The Taurus was back out on the highway now, the sun slipping behind the horizon. The stark brown trees that lined the road brought to mind how she’d looked coming up the hill that morning, steam rolling from her lips, her nose red from the cold. On the way back down the hill when she dropped the phone and started telling him about Zeke, Canon almost told her then. But a voice in his head said, The time’s not right. Just listen to what she’s telling you. Gain her trust. That’s the only way.
Canon had been sheriff for twenty years—a job filled with long stretches of the ordinary—speeding tickets, domestic spats, the growing complexities of technology—interspersed with moments of high action calling for quick-thinking and calm. A shooting. A murder. That time a disgruntled teacher at the high school turned on the gas burners in the chemistry classroom planning to blow up the building. Canon was lucky to still be alive. Much of the credit went to logic. Caution. Luck. Or someone else keeping their wits long enough to call a problem in.
As he drove himself out to the farm, Canon replayed the scenes of the dream, sliding snippets of the day around, trying them this way and that, like fitting pieces into a puzzle.
He had seen the killer standing at the top of the hill. Had it been Zeke Thompson? Canon never got a clean look at the man’s face, not in his dream. He did remember seeing summer sneakers—impractical for the weather—matching Maggie’s description of Zeke’s footwear. Those shoes matched what Canon remembered, too. Zeke froze to death and was buried in a well-worn pair of Chuck Taylors. How could she have known that detail?
As Canon turned off the highway onto the gravel road his thoughts turned to the woman he’d seen bathing in his dream…to the flickering light of the candle in the window. He pictured Maggie as the woman now. No, that was wrong. Canon shouldn’t be thinking that.
But he did. He thought of Maggie’s smell, clean and fresh. Canon would have sworn that part of his pulse had quit working. All the nice women Shirley tried to fix him up with—that widow on Elm who used to bring him pies. Nothing. The widow finally married again and moved to Columbia. Canon’s waistline was grateful.
How could a woman intoxicate him so fast, and after all this time? When Canon pressed his nose to the glass of the cabin’s front window that morning and saw her lying so still on the couch, pain—actual pain—shot through him. He was pounding on the door before he knew it. Then she stood there in the doorway, the embodiment of his dream.
The single plate on the dining table had been such a relief.
Then she cooked him breakfast. Canon woke wondering if he’d died and gone to heaven. Why God would send an angel like that to Marston County, then send Canon straight to her door, he would never know. But now it was Canon’s job not to run her off.
He had expected to find Rodriquez dead in the ravine. But that didn’t mean he knew how to write the report. Wait and see. ‘Wait and see’ had proven an effective strategy on many a mystery prior.
As Canon pulled into his driveway, he picked up his radio and asked Amos to man the scanner. “Don’t call me unless you find any more bodies.” He was beat.
Thankfully, this time when Canon crawled into bed, it was a dreamless sleep that overtook him.
18
"I died on a Monday—same Monday I broke out of prison. My name was Ezekiel Thompson. Everybody called me Zeke. I killed three people, but only one from hatred."
As soon as Canon’s tail lights disappeared around the bend, Maggie went straight to her computer. The notes she had so far were great. All salvageable. The story would be best in first person. She already knew the opening lines.
Maggie didn’t look up from her computer until the wee hours of morning. No knocks on the door all night. She crawled under the matelassé coverlet and woke as dawn broke, grateful to witness the magic of the sun rising over the oak tree one more time. She remembered that it was New Year’s Day. Peace lay over her like the blanket of snow outside.
All was silent. With no smells of perking coffee or frying bacon to greet her, Maggie dozed off again, then woke mid-morning and showered. It was hard to pack with her mind so full and racing. She kept stopping to go back to her computer.
Finally, she took the dish crate out to the Subaru, stepped back on the porch and turned the key in the lock.
“Thank you, Zeke,” she whispered, running the toe of her boot across his spot on the porch. “I’ll be back.”
She stopped at Mr. Thompson’s to give him the key.
“When were you thinkin’ that next visit would be?”
Maggie had already checked her calendar. “Last week of January?”
“I’ll need to look at the AirBib notes.” Mr. Thompson shuffled toward the den and Maggie followed him, smiling at his mispronunciation, picking up the framed picture of Zeke to study one more time.
“Nobody else has asked for it,” he said a few minutes later. “I’ll put you down.”
“Does the cabin stay rented out frequently?” asked Maggie.
The old man shook his head. “Folks hardly ever come in the winter months.”
Maggie wondered if Zeke had ever visited other tenants. “Has anyone ever said anything about…”
“Noises?” Mr. Thompson squinted, searching her face. “When that oak tree drops its acorns in the fall, folks complain about the noise. And I know the squirrels run across the roof sometimes. They do that here, too.”
Maggie decided not to press the point. She didn’t want to ask Mr. Thompson outright if anyone else had reported seeing his son’s ghost in the cabin. “I’ll pay the deposit online when I get home.”
She set down the frame, kissed Mr. Thompson on the cheek, and drove down the lane. It took her longer than it should have to get home. She kept pulling over to write down another thought.
* * *
Maggie cooked dinner for Cal and Robbie at the condo. No Yvette. No Mark. Just Cal and Robbie. Cal’s favorite: Spinach ricotta pasta and tiramisu. As they moved to the sofa in the living room, dessert coffees in hand, Robbie said, “I want to hear more about your week at the cabin, Mom. You’ve hardly said two words about it.”
“Yeah. Why so secretive?” asked Cal.
“She’s working on a book.” Robbie nudged Cal with her elbow. “Writers get all secretive about their stories.”
“But not with us. You’ll tell us. Right, Mom?”
Maggie took a deep breath, feeling suddenly shy. She’d rehearsed for this moment all week.
“Oh, my gosh.” Robbie clamped a hand over her mouth then pulled it away. “You met someone!”
Cal looked at his sister. “Where did that come from?”
“Look at her!” Robbie pointed. Maggie felt her face burn. “Mom! Why haven’t you said anything? Who is it?”
“Robbie, slow down,” scolded Maggie. “It’s not what you think.”
“Tell, tell!” said Cal.
Maggie sized up her son and daughter, Robbie sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, Cal sitting on the floor with his head next to his sister’s knees. “You know, just because I’m single again doesn’t mean the two of you can treat me like I’m a teenager.”
“Are you acting like a teenager?” Cal’s eyes twinkled. “Are your hormones getting the better of you, Mom?”
Maggie threw a pillow at him. “I’m not going to tell you anything if you’re going to act like that.”
“We’ll behave, won’t we Cal?” Robbie smacked her brother’s shoulder. “We want to hear. Every detail.”
Maggie took a deep breath. She knew before she started, as much as she’d rehearsed this moment, that she would fall short on describing the new lightness of heart she’d felt since getting home.
“It was a great cabin. Very rustic. Big stone fireplace, lots of windows, just like in the pictures. Sweet, old caretaker named Mr. Thompson down the road, who, as it happens, lost a son several years ago.”
When Maggie paused, Cal waved his hand for her to go on. “So, what’s the story? And…is the sweet, old ma
n the one who has you blushing?”
Maggie laughed. “No. I guess that would be the handsome sheriff who came by the cabin looking for the prison escapee that you,” she pointed to Cal, “texted me about.”
“Aha!” Robbie clapped her hands. “A handsome sheriff.” She winked down at Cal. “That’s nice. Continue.”
“So…all of these events got mixed into a kind of stew in my mind, and you know…even my own recent experiences seem to have worked their way into the mix, and…I think I might be on to something.”
“When can we read it?” asked Robbie.
Maggie froze. “I don’t really have anything yet except a jumble of notes and a loose idea. I need to go back and do some more research.”
“To the cabin?” asked Cal.
“When?” said Robbie.
“Last week of January. I need to go back to Canon’s office and—”
Cal raised a hand to stop her. “I’m sorry. Who is Canon?”
“The handsome sheriff.” Robbie nodded smugly, knowing she was right and enjoying it. “I like it that you’re on a first-name basis.”
Cal grinned up at Robbie. “I see where this is tracking.”
Maggie shook her head as they snickered. “How can it not bother you to think about me being interested in another man? Doesn’t it bother you that your father is with Bethany?”
“Mom.” Robbie shook her head. “Those are not the same things.”
“We want to see you happy,” said Cal. “You deserve that.”
“Well, don’t act like I’ve got something going on with the sheriff. I don’t! The ink is hardly dry on my divorce papers.”
Maggie didn’t tell them Canon nearly hugged her, or how much she’d wanted him to. Nor did she tell them he had occupied nearly as many of her thoughts the past week as Ezekiel Thompson. And she’d only been around Canon one day. Still…ready to admit it to her children or not…the Marston County sheriff had gotten under Maggie’s skin…or in her heart…something. And Maggie didn’t know what to do with that so soon after Tom’s severance of their thirty-year marriage.
Maggie and Tom’s divorce was so lightning fast, in part, because Maggie didn’t contest anything. Why contest? Tom was as generous as she had expected him to be. “The sheriff came by the cabin looking for information on the escaped prisoner, is all. Then he found him dead in the woods after it got daylight.”
“Wait—there was a dead guy in the woods?” Cal leaned forward.
“Yes! If you two would be serious for a minute, I was trying to tell you how I met the sheriff, who, as it happens, knows a lot about this story with the caretaker’s son because he was the first one on the scene when Zeke killed his wife.”
“Zeke was the caretaker’s son?”
“He killed his wife?” Robbie leaned forward now, too. “Is this a murder mystery?”
Maggie raised a finger. “He was convicted of killing his wife.”
“You don’t think he did it?” asked Robbie.
“Does the sheriff think he didn’t do it?” said Cal.
Maggie hadn’t decided yet what to do with the actual moment of the killings. Were they murders? That was yet to be explored. And she couldn’t tell Robbie and Cal she had actually met Zeke. It was her job as a mother to protect her children from truths they couldn’t handle. In the same way that it was her job as a writer to sift through fact and fiction to find what was plausible for the reader.
“I haven’t decided on my final version of the story,” Maggie said honestly. “But I’d like to learn more about it. So I’m going back the last week of January.”
Cal nodded. “Spoken like a woman who has made up her mind.”
“Yes.” Maggie stood and held out her hand for his empty cup. “Now hand that over. It’s time to wash the dishes.”
19
A writer pries open a lot of lids seeking truth for a story. Sometimes she closes them fast, knowing these are the contents that need to be brought to light, but sorry to be the one given the job.
Maggie had just finished peeling carrots for beef stew when she heard a cruiser coming up the gravel road.
Canon’s hand was in the air for a knock when she opened the door of the cabin. Yes…a younger Sean Connery…who spoke Tennessee Southern. She had thought about the Marston County sheriff more than she cared to admit in the month she’d been away. Zeke’s presence was vapory, but Canon’s was real. This made the sheriff more frightening.
“Hello, Canon.” The afternoon was sunlit behind him. Maggie had only arrived a couple of hours ago.
Canon grinned, looking sheepish. “Ollie said you were back. Thought I’d come check on you.” His nose caught the air. “I’ve interrupted your supper.”
“I’m still working on it—beef stew. Won’t you join me?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“You probably only made enough for one.”
“None of my recipes go that low.” Maggie stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
Canon followed her into the living room and removed his coat. “Well…I remember what a good cook you are.”
Maggie went back to the kitchen to mix up cheesy cornbread. When Canon followed her in and sat on the red stool, she slid a cutting board, a grater and two peeled carrots toward him on the counter. It pleased her to have someone to cook for…someone to cook with. “You have to work for your supper. My aunt taught me to put grated carrots in the cornbread. She said, ‘slip vegetables in whenever you can, Maggie.’ Robbie and Cal never seemed to mind carrots and peppers in the cornbread as long as it had plenty of cheese.”
Canon made quick work of the carrots and raked them into the batter bowl. Then he reached for the green bell pepper, deftly chopped it, and raked that in, too. The sheriff had obviously done his share of cutting vegetables. “What else?”
“You’re not in uniform.” Maggie had noticed the moment she opened the door. Jeans and an untucked flannel shirt instead. He looked good in blue.
“It’s Sunday.”
“You came to check on me on your day off?”
That sheepish look again. “And at dinner time, too. I’m subtle like that.” Then, changing the subject, “You had any other visitors?”
Now it was Maggie’s turn to look sheepish. “You’re my first, this trip, other than Mr. Thompson with the key.”
Canon nodded and looked out the window, but Maggie felt his eyes on her while she finished the cornbread batter and poured it into the hot skillet. He was quick to reach to open the oven door for her when she got ready to slip the heavy iron pan inside.
“Thank you.” Maggie straightened, conscious of his nearness, remembering how his hands had lightly brushed her hips when he slid past her in his office that day.
“Least I could do.” His gaze lingered on her lips.
As Maggie turned to stir the stew, Canon stepped back to the doorway to the living room and glanced around the cabin. She wondered if it was simply wired in him to do constant surveillance on his surroundings. At least he wasn’t wearing his hip radio…or his gun.
“Who commandeers the ship on Sundays?” she asked.
“We rotate on the weekends: me, Amos, and Becky. Amos is there today, and Becky’s on call.”
“You have a female deputy? I’m proud to hear that.”
“Oh, yes. She’s better than Amos, but don’t tell him I said so. I’m trying to toughen him up, that’s why I let him drive the Explorer. Becky, she’s naturally tough. Say,” he stepped back into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your writing.”
Maggie’s laptop lay open on the dining room table, along with several papers.
“It’s okay. I had already stopped to cook dinner. But can I ask you questions while we eat? I can chalk it up to research that way.”
“Ask away.” Canon picked up a bottle of Merlot from the counter. “Are we having this?”
“Only if you let me prove to you I don’t pass out from one g
lass of wine.”
He smirked. “I don’t remember accusing you of that.”
“No, but you did ask how wine affects me.”
Canon reached for the corkscrew to open it while Maggie set out the glasses. “I’ll make a note of my observations, even though it’s my day off.”
An hour later, the sun had set and Maggie still had half a glass. She was too busy scribbling notes to drink it, and didn’t trust herself to get too relaxed with Canon in the room.
“So you were a deputy when Zeke was arrested?”
“Yes.”
“And you responded to the call?”
He nodded.
“What do you remember? Wait—back up. What did you know about him and Tandy Wilkins prior to the call?”
Maggie had jotted pages of questions in her spiral notebook over the past month and had so much to ask, she hardly knew where to begin. It was greatly to her benefit Canon had stopped by. She had trouble containing her excitement.
Canon swirled his wine, seeming to enjoy her enthusiasm, watching her with a measure of amusement. “Everybody knew Tandy cheated on Zeke. It’s a small town. No secrets. There’s a dozen folks you could ask about it.”
Maggie readied her pen. “Who?”
“Dot Jenkins at the library has her ear to the ground better than anybody. She’s old enough to remember. Make sure you’ve got plenty of time if you go see her, though. She’s a talker.”
Dot Jenkins, librarian, talker.
“Who else? Any of Tandy’s family still in Marston?”
“Her sister, Rynell. You already met her. She waited on us at the café that day.”
“That was Tandy’s sister?”
Canon nodded.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
His eyebrows raised innocently. “I just did.”
Maggie smiled. “Alright.”
Rynell, Tandy’s sister, waitress at The Local Cafe.
“Who else?”
“Brad Bybee is the newspaper editor. He’d remember the story. And they called June Hargrove to testify as a character witness in Zeke’s trial. She was his teacher, close to the family. She’s principal at the high school now.”
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