannah Trusett was expecting her third long before Lloyd or the doctor did, because she started buying that pistachio pudding mix she’d craved with the first two. And I told Reverend Boone he needed to check up on old Mary Ferguson when Bill didn’t buy Comet two weeks running. Mary scoured everything under the sun, and she wouldn’t have let Bill get away without her Comet no matter how she was ailing. Sure enough. Mary’d died three weeks before, and Bill was so cut up, he just kept pretending she was taking a lot of naps. Poor soul.

  “Course there’re some cases aren’t that obvious,” Penny went on. Mike made a noise. I refused to look at him. “Like the fella who came in back at Thanksgiving and bought our last two turkey basters.”

  “Twins?” I suggested under my breath. Mike made that noise again, but Penny kept right on.

  “And Gina Redus starting to want only that Grey Poupon mustard last fall—” She swung a loaded paper bag into the cart and began filling the last one. “—when plain old French’s had been good enough for her from the time she was knee-high.” She hit the total, put the last bag in the cart and took my money, in one continuous motion. “Come to think of it, she’s been buying only bakery bread ’stead of Wonder since last fall, too. Gettin’ real choosey.”

  Penny handed me my change, but her eyes were already on the next person in line, a robust woman in corduroy with an adolescent in tow and a cart mounded with canned goods, meat and potatoes. “’Bye now. Well, hi there.”

  Fighting the lethargy you feel after coming out of a stiff wind, I gave the cart a good push and got a few feet ahead of Paycik. But I had to wait for the automatic door, and he was at my shoulder as I reached the parking lot.

  “You know who she was talking about?” he demanded.

  I would not ask. But I did let him load a brown paper bag into the back seat.

  “That last person she was rattling on about? Gina Redus? That’s Foster Redus’ wife. His estranged wife.”

  “Or widow.”

  “Or widow,” he agreed, wisely showing no triumph. “Sounds like she’s had more money to spend since last fall. Same time her husband disappeared.”

  He closed the car door and looked at me. I knew I was licked, but sometimes if you don’t admit it—

  “Eight o’clock? I can come by for you, get an early start.”

  “You do, and I’ll use the shotgun that came with the house.”

  He grinned. “See you tomorrow.”

  “I am not going anywhere with you tomorrow, Paycik. I have plans.”

  Still grinning, he waved over his shoulder as he headed off.

  * * * *

  I did see Paycik the next day. Fortunately for his hide and my clean criminal record, it was well after eight a.m.

  Chapter Three

  “I hear you’re doing a story on the Foster Redus case.”

  I had just slid the fork into the tip of a piece of the chocolate pie that had made the Haber House Hotel’s dining room famous when the man stopped at my table.

  Sure, I had all those groceries I’d bought the night before, but I’d earned a break after spending Saturday afternoon examining wallpaper samples in search of something dynamic enough to enliven the bathroom in the house I rented.

  Cozy two-bedroom with all the necessities. Neutral interiors. Storage space galore. Spacious grounds. Other amenities.

  That’s what the ad had said.

  Real estate ads in New York are notoriously inflated, but somehow I hadn’t expected that in Sherman. Clearly this ad-writer had trained in Manhattan.

  Cozy meant tiny. Two bedrooms was true only if you didn’t use the second one as a closet. All the necessities meant a roof and floor. Walls and windows were debatable. They let so much wind in that the house sounded like an oversized kazoo. Neutral interiors meant dismal beige with sparks of mud brown. The storage space was in a ramshackle frame structure only the generous would call a detached garage that was nearly twice as large as the house. Its north and south walls listed toward the west. Spacious grounds . . . now that one was accurate. The house was surrounded by space that was almost all ground—no flowers, few bushes, sparse grass and a couple of stunted trees.

  I knew this wasn’t because nothing would grow here. The yards on either side of this house and across the road had patches of lawn in front and pleasant gardens in back, with natural areas kept neatly in the more distant reaches of their yard.

  I was at a loss over the other amenities unless it referred to the ghost in the backyard. The four-legged ghost that dematerialized any time I was around was possibly a tallish dog that could have been in training for becoming a fashion model. Except this stick figure’s moves were all slink, no strut.

  Maybe it wasn’t fair to lay all the fault with the ad-writer. I hadn’t questioned a thing, just rented the house sight unseen and at the asking price. I hadn’t cared—until I saw the place.

  I’d unpacked only enough to get me through a few weeks.

  I figured by then I would have made up my mind about staying in Sherman through the final months of my contract. If I did that, I had to find somewhere else to live. If I didn’t . . . well, then I’d be searching out real estate someplace entirely different.

  But even staying here a few more weeks would finish driving me around the bend if I didn’t do something about the bathroom.

  Jenny-the-production-assistant would be sure about that drug rumor if she ever saw my face reflected in the medicine cabinet mirror in that bathroom.

  I almost believed that rumor when I contemplated my image that morning. And that was despite deliberately staying in bed well past Paycik’s threatened arrival time. I’d decided I would not answer the door under any circumstances.

  And then, the pain in the ass didn’t show up. Not at eight. Not at eight twenty. Not at eight thirty-eight. Not at eight forty-seven. Not at nine oh-nine.

  That’s when I gave up on sleeping and contemplated the horror that was my bathroom.

  Black and deep purple cabbage roses swarmed over a background of vile green, which matched the tile in the bathtub surround. In an apparent attempt to color coordinate, the glass of the light fixture had been painted over in the same vile green.

  Natural light might have helped, but the window, which was in the shower area, boasted multiple layers of paint, presumably for privacy.

  I had spent two hours this morning chipping paint off one side of the light fixture. I broke for lunch, experiencing a trickle of accomplishment.

  I rewarded myself by putting leftover ground beef and crumbled up bread in one bowl and water in another and setting them out for my four-legged ghost on the ragged stump that was the cl
osest the backyard came to outdoor seating.

  The accomplishment trickle dried up when I returned to the bathroom, flipped on the light and assessed my handiwork.

  Now, when I looked in the mirror, one side was stark white and the other was ghoulish green.

  That’s when I decided new wallpaper had to be the answer. So what if I left it behind in a few weeks. It would spare me weeks of looking like an extra in a remake of Night of the Living Dead.

  The first blow at the supply store that stocked paint in one corner was that there were only two books of wallpaper samples. The second was that the man and woman behind the counter gawked at me when I asked about hiring someone to hang wallpaper.

  Apparently in the West, one took care of one’s own problems, including replacing black and purple cabbage roses.

  I have never hung wallpaper, but I’d been shot at on assignment and I’d ad-libbed an entire segment when a fired technician sabotaged the Teleprompter before he left the building. So how hard could wallpaper be?

  It might not matter. After page after page of pink and blue bunnies with an occasional red and blue railroad train thrown in for variety, I realized both sample books were for nurseries.

  After that, I deserved a treat for dinner, and my cooking didn’t qualify. So here I was in the Haber House dining room, where I’d had a salad and burger as a prelude to chocolate pie.

  “I’m Ames Hunt, county prosecutor.”

  He didn’t have to tell me that. I’d seen his picture and name in the files the day before.

  He also didn’t have to tell me how he’d heard about my supposed interest in this case. Along with the green flakes, paint chipping had loosened up some of my brain cells. It was entirely too convenient that Penny had just happened to bring up the topic of Gina Redus’ buying habits. Mike must have primed the pump with her. And he’d either done the same with Hunt, or Penny had passed on a grain that had snowballed into a boulder by the time the breakfast dishes were cleared around town.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hunt.” I half meant it. As county prosecutor he could be a good source to cultivate. Especially if the rumors about his running for the state senate were true. On the other hand, my taste buds were salivating for chocolate pie. “I’m Elizabeth Danniher.”

  “Oh, I know that,” he said with a practiced lifting of finely cut lips. “Your reputation precedes you. We’re honored to have you here in Sherman.”

  His hand was cool and dry as he shook mine—firm, but not painful. He had a good start on politicking.

  “Thank you. But I think you’ve been misled. I’m not doing a story on Foster Redus. I’m the consumer affairs reporter, so unless he has a faulty blender and can’t get a refund . . .”

  He timed his laughter nicely so I didn’t have to finish. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses on a straight, blunt nose that matched his other pleasant, regular features. A cartoonist would hate him—no identifiable characteristic to exaggerate.

  “Well, if you should come up with anything concrete,” he began, with just enough emphasis on should to let me know he thought it unlikely, “you will let me know, won’t you?”

  Come up with anything on what? The blender? I kept my sarcasm to myself, along with the contradictory urge to make Ames Hunt eat, as a second course to a heaping serving of crow, his skepticism that I could possibly come up with something. I’d been the one to dismiss the possibility. His only crime was agreeing with me. So, I smiled brightly and said, “Of course.”

  “Good, and in the meantime, if you have any questions on consumer protection, please feel free to give my office a call.”

  He handed over a business card and, after a few more pleasantries, left me to enjoy my chocolate pie in peace.

  Peace lasted two blissful mouthfuls.

  “Ames Hunt tell you anything interesting?”

  The chocolate didn’t turn to ashes in my mouth, but the new arrival didn’t enhance the flavor, either.

  “He told me his entire life story. Exclusive. Now, go away.”

  Instead, Mike Paycik took off a cowboy hat and hooked it on a chair back finial, slid into the seat, grabbed a fork, pirated a hunk of my pie and eluded retribution, shifting away before my fork could leave a quartet of puncture wounds in the back of his hand.

  “Hey, be careful,” he mumbled around a mouthful of my pie. “You almost stabbed me.”

  “I’ll do better next time.” When he started to grin, I narrowed my eyes at him. “I grew up with three older brothers, so don’t think I won’t.”

  “I’ll make it up to you if you come with me to the rodeo. I’ll buy you a snow cone.”

  “It’s so cold, you won’t have to buy it, just hold a cone out and catch the stuff as it falls,” I grumbled.

  I kept grumbling as he raided several more forkfuls of pie before it was gone. I’d never admit it to Paycik, but he’d earned points by not showing up this morning.

  “Besides,” he said, “you should be up for a late night after I let you have your beauty sleep this morning.”

  There went the points.

  He narrowed his eyes at me in a way that would give him wrinkles someday—and only look the better for it, damn him.

  That dropped him into points deficit.

  “Although you do look a little—”

  The pit of points bankruptcy yawned at his feet.

  “Say it and die,” I muttered.

  He stepped back from the precipice.

  “—like someone who could use some fun at the rodeo.”

  Oh, yes, the man was quick with the ad lib.

  Besides, I was intrigued by the idea of going to the rodeo.

  Sherman’s rodeo is held nightly all summer, with one night a week reserved for pros, and the others open to all comers. Tonight was the exhibition opener, to work out kinks before the regular season began in two weeks, and it was free to the locals.

  For getting to know a community, sporting events rank with grocery stores and local papers.

  After an hour in the stands, I had learned several items about my new home.

  First, most of the people were smart enough to wear winter jackets on a night like this, even if the calendar did say May. Unlike certain newcomers.

  Second, chaps might have been designed to protect cowboys’ legs from brush and other dangers while riding, as Mike informed me, but they have an interesting side effect of showcasing the buns for the viewing pleasure of anyone who happens to sit behind the chutes where the bull riders and bronc riders mount up.

  Third, the smart women sit behind the chutes where the bull riders and bronc riders mount up.

  Funny how quickly a word like bronc slid off my tongue. Not even bronco, but bronc. It just sounded right.

  By the time the rodeo ended just short of ten o’clock, I was chilled enough to be glad we were leaving, and mellow enough to be on the verge of thanking Paycik. He made that difficult as he latched one hand around my elbow and steered me rapidly through the crowd.

  “Is this supposed to be an example of broken field running?” I asked when a logjam on the stairs allowed me to catch my breath.

  “What?” He was looking over the crowd in front of us, presumably seeking a hole to slip through for extra yardage.

  Beyond the stairs, traffic thinned considerably as spectators fanned out toward their scattered cars. I was about to steer around two women blocking the path, when Paycik’s hand on my elbow braked me to a stop.

  “Mona? Mona Burrell, right?”

  The nearer of the two women turned to his deep voice like a flower to the sun.

  “It is Mona Burrell, isn’t it?” Mike asked with a nice bit of hesitation. He took off his hat, holding it against his chest the way he had for the National Anthem.

  It should have seemed affected. Just the way his cowboy boots and worn jeans and silver belt buckle should have seemed affected. Instead, they looked as natural on him as they did on the rest of the male population in the crowd, along with easily half of th
e female population.

  Maybe it was just in New York where it looked affected.

  “Yes, I’m Mona Burrell.” She smiled up at him. She was maybe three inches shorter than my five-nine, despite hefty heels on her cowboy boots. She wore form-fitting jeans over a form worth fitting, and a cropped red leather jacket with black fringe. Unmoved by the wind that stirred my hair into a froth, her artful disarray of streaked blond mane reached her shoulders and framed a face dominated by blue eyes. Her makeup was well done, although harsh overhead lights traced hairline cracks around her eyes and mouth.

  “I’m Mike Paycik,” he was saying. “You might not remember me, but I remember you.”

  The tone was pure flattery. Mona Burrell wouldn’t have been female if she hadn’t preened. And she was most certainly female.

  “Why, Mike, how are you? I remember you, big football star and all.” She moved her left shoulder forward in a move that resembled a shrug, but that accomplished a whole lot more. It moved her closer to Mike, partially blocked me and released a cloud of scent heavy enough to outweigh the Wyoming breeze and the combined odors of horses, cattle and humans. “I just didn’t recognize you at first. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “It has been a long time. Mona, I’d like you to meet E.M. Danniher. She’s a new reporter with KWMT.” Some of Mona’s gloss dimmed as she accepted the introduction. It hardened and glittered with Mike’s next words. “Elizabeth is looking into the case against Tom.”

  “What’s there to look into?” she demanded. “Tom killed Foster, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “What reason would your ex-husband have for killing Foster Redus?” I asked.

  It was an accident asking that question. I didn’t mean to. Because I wasn’t interested. Not in the answer, not in the case. I had my own concerns, remember?

  But have you ever tried to not let your leg jerk when the doctor hits your knee with that little mallet? That’s what questions are like for me. Something someone says hits that nerve and pop! out comes the question.