Chapter Five
Trixie leaned up against her Cherokee, head back and eyes shut tightly. Oh, God. How could she have been so stupid? Her original plan, to call Regan and ask him to bring Tom out to the country club and pick up her vehicle, was quickly revised. At the moment, she didn’t care if the Jeep spent the next year abandoned in the club’s parking lot.
She straightened and pulled her phone from her purse, noting the way her hand shook as she scrolled through her contact list. She wanted to blame the unsteadiness on the alcohol, but she knew better. She cast a quick glance at Honey silently hovering a few feet away, before dropping her gaze to the ground as she listened to the tinny ringing sound. Please be home, she thought anxiously. Be home.
“Miss Fidget? Aren’t you supposed to be on Honey’s Girl’s Night Out right about now?” Regan asked in greeting, and Trixie fought the urge to groan in relief at the sound of his voice.
“I need a favor,” she told him quietly, bypassing his question. “I need you to come get me. I’m still at the country club. Can you pick me up and drive me over to Dan’s place?”
“I’ll be there in ten,” he said simply before disconnecting the call.
She heaved out a breath. Somehow, Regan always knew exactly when to ask a lot of questions, and exactly when to avoid them.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Honey offered, studying her friend sympathetically.
“No. He’s on his way. Go back inside, Honey. I’m sure you can still salvage the evening for everybody else.” Trixie knew she was being a bit rude, but she really wanted to have a few minutes alone to collect herself before she went to Dan and confessed she’d completely betrayed his trust.
Honey grimaced and shook her head. “I think we’re going to call it a night. Di says she wants to go home, too.”
“Is she really mad at me?”
Honey hesitated before answering. She bit down on her lower lip, considering her words. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “She is. But not for the reason you think. Since you’ve apparently known about this for so long, she wants to know why you never convinced Dan to say anything to her. She’s not mad because you didn’t tell her yourself. She understands why you couldn’t do that.”
“I tried!” Trixie protested. “A lot of times. Geeze, I even went out of my way to set up opportunities for him to ask her out, but he always chickened out or messed it up somehow.”
“Well, I gotta say, you both did a great job of keeping this a big secret. I had no idea.” Honey turned and leaned up against the Cherokee, mimicking Trixie’s earlier stance. She titled her head back and looked up at the sky, awash in all the pinks, oranges, yellows, and reds of a truly spectacular summer sunset. “It must be genetic,” she muttered to herself. “It’s the only explanation for how two men could be so idiotic when it comes to girls.”
“Huh?”
Honey waved a hand in a helpless gesture. “Loving someone from afar for years and years? It sounds all sweet and romantic in a novel, but in real life? It’s just plain dumb.”
“You know Dan,” Trixie said, coming to his defense. “Deep down, no matter how much he’s accomplished, he still feels like he’s not quite worthy enough to be our friend. He still thinks his time in the gang is something that can’t be fully forgotten or forgiven. And that makes him think he doesn’t really deserve Di, so he keeps subconsciously sabotaging himself.”
“Which is equally dumb,” Honey declared, tossing her head in exasperation. “Idiot! Feel free to tell him I said that, by the way. Look, if you’re sure you’re all right, maybe I should go back inside and check on the others.”
Trixie nodded. “Go on. Regan will be here any minute.”
“I'll catch up with you tomorrow, though, okay? I want to know how things go with Dan.”
“If you don’t hear from me, go ahead and assume he’s shot me dead and buried me in his back yard. It’s no less than I deserve.”
Honey gave her friend a quick hug. “I don’t think it will come to that, Trix. In fact, maybe this will turn out all right in the end.”
Less than five minutes later, Trixie watched as Regan angled his truck into the circular drive that led up to the front of the club. He stopped in front of the awning-covered entryway and parked. She walked back across the lot and stepped up onto the curb just as he was handing his keys to the same valet who had helped her about an hour earlier. “It’s all right,” she called. “Don’t bother. I’m right here.”
She dug into her purse and pulled out her wallet, removing two twenty-dollar bills. These she handed to the valet. “I have an emergency and have to leave,” she said, hoping she sounded calm and professional. “If I can’t return for my Cherokee myself, I’ll be sure to have someone else pick it up as soon as possible.”
“Absolutely, Chief. If you need, I can even move it into one of the garages out back,” he offered solicitously. If he saw through her excuse, he did an excellent job of hiding it.
Regan waited for Trixie to climb up into the passenger side of his truck before reclaiming his seat behind the wheel. He said nothing as he drove back out the long drive and turned onto Glen Road. Trixie was grateful for his continued silence. A discordant jumble of thoughts raced through her head. Inanely, it occurred to her that she couldn’t remember when she had last seen Regan actually driving his own truck. He would cheerfully loan it to anyone who asked, even her baby brother, but he never seemed to take it out anywhere himself. Did he even have a driver’s license, she wondered with a distant bemusement. She would have to ask him about that someday when she wasn’t so distracted and upset.
When he pulled into Dan’s drive, he cut the lights, but left the engine running. “I’ll get Tom and we’ll go back for your Jeep,” he told her. “And we’ll leave it at your house. You can have Dan drive you home.”
She nodded, staring straight ahead. Now that she was here, she felt almost paralyzed with guilt. Regan’s hand on her cheek startled her out of her thoughts. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until he used his thumb to wipe away a few tears.
“Go on,” he said gently. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”
She was still several feet from the narrow front porch that ran the length of Dan’s small cottage when he opened his door. He stepped out into the cool evening, waved to his uncle, and then slipped an arm around Trixie's shoulders and guided her through the door.
Dan’s house had the hallmarks of bachelor living, though there was a certain amount of order to the chaos. His DVDs and CDs were filed away next to his television set on a shelf specifically designed for them, and though there was a stack of clean towels on his love seat, they were at least folded neatly rather than tossed there straight from the dryer. He wasn’t much of a decorator, but there were little touches here and there that revealed bits of his personality, from the small display of shot glasses collected during his army travels to the photos he kept of all his friends. He’d hung a series of framed old movie posters on one wall recently, replacing the abstract art prints that he’d originally put up when he moved in.
“You knew I was coming?” Trixie asked as she sank down on his comfortable, well-worn microfiber sofa, her favorite item of furniture in his home.
Dan nodded, sitting down next to her. “Honey called me.”
“Did she tell you why I was coming?”
“No. Only that you were upset and you’d explain when you got here. What happened? Did McKayla say something? And where’s the Jeep?”
“I left the Jeep,” she said, choosing to answer his third question first. “I had a couple of margaritas. Seemed like I shouldn’t be driving just now.”
“You could’ve called me directly. I would’ve come and got you.”
Exhaling slowly, Trixie slumped down and let her head fall back on the plump cushion. “I know.”
Dan frowned, staring down at her. “What did McKayla say?”
“McKayla made several of her patented McCracks. And I wish I could tell you that she’s the reason I’m upset. But she’s not. It’s me. Cowboy, I did something tonight you may never forgive.”
His brows rose. “Unless you’re about to tell me you just poisoned my uncle and he’s right now dying painfully on the side of the road somewhere, I doubt that.”
“I… I told Di you love her. And I told her in front of everybody else.” Trixie hitched a breath as she spoke, fighting off a fresh wave of tears. There. At least she’d managed to say it and get it out there. She braced herself, waiting for him to explode.
For a moment, he was quiet, and Trixie supposed he’d gone into some sort of shock, but then he reached out and flicked her nose with his finger. “Ow!” she exclaimed in shock and surprise.
“Freckles,” he murmured, his lips tilted up in a small smile of rueful resignation, “how many times do I have to warn you about how you really can’t hold your liquor?”
“I am so, so sorry,” she said miserably. “I wish I could somehow take it all back.”
“I know you are, Chief, and I know you do. But what’s done is done, huh?”
“You aren’t mad? I thought you’d be furious with me.”
“Nah. You ought to know me better than that by now. If you’d done this deliberately, then, yeah, I’d be pretty angry, but I know that wasn’t the case.” He shrugged both shoulders. “Maybe you did me a favor, anyway. It’s not like I was ever going to get off my butt and finally say something to her. At least now I’ll find out once and for all if I even have a shot with her.” He glanced at the clock on his DVR. “I suppose I ought to call her. Or go see her.”
“Not yet,” Trixie said, huffing out another long sigh. “She does want to talk to you, but she asked me to tell you to give her a few days. The boys graduate tomorrow, and there’s the party at her place….”
“Right. I don’t guess she gave you any clue, though, about how she feels?”
“Not really. But that doesn’t mean anything. She was obviously shocked, but I wouldn’t say she was put off by the idea. Give her a few days and then do what you should have done ages ago. Show up at her place with a big bouquet of roses and let her know how you want nothing more than to be her white knight.”
“Lilacs. She hates roses.”
“She does? I never knew that. But then, while I might have roomed with her all through college, I willingly concede that you are the expert on all things Diana Lynch.”
Dan grinned crookedly. “Comes from years of study, you know. But listen, since there’s nothing I can do tonight about it and you’ve given me your abject apology, let’s find something to take our minds off this. You know how much I hate seeing you upset.” He suddenly laughed. “And hungry. I hate seeing you hungry. Freckles, when’s the last time you ate anything? If your stomach grumbles any louder, I’m gonna start watching for some alien parasite to burst out of you.”
“I’m starving,” Trixie admitted sheepishly. “I’ll take anything at this point. Even a bologna sandwich. And you know how much I hate bologna.”
“Sorry. You're either in luck or out of it, depending how you look at it. I’m fresh out of bologna. But let’s go see what’s in my fridge.”
As it turned out, Dan was able to assemble her a much better meal than Trixie would have eaten at her own home, if she’d been sensible enough to have something for dinner before leaving her house. He prepared her a plate of cold chicken, baked beans, potato salad, and a buttered roll, all left over from his visit to Wyman’s Grocery and Deli a few days before. He watched silently as she inhaled her late supper, then suggested she choose a movie from his extensive collection.
Whether it was simply the alcohol or the effects of a long, highly emotional few days, Trixie was sound asleep on his sofa not long after the opening sequences of The Maltese Falcon had played across his television screen. With a fond smile, Dan pulled an old patchwork quilt over her and brushed a stray curl from her forehead before settling back to watch the rest of the movie.
His cell phone buzzed about twenty minutes later.
“Is she all right?” his uncle asked as soon as he answered.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly. “She’s fine, Uncle Liam. Nothing to worry about.”
“Good.” Regan disconnected the call and Dan dropped his phone back down next to him on the sofa, chuckling to himself. That had been abrupt, even for “Captain Grumpy Pants.”
He watched the remainder of the movie undisturbed, then finally decided to wake her. He tugged on the quilt, one of his most treasured belongings, kept from his days of living with Mr. Maypenny, and lightly tapped her upper arm. “Hey, there, Sleeping Beauty. Time to get up.”
Trixie sat up quickly, looking around with a startled expression. “What? Oh. Crap. I fell asleep. I’m sorry.” She blinked rapidly. “What time is it?”
“Late. It’s almost midnight. Let me drive you home. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Right. Bobby’s graduation. Will you be at the party tomorrow evening?”
“I’m not sure. I’d planned on it, of course, but since it’s a joint party for Bobby and the Lynches, it might be a bit awkward now for me to be there without speaking with Di first.”
Trixie visibly cringed. “You have a point. I don’t know what to tell you. Bobby will be disappointed if you aren’t there. You want me to cover for you? I could claim it’s my fault because I put you on duty to supervise while I’m out.”
“That might be the best idea,” he conceded. “I’ll make it up to Bobby somehow later.”
“You won’t need to,” Trixie said confidently. “Once the whole story is out, he’ll understand.”
The drive back into town was quiet. Although it was a Friday night, it was late enough that there was no traffic on the road. Dan took Glen Road all the way to 3rd, turning right at Paul’s Auto Repair, making a mental note that he was past due on an oil change and needed to find time to take care of it.
As he pulled into Trixie's drive, she glanced over at him. “You have time to come in for a minute? If you are going to be sitting around the station tomorrow night, maybe you could go through the Cold Lake papers? I’ve read everything so many times, but I feel like I’m missing something important.”
“Sure,” he said agreeably, shifting into park and cutting the engine. “But I’ll probably borrow your office, then, so I don’t have to worry about curious onlookers.”
He followed Trixie in through her front door. She stopped to scoop up an envelope from the parquet floor of her foyer. “Another surprise?” he asked curiously.
Shaking her head, she turned it over to show him where her name was written out in a bold, familiar handwriting. “No. It’s just my Jeep key. Regan dropped it in through the mail slot for me.” She led him to the back of the house. “I left the file on my breakfast table," she explained.
As she picked it up to hand it to him, a thought struck her. “Oh, wait. I want to show you something. You ought to get a kick out of it.” She opened the folder and pulled out the stack of papers, quickly leafing through them, searching for the Lytell’s grocery store advertisement. Suddenly, a different article caught her attention. Frowning, she studied it for a moment.
“Freckles?” Dan finally prompted.
“This is interesting,” she murmured. “We don’t have the entire thing, though.”
“Yeah, huh?”
She turned the paper over for a moment, noting that the article on the other side was one with details about Martin Grody’s arraignment. Flipping it back again, she read what she could of the story that was printed. Unfortunately, it was cut through after only a few paragraphs, as the person who had originally clipped it had obviously been interested in the Grody account, not an ad for used cars and part of a different article unrelated to the Cold Lake murders.
“What is it?” Dan wanted to know.
“It’s about Stephen Butler’s suicide. I’d forgotten all about that. And I guess I never actually knew when it took place.”
“And Stephen Butler was…?”
Trixie exhaled on a heavy sigh. “He was a teenage boy who killed himself by hanging himself in a barn on his neighbor’s property. It was old news even by the time you and I were born. The only reason I ever knew anything about it was because Dad always said that was one of the reasons he insists our barn is locked at night.”
“That sucks that a kid killed himself,” Dan said, “but I’m not really sure what you find so interesting about it.”
“Well, for one, it’s the timing. Look at the date. He killed himself only two days after Lucinda and Jennifer were found.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t mean the two things are related.”
“No,” she conceded slowly. “But, it’s… curious. Stephen Butler was Judge Butler’s son. And Judge Butler was the one who presided over Grody’s trial. Wouldn’t you think, in light of the death of his only son, that the man would’ve taken some time off work? Not immediately gone into a major murder trial like this? If the prosecutor knew the evidence against Grody was planted, maybe the judge did, too?”
Dan let a low whistle. “That’s a pretty heavy accusation, Trix. I know he’s been dead for a few years now, but Judge Butler was always extremely well-liked and respected.”
Trixie shoved the papers back in the folder and held it out to him. “I know. Do me a favor tomorrow. See if you can get a chance to pop into the library and find the original full article. And also see what you can find on it in the SHPD archives.”
“And if someone wants to know what I’m looking for in the archives?”
Trixie shot him a small grin. “Lie. Tell ‘em I said something about the arson investigation reminded me of an old case and I sent you to search for anything you could find.”
When Trixie went to bed that night, she found she couldn’t sleep. She regretted her extended nap on Dan’s couch, as it seemed to have provided her with just enough rest to keep her from being tired, and her mind raced with thoughts, seeking possibilities and connections between the various bits and pieces of information she had.
By the time her alarm buzzed Saturday morning, she was sure she’d had only about two hours of actual sleep. She spent considerably more time in the shower than usual, letting the hot, hard spray beat down on her as she planned out her day. If her prank caller had reached out again, she missed his call, and for that, she was grateful.
The day was long but blessedly uneventful. Bobby and Larry and Terry Lynch collected their diplomas and were pronounced, along with the rest of their class, official high school graduates. Trixie took some pointed questions from a few people about Dan’s absence from the graduation party, but for the most part it seemed they accepted that the SHPD was in the middle of two serious investigations and that Trixie only trusted Dan to watch over things if she herself wasn’t there to supervise.
At about 8:30 in the evening, she drove to the station. She sent Lindner and Caldwell out to patrol, watching for any grads who were celebrating a bit too much, and retreated to her office. There she found a note from Dan telling her he’d left her files and some other information for her locked in his own desk, knowing she had a copy of the key. She gathered everything together and sat down to read.
Exhaustion finally caught up with Trixie on Sunday morning. After taking an unexpected late-night call out for what proved to be a case of nothing more than mild vandalism, followed up by tangling with a treed cat, she’d arrived home much later than she’d originally planned and for the second night in a row, she was only able to snatch a few hours of sleep. Although she managed to drag herself into church just before service began, had anyone asked her about Pastor Keith’s sermon, she would have been hard pressed to find anything to say. She hadn’t gone so far as to nod off in her pew, but she was chagrined to realize she couldn’t claim to have paid much attention, either. She parted ways with her family in the parking lot, returning to her Cherokee and pondering her choices for lunch. Her refrigerator and cabinets, she knew, were bare.
After a brief consideration, she decided to stop at Wimpy's before heading home. She cut down 5th Street and turned onto Main, driving north a few blocks to Sleepyside's most popular diner. She was unsurprised to see the parking lot was nearly full. Designed to look like a converted railroad car, Wimpy's was a Sleepyside treasure that had been in business for over sixty years, though it had changed hands in ownership several times. Famous for its burgers and shakes, it was a favorite of locals young and old, as well as a frequent stop for the few tourists who came to the area.
Inside, several people stood in tight clumps, waiting for seating to become available. Trixie's brow furrowed as she tried to estimate how long it could be before she'd find either a stool at the counter or a seat at one of the tables. Just as she was thinking she might leave, she heard someone call her name.
She stepped around a middle-aged couple with two teens and saw Tom Delanoy waving to her from a booth in the very back. Excusing herself as she pushed through the crowd, she walked along the narrow aisle that separated the diner's counter from its single row of tables.
“Hey,” Tom said cheerfully, scooting over and patting the space next to him. “Join us.”
“Hey, yourself. And thanks.” She dropped down next to him and nodded to the tall redhead across from her.
Regan offered her a smile that disappeared almost as soon as it formed. “What happened to your arms?” he demanded, frowning at her multiple bandages.
Trixie slumped back against the seat. “Mr. Tibbles happened to my arms,” she said with an exaggerated groan. “There was another McGurty – Reybourne row last night that culminated in me getting run over by Rex the Wonder Dog and climbing a tree to rescue Mr. Tibbles, the World’s Most Ungrateful Cat.”
Tom shook his head. “Is there ever a day that June McGurty and Clifford Reybourne aren't fighting over something?”
“Not that I know of. And their pets seem to be carrying on the feud. As far as the owners go, this time it involved the deaths of three innocent boxwood shrubs. Mrs. McGurty was convinced Clifford ran over her plants, but the Reybournes have a solid alibi.”
“Well, I would say at least your first days as Acting Chief don't seem too taxing if you're investigating the murder of bushes,” Tom remarked, “but that would be discounting the big fire and the robbery out at the Greysons' farm. I saw your press conference Friday, doll. You did good.”
She smiled slightly at that. “Bet that seemed a bit surreal to you, eh? Gotta be weird to see the girl you can still remember begging you to take her along on your hunting trips with her older brothers, now up on a stage fielding questions as a police chief.”
Tom chuckled as he reached for his iced tea. “Is this some only slightly subtle way of you trying to make me feel old?”
Trixie puffed out a breath. “Please. That's nothing. In the past four days, I've had to question the Greysons, Mrs. McGurty, and Clifford Reybourne, not to mention speak with Jakob Grieg on several occasions. You just know they're all looking at me and thinking, 'Wait. Our Police Chief is the girl who once got caught running out of Crimper's Department Store in nothing but her panties? We're doomed.'”
Both men went completely still for a long moment, staring at her. Finally, Tom cleared his throat and set his glass back down on the table. “Please, please tell me you're going to give us the details of that particular event.”
“What?” Trixie demanded, her lips twitching. “You aren't gonna ask for pictures are you, Tom? What would your darling wife think?” She laughed and leaned forward to unabashedly swipe an onion ring from Regan's plate. “Seriously. I was two! Moms took me to Crimper's to buy an Easter dress and apparently I wasn't having any of that. I went running out of the dressing room, straight out the store, and was streaking down Main Street before Spider Webster managed to catch me and bring me back to her. Poor Moms was trying to chase after me and drag Mart along with her. By that point, from what I understand, half of Sleepyside had seen me, because it was lunch hour on the Friday before Palm Sunday. I'd brought the traffic to a complete halt in both directions, and of course everyone dining here had a front row seat to the show.”
Tom's laughter was loud enough to attract attention from several of the other patrons around them. He slung an arm around Trixie's shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “Trixie, have I told you lately how the world is just all that more wonderful because you're in it?” he asked with a wide smile.
“Hmmmm. No, not lately,” she replied, her grin distinctly mischievous. She grabbed another onion ring. “But don't worry. Captain Grumpy Pants here never misses a chance to remind me that I'm nuttier than a bag of trail mix, and that's kinda the same thing, right?”
“It's definitely the same thing,” Regan said evenly. As she took a third onion ring from his plate, he slid his glass of water across to her. “The world needs crazy people to keep the sane ones entertained.”
“Exactly! You'd all be lost in a sea of dullness without me, and don't you forget it.” She took a sip from the glass and leaned away from the table, looking down the length of the diner. “Who's your waitress? I want to see if I can get her attention and place an order.”
Even as she said it, her cell phone chirped and vibrated. She pulled it from her pocket, tapping the screen. “This is Acting Chief Belden.” She paused for a moment to listen. “No,” she said firmly. “Send Garza. I want Holt to stick with the arson investigation. He should keep his focus on interviewing the unit renters. We need as complete an inventory as possible within the next forty-eight hours, and that's his top priority. Tell him I said it's his only priority at the moment. I'll meet Garza at Blackie's and see what O'Brien's got.”
Tom looked over at Regan with one brow raised. The rapid change from laughing, teasing young woman to competent, no-nonsense police chief was startling in its abruptness. The Wheelers' groom shrugged a shoulder in response. Trixie finished her call and shoved her phone back into her pocket, then slid from the booth. “Sorry. I have to go. Thanks for letting me almost have lunch with you.”
“Couldn't you stay at least long enough to order something to go?” Tom asked.
Trixie shook her head. “No. I can't wait. It's all right. I'll pick something up later. If I don't see you before next Saturday... yeah, well, I'll see you at the wedding then.” The smile she shot them as she spoke was decidedly lopsided. With that, she turned and strode briskly away.
Tom picked up his BLT and took a bite, watching her as she left, noting that unlike on her approach to the table when she'd slipped around anyone in her way, she now walked with a purpose that demonstrated her expectation that people move. And they did, stepping aside to let her pass. “You think she's still pining for Jim?” he wondered aloud.
“She accepted that relationship was over a long time ago,” Regan replied quietly. “But that doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt.”
“Poor kid,” Tom murmured. “You know, I never understood why your nephew didn't step in once she was available. The two of them have always been close. Sometimes they seem closer than she and Jim ever were, if you ask me.”
“They both insist the idea of being anything more than good friends horrifies them because it would be almost like incest,” Regan explained. “They really see each other as family, as strange as that may sound.”
“Huh. I guess it works for them,” Tom mused. “I sure hate to see her all alone, though. I hope she finds someone who loves her as much as she deserves.”
Regan said nothing to that.
As Trixie pushed her way back out the diner's front door, she did her best to ignore the way her stomach rumbled. She dug around in her purse for the granola bar she always kept for “emergencies.” It wasn't much of a lunch, but it would have to do. She wondered how the old joke ever got started about overweight policemen and donuts. In her experience, being a cop was the most effective diet around. There never seemed to be time to eat.
Luke O'Brien, owner of Blackie's Pawn Shop had called the station to alert them to possible suspects in their Greyson robbery case. Two young men, matching the general description provided by Sophie and Eddie Greyson had come into Blackie's that morning, attempting to pawn a watch that O'Brien thought could be Mr. Greyson's. Although they'd left when it became apparent O'Brien was suspicious, the pawn shop owner had video surveillance to show the police. Trixie hoped they could take a still shot to the Greysons for confirmation.
Blackie's Pawn Shop took its name from the antique wooden sign that hung outside its door. At one point in its fabled history, the plaque had adorned the wall of a popular pub known as the Angry Parrot. The carved and painted picture was reputed to be of Blackbeard the Pirate himself, and Luke O'Brien had always refused to explain how he'd come to own it. Trixie had long suspected O'Brien's acquisition of the sign was something as mundane as purchasing it at a flea market, but O'Brien was shrewd enough to recognize the potential advertising boon behind letting people dream up more romantic and exciting stories.
She'd just pulled into a parking space and cut her engine when Garza arrived in one of the two Sleepyside patrol cars. Bernado Garza was the son of Puerto Rican immigrants, born and raised in NYC. Short and wiry, his small stature often gave people the mistaken impression that Garza was weak. Trixie knew this was far from the case. She'd seen him almost effortlessly take down suspects considerably taller and heavier than himself. Twelve years of working in construction in the city before making the career change to law enforcement had given Garza considerable strength.
“Chief,” he said as he joined her on the sidewalk outside the pawn shop.
“Garza,” she replied in kind. “Let's see what O'Brien's got for us.”
“Could be nothing,” Garza said with a casual shrug.
“True,” Trixie conceded. “Or it could be something. And now that we've both indulged in a bit of 'I, too, can State the Obvious' fun, let's go find out exactly what 'it' is.”
She caught the small smile that Garza tried to hide. Of everyone on the force, Garza was the least well-known to her. Their shifts had rarely ever coincided, and she'd never directly worked a single case with the man. What she did know was something Dan had passed on to her shortly after Garza had joined the SHPD. Never call the man “Bernie,” unless you were looking to make an enemy for life. Fortunately, Dan had learned that through observation, not by making the mistake himself. Beyond that, Garza was a devoted family man who kept pictures of his wife and children all over his desk, and a good cop who worked hard at his job.
They walked into the pawn shop together. Blackie's was a dark, over-crowded store filled with a jumble of electronics, various appliances, shelves that held a collection of everything from music instruments to china figurines to silver candlesticks, and one long glass cabinet where jewelry was placed on display. Dust motes hung thick in the air, and a musty smell gave evidence that it had been many long years since the building had received a thorough cleaning. There were no customers either shopping or looking to pawn or reclaim any items, and Trixie fleetingly wondered how much business O'Brien typically did on Sunday afternoons.
Despite the disordered, chaotic nature of his store, Luke O'Brien was a pleasant, well-dressed man who took good care of himself, looking many years younger than his mid-sixties. He was honest in his dealings, and kept meticulous records. He also cooperated with the police whenever necessary.
“Good afternoon, Detective. Officer,” he said, stepping from around the counter that ran along the back wall.
“It's Chief now,” Garza said, cocking his head in Trixie's direction.
O'Brien's expression revealed mild surprise. “Is it, then? I'd heard that Chief Molinson lost his battle with the cancer, but I wasn't aware you were the new chief, Detect- uh, Chief.”
“Acting Chief,” Trixie explained, wondering if she should have cards printed up that she could simply hand out whenever this particular subject came up. If nothing else, it could save her some time. “It's only for the interim. The council still has to decide on a permanent replacement.”
He regarded her speculatively, but let the matter drop, instead beckoning them both over to a door marked “Employees Only.” They passed through into a tiny office barely big enough to hold the three of them.
O'Brien leaned over his desk and tapped a few keys on his computer keyboard, bringing up a file. “I don't have sound, unfortunately,” he said, “but the picture is good.”
They watched as the video recording loaded and played. Although only black and white, the images were clear and easy to distinguish. With keen interest, Trixie studied the two young men talking with O'Brien, especially the shorter one who bounced on his toes with a nervous energy and constantly looked over his shoulder toward the door.
“That one's hyped up on something,” Garza muttered, giving voice to Trixie's thoughts.
“An addict,” Trixie agreed. “That could make him much more dangerous. Mr. O'Brien, I'd like to print off a few stills, please, to show to our victims.”
“One step ahead of you, De- uh, sorry,” he cut himself off with a self-deprecating smile, “I mean Chief.” He reached for a manila folder.
Trixie waved a hand, dismissing his apology. “Don't worry about it, sir.”
“I printed these just as soon as I called in to report them,” O'Brien continued. “I hope this will help.”
Trixie opened the file and flipped through the four photos inside. “Excellent,” she said. “As always, Mr. O'Brien, we appreciate your assistance. If either of these men return....”
“I'll be sure to phone you immediately,” he promised.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about them?” Trixie asked. “Anything they said that might give us an idea who they are or where they're from?”
O'Brien was silent as he considered her questions. “I'm afraid there's not a lot. The one in the green shirt did most of the talking. He claimed the watch was something he'd inherited from his father, but something just didn't seem right to me. When I asked him for more information, he got pretty agitated. He was also extremely upset when I asked for a photo ID. That's usually a good sign someone's not on the up and up.”
“Did he give any name at all?”
“Yeah,” O'Brien scoffed. “John.”
“Of course. All right. We'll take this and see what we can find out.”
“Oh, there was one thing,” O'Brien said suddenly. “The little guy, when he first came in, he made this remark about one of the guitars to his buddy. Said he used to have one just like it. Don't know if that's helpful or not.”
Trixie's eyes narrowed in thought. “Do you know which guitar he was referring to?”
O'Brien nodded his head. “The Epiphone Spirit.”
Trixie stared blankly at the five guitars on display. Just as she was about to ask O'Brien to tell her which guitar he meant, Garza stepped up and pulled one down. He held it lightly in his hands, turned it over to study it, then plucked the strings. “Do you play?” Trixie asked him curiously.
“Doesn't every boy play guitar at some point in his life?” Garza asked dryly. “I thought that was like girls and ballet.”
“Hmmm. I tried ballet when I was in kindergarten,” she admitted. “I was dressed up like a flower and I fell right off the stage. Thus endeth my career in the performing arts.”
Chuckling softly, Garza replaced the guitar. “It probably won't lead anywhere, but I guess it's a bit of information to file away, if these losers even are our suspects.”
“We can drive out to the Greysons now and show them the photos. Call me an eternal optimist, but I'm hoping these are our guys.”
Garza followed her back to their parked vehicles. “Hey, Chief,” he said hesitantly. “Can I offer you a bit of advice?”
Surprised, Trixie paused in the act of pulling her keys from her purse. “Yeah?”
He walked around the squad car and came to stand next to her. “Go home, ma'am.”
“What?”
He smiled slightly. “I'll call Stew and tell him to meet me at the station. He's been point with the Greysons anyway. This is supposed to be your day off. This isn't an emergency. If you don't set some boundaries now, you're in danger of becoming the next Chief Molinson in more than just the job title.” He reached out and gently took the folder of photos from her hand. “If this turns out to be anything, I'll call you and let you know. Meanwhile... go home.”
Trixie looked up at him, nonplussed. “Are you trying to tell me to get a life?”
Garza's face broke out into a smile that completely altered his appearance, showing off a dazzling set of perfect white teeth, and a warm humor that reached his eyes. “I'm not sure it's that bad yet, is it, Chief?” he asked. “I was trying to tell you to protect the life you do have.”
Trixie winced. Probably the “get a life” advice was more appropriate. She slowly nodded. “Call me regardless of what you learn,” she said. “If these two aren't our perps for the Greyson job, they may still be trouble for us somewhere down the line.”
“Will do, Chief.”
Trixie glanced at her watch. It was still relatively early in the afternoon. She decided against returning to Wimpy's for a second try at lunch. Instead, she drove east along 1st Street until she reached Glen Road. Less than ten minutes later, she was pulling up the drive of Crabapple Farm.
Her mother greeted her at the door. “Hi, honey. Were we expecting to see you out here today?”
Laughing lightly, Trixie shook her head. “No,” she said. “And I guess it would've been nice of me to call first, huh?”
“Oh, phooey, Trixie. You know you're welcome here any time. Can you stay for dinner this evening?”
“Uh... well, you know how after church I said I was going to get lunch and go home? It didn't exactly work out that way. Lately, I seem to be missing more lunches and dinners than eating them. Dan had to feed me Friday night and now here I am bumming a meal from my folks. Do you have any leftovers I could warm up?”
“I can do you one better than that,” Helen told her only daughter. “Come to the kitchen. Bobby only just woke up about twenty minutes ago. I was about to make him a turkey wrap and I have some homemade applesauce simmering on the stove. You two can have lunch together.”
A few moments later, Trixie found herself sitting at the breakfast table, watching as her mother quickly assembled two plates. There had been very few changes to the Crabapple Farm kitchen in Trixie's lifetime. The wood cabinets were originals to the house and still shone with loving care from regular polishing. The copper-bottom pots and pans that hung from a black metal rack above the stove had produced countless dishes for family and friends. Occasionally, Helen changed to a new table cloth or updated the window treatments, but overall there was a constancy to the kitchen, and indeed the entire house, that never failed to make Trixie feel safe and comforted no matter how much time went between her visits. “Moms?” she asked quietly.
“Hmmm?”
“Do you know Officer Garza? Bernado?”
“Isn't he the one with all the kids?”
Trixie grinned. “Yeah. That's him. There are even more Garzas than Beldens or Lynches. And his wife is pregnant with number seven.”
“She has my deepest sympathies,” Helen said with feeling. She glanced over at her daughter. “Why do you ask? Are you having some kind of trouble with him?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. In fact, when I talked to him on Friday about whether or not he wanted to stay on with me as Acting Chief, he just looked at me and said, 'Why would that be a problem?' Outside of Dan, that was the most openly supportive attitude I got. In its own way, anyway.”
“So...?” Helen prompted.
“He said something to me today that really got me thinking.”
Helen carried the two plates to the table and set them down. “Thinking in a good way or a bad way?” she asked, studying her daughter closely.
“I don't know, really. He told me to go home! Seriously. I doubt anyone ever said that to the Chief!” She huffed out a breath in a low sigh. “He said if I don't set up boundaries, I could wind up being just like the Chief where work is my whole life and I have nothing else.”
“Ah. This Officer Garza sounds like a very wise and perceptive man,” Helen said.
Trixie looked down at her lunch. “Yeah. But the thing is... it kinda already is. Work being my whole life, I mean. It's been that for a couple of years now, really.”
Before Helen could reply, the door from the den opened and Bobby sauntered in, his hair still wet and slicked back from his shower. “Hey, Sis. Didn't know you were here.”
“Yep. Came to check up on you,” Trixie said with a grin. “How late did you stay out?”
“About six. The sun was coming up when I left Larry and Terry's.”
Trixie looked over at her mother. “So, my record stands!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, dear,” Helen agreed wryly. “None of your brothers managed to pull off what you girls did on your graduation night, staying up for almost forty hours.” She sent Trixie a significant look. “We'll talk some more later,” she added, going back to the refrigerator and removing two cans of cola.
Trixie dug into her wrap, ignoring the suddenly curious look Bobby sent her way. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss her lack of a social life with her outgoing, popular younger brother. That was a level of humiliation she had no desire to sink to.
She straightened and pulled her phone from her purse, noting the way her hand shook as she scrolled through her contact list. She wanted to blame the unsteadiness on the alcohol, but she knew better. She cast a quick glance at Honey silently hovering a few feet away, before dropping her gaze to the ground as she listened to the tinny ringing sound. Please be home, she thought anxiously. Be home.
“Miss Fidget? Aren’t you supposed to be on Honey’s Girl’s Night Out right about now?” Regan asked in greeting, and Trixie fought the urge to groan in relief at the sound of his voice.
“I need a favor,” she told him quietly, bypassing his question. “I need you to come get me. I’m still at the country club. Can you pick me up and drive me over to Dan’s place?”
“I’ll be there in ten,” he said simply before disconnecting the call.
She heaved out a breath. Somehow, Regan always knew exactly when to ask a lot of questions, and exactly when to avoid them.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Honey offered, studying her friend sympathetically.
“No. He’s on his way. Go back inside, Honey. I’m sure you can still salvage the evening for everybody else.” Trixie knew she was being a bit rude, but she really wanted to have a few minutes alone to collect herself before she went to Dan and confessed she’d completely betrayed his trust.
Honey grimaced and shook her head. “I think we’re going to call it a night. Di says she wants to go home, too.”
“Is she really mad at me?”
Honey hesitated before answering. She bit down on her lower lip, considering her words. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “She is. But not for the reason you think. Since you’ve apparently known about this for so long, she wants to know why you never convinced Dan to say anything to her. She’s not mad because you didn’t tell her yourself. She understands why you couldn’t do that.”
“I tried!” Trixie protested. “A lot of times. Geeze, I even went out of my way to set up opportunities for him to ask her out, but he always chickened out or messed it up somehow.”
“Well, I gotta say, you both did a great job of keeping this a big secret. I had no idea.” Honey turned and leaned up against the Cherokee, mimicking Trixie’s earlier stance. She titled her head back and looked up at the sky, awash in all the pinks, oranges, yellows, and reds of a truly spectacular summer sunset. “It must be genetic,” she muttered to herself. “It’s the only explanation for how two men could be so idiotic when it comes to girls.”
“Huh?”
Honey waved a hand in a helpless gesture. “Loving someone from afar for years and years? It sounds all sweet and romantic in a novel, but in real life? It’s just plain dumb.”
“You know Dan,” Trixie said, coming to his defense. “Deep down, no matter how much he’s accomplished, he still feels like he’s not quite worthy enough to be our friend. He still thinks his time in the gang is something that can’t be fully forgotten or forgiven. And that makes him think he doesn’t really deserve Di, so he keeps subconsciously sabotaging himself.”
“Which is equally dumb,” Honey declared, tossing her head in exasperation. “Idiot! Feel free to tell him I said that, by the way. Look, if you’re sure you’re all right, maybe I should go back inside and check on the others.”
Trixie nodded. “Go on. Regan will be here any minute.”
“I'll catch up with you tomorrow, though, okay? I want to know how things go with Dan.”
“If you don’t hear from me, go ahead and assume he’s shot me dead and buried me in his back yard. It’s no less than I deserve.”
Honey gave her friend a quick hug. “I don’t think it will come to that, Trix. In fact, maybe this will turn out all right in the end.”
Less than five minutes later, Trixie watched as Regan angled his truck into the circular drive that led up to the front of the club. He stopped in front of the awning-covered entryway and parked. She walked back across the lot and stepped up onto the curb just as he was handing his keys to the same valet who had helped her about an hour earlier. “It’s all right,” she called. “Don’t bother. I’m right here.”
She dug into her purse and pulled out her wallet, removing two twenty-dollar bills. These she handed to the valet. “I have an emergency and have to leave,” she said, hoping she sounded calm and professional. “If I can’t return for my Cherokee myself, I’ll be sure to have someone else pick it up as soon as possible.”
“Absolutely, Chief. If you need, I can even move it into one of the garages out back,” he offered solicitously. If he saw through her excuse, he did an excellent job of hiding it.
Regan waited for Trixie to climb up into the passenger side of his truck before reclaiming his seat behind the wheel. He said nothing as he drove back out the long drive and turned onto Glen Road. Trixie was grateful for his continued silence. A discordant jumble of thoughts raced through her head. Inanely, it occurred to her that she couldn’t remember when she had last seen Regan actually driving his own truck. He would cheerfully loan it to anyone who asked, even her baby brother, but he never seemed to take it out anywhere himself. Did he even have a driver’s license, she wondered with a distant bemusement. She would have to ask him about that someday when she wasn’t so distracted and upset.
When he pulled into Dan’s drive, he cut the lights, but left the engine running. “I’ll get Tom and we’ll go back for your Jeep,” he told her. “And we’ll leave it at your house. You can have Dan drive you home.”
She nodded, staring straight ahead. Now that she was here, she felt almost paralyzed with guilt. Regan’s hand on her cheek startled her out of her thoughts. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until he used his thumb to wipe away a few tears.
“Go on,” he said gently. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”
She was still several feet from the narrow front porch that ran the length of Dan’s small cottage when he opened his door. He stepped out into the cool evening, waved to his uncle, and then slipped an arm around Trixie's shoulders and guided her through the door.
Dan’s house had the hallmarks of bachelor living, though there was a certain amount of order to the chaos. His DVDs and CDs were filed away next to his television set on a shelf specifically designed for them, and though there was a stack of clean towels on his love seat, they were at least folded neatly rather than tossed there straight from the dryer. He wasn’t much of a decorator, but there were little touches here and there that revealed bits of his personality, from the small display of shot glasses collected during his army travels to the photos he kept of all his friends. He’d hung a series of framed old movie posters on one wall recently, replacing the abstract art prints that he’d originally put up when he moved in.
“You knew I was coming?” Trixie asked as she sank down on his comfortable, well-worn microfiber sofa, her favorite item of furniture in his home.
Dan nodded, sitting down next to her. “Honey called me.”
“Did she tell you why I was coming?”
“No. Only that you were upset and you’d explain when you got here. What happened? Did McKayla say something? And where’s the Jeep?”
“I left the Jeep,” she said, choosing to answer his third question first. “I had a couple of margaritas. Seemed like I shouldn’t be driving just now.”
“You could’ve called me directly. I would’ve come and got you.”
Exhaling slowly, Trixie slumped down and let her head fall back on the plump cushion. “I know.”
Dan frowned, staring down at her. “What did McKayla say?”
“McKayla made several of her patented McCracks. And I wish I could tell you that she’s the reason I’m upset. But she’s not. It’s me. Cowboy, I did something tonight you may never forgive.”
His brows rose. “Unless you’re about to tell me you just poisoned my uncle and he’s right now dying painfully on the side of the road somewhere, I doubt that.”
“I… I told Di you love her. And I told her in front of everybody else.” Trixie hitched a breath as she spoke, fighting off a fresh wave of tears. There. At least she’d managed to say it and get it out there. She braced herself, waiting for him to explode.
For a moment, he was quiet, and Trixie supposed he’d gone into some sort of shock, but then he reached out and flicked her nose with his finger. “Ow!” she exclaimed in shock and surprise.
“Freckles,” he murmured, his lips tilted up in a small smile of rueful resignation, “how many times do I have to warn you about how you really can’t hold your liquor?”
“I am so, so sorry,” she said miserably. “I wish I could somehow take it all back.”
“I know you are, Chief, and I know you do. But what’s done is done, huh?”
“You aren’t mad? I thought you’d be furious with me.”
“Nah. You ought to know me better than that by now. If you’d done this deliberately, then, yeah, I’d be pretty angry, but I know that wasn’t the case.” He shrugged both shoulders. “Maybe you did me a favor, anyway. It’s not like I was ever going to get off my butt and finally say something to her. At least now I’ll find out once and for all if I even have a shot with her.” He glanced at the clock on his DVR. “I suppose I ought to call her. Or go see her.”
“Not yet,” Trixie said, huffing out another long sigh. “She does want to talk to you, but she asked me to tell you to give her a few days. The boys graduate tomorrow, and there’s the party at her place….”
“Right. I don’t guess she gave you any clue, though, about how she feels?”
“Not really. But that doesn’t mean anything. She was obviously shocked, but I wouldn’t say she was put off by the idea. Give her a few days and then do what you should have done ages ago. Show up at her place with a big bouquet of roses and let her know how you want nothing more than to be her white knight.”
“Lilacs. She hates roses.”
“She does? I never knew that. But then, while I might have roomed with her all through college, I willingly concede that you are the expert on all things Diana Lynch.”
Dan grinned crookedly. “Comes from years of study, you know. But listen, since there’s nothing I can do tonight about it and you’ve given me your abject apology, let’s find something to take our minds off this. You know how much I hate seeing you upset.” He suddenly laughed. “And hungry. I hate seeing you hungry. Freckles, when’s the last time you ate anything? If your stomach grumbles any louder, I’m gonna start watching for some alien parasite to burst out of you.”
“I’m starving,” Trixie admitted sheepishly. “I’ll take anything at this point. Even a bologna sandwich. And you know how much I hate bologna.”
“Sorry. You're either in luck or out of it, depending how you look at it. I’m fresh out of bologna. But let’s go see what’s in my fridge.”
As it turned out, Dan was able to assemble her a much better meal than Trixie would have eaten at her own home, if she’d been sensible enough to have something for dinner before leaving her house. He prepared her a plate of cold chicken, baked beans, potato salad, and a buttered roll, all left over from his visit to Wyman’s Grocery and Deli a few days before. He watched silently as she inhaled her late supper, then suggested she choose a movie from his extensive collection.
Whether it was simply the alcohol or the effects of a long, highly emotional few days, Trixie was sound asleep on his sofa not long after the opening sequences of The Maltese Falcon had played across his television screen. With a fond smile, Dan pulled an old patchwork quilt over her and brushed a stray curl from her forehead before settling back to watch the rest of the movie.
His cell phone buzzed about twenty minutes later.
“Is she all right?” his uncle asked as soon as he answered.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly. “She’s fine, Uncle Liam. Nothing to worry about.”
“Good.” Regan disconnected the call and Dan dropped his phone back down next to him on the sofa, chuckling to himself. That had been abrupt, even for “Captain Grumpy Pants.”
He watched the remainder of the movie undisturbed, then finally decided to wake her. He tugged on the quilt, one of his most treasured belongings, kept from his days of living with Mr. Maypenny, and lightly tapped her upper arm. “Hey, there, Sleeping Beauty. Time to get up.”
Trixie sat up quickly, looking around with a startled expression. “What? Oh. Crap. I fell asleep. I’m sorry.” She blinked rapidly. “What time is it?”
“Late. It’s almost midnight. Let me drive you home. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“Right. Bobby’s graduation. Will you be at the party tomorrow evening?”
“I’m not sure. I’d planned on it, of course, but since it’s a joint party for Bobby and the Lynches, it might be a bit awkward now for me to be there without speaking with Di first.”
Trixie visibly cringed. “You have a point. I don’t know what to tell you. Bobby will be disappointed if you aren’t there. You want me to cover for you? I could claim it’s my fault because I put you on duty to supervise while I’m out.”
“That might be the best idea,” he conceded. “I’ll make it up to Bobby somehow later.”
“You won’t need to,” Trixie said confidently. “Once the whole story is out, he’ll understand.”
The drive back into town was quiet. Although it was a Friday night, it was late enough that there was no traffic on the road. Dan took Glen Road all the way to 3rd, turning right at Paul’s Auto Repair, making a mental note that he was past due on an oil change and needed to find time to take care of it.
As he pulled into Trixie's drive, she glanced over at him. “You have time to come in for a minute? If you are going to be sitting around the station tomorrow night, maybe you could go through the Cold Lake papers? I’ve read everything so many times, but I feel like I’m missing something important.”
“Sure,” he said agreeably, shifting into park and cutting the engine. “But I’ll probably borrow your office, then, so I don’t have to worry about curious onlookers.”
He followed Trixie in through her front door. She stopped to scoop up an envelope from the parquet floor of her foyer. “Another surprise?” he asked curiously.
Shaking her head, she turned it over to show him where her name was written out in a bold, familiar handwriting. “No. It’s just my Jeep key. Regan dropped it in through the mail slot for me.” She led him to the back of the house. “I left the file on my breakfast table," she explained.
As she picked it up to hand it to him, a thought struck her. “Oh, wait. I want to show you something. You ought to get a kick out of it.” She opened the folder and pulled out the stack of papers, quickly leafing through them, searching for the Lytell’s grocery store advertisement. Suddenly, a different article caught her attention. Frowning, she studied it for a moment.
“Freckles?” Dan finally prompted.
“This is interesting,” she murmured. “We don’t have the entire thing, though.”
“Yeah, huh?”
She turned the paper over for a moment, noting that the article on the other side was one with details about Martin Grody’s arraignment. Flipping it back again, she read what she could of the story that was printed. Unfortunately, it was cut through after only a few paragraphs, as the person who had originally clipped it had obviously been interested in the Grody account, not an ad for used cars and part of a different article unrelated to the Cold Lake murders.
“What is it?” Dan wanted to know.
“It’s about Stephen Butler’s suicide. I’d forgotten all about that. And I guess I never actually knew when it took place.”
“And Stephen Butler was…?”
Trixie exhaled on a heavy sigh. “He was a teenage boy who killed himself by hanging himself in a barn on his neighbor’s property. It was old news even by the time you and I were born. The only reason I ever knew anything about it was because Dad always said that was one of the reasons he insists our barn is locked at night.”
“That sucks that a kid killed himself,” Dan said, “but I’m not really sure what you find so interesting about it.”
“Well, for one, it’s the timing. Look at the date. He killed himself only two days after Lucinda and Jennifer were found.”
“Okay. But that doesn’t mean the two things are related.”
“No,” she conceded slowly. “But, it’s… curious. Stephen Butler was Judge Butler’s son. And Judge Butler was the one who presided over Grody’s trial. Wouldn’t you think, in light of the death of his only son, that the man would’ve taken some time off work? Not immediately gone into a major murder trial like this? If the prosecutor knew the evidence against Grody was planted, maybe the judge did, too?”
Dan let a low whistle. “That’s a pretty heavy accusation, Trix. I know he’s been dead for a few years now, but Judge Butler was always extremely well-liked and respected.”
Trixie shoved the papers back in the folder and held it out to him. “I know. Do me a favor tomorrow. See if you can get a chance to pop into the library and find the original full article. And also see what you can find on it in the SHPD archives.”
“And if someone wants to know what I’m looking for in the archives?”
Trixie shot him a small grin. “Lie. Tell ‘em I said something about the arson investigation reminded me of an old case and I sent you to search for anything you could find.”
When Trixie went to bed that night, she found she couldn’t sleep. She regretted her extended nap on Dan’s couch, as it seemed to have provided her with just enough rest to keep her from being tired, and her mind raced with thoughts, seeking possibilities and connections between the various bits and pieces of information she had.
By the time her alarm buzzed Saturday morning, she was sure she’d had only about two hours of actual sleep. She spent considerably more time in the shower than usual, letting the hot, hard spray beat down on her as she planned out her day. If her prank caller had reached out again, she missed his call, and for that, she was grateful.
The day was long but blessedly uneventful. Bobby and Larry and Terry Lynch collected their diplomas and were pronounced, along with the rest of their class, official high school graduates. Trixie took some pointed questions from a few people about Dan’s absence from the graduation party, but for the most part it seemed they accepted that the SHPD was in the middle of two serious investigations and that Trixie only trusted Dan to watch over things if she herself wasn’t there to supervise.
At about 8:30 in the evening, she drove to the station. She sent Lindner and Caldwell out to patrol, watching for any grads who were celebrating a bit too much, and retreated to her office. There she found a note from Dan telling her he’d left her files and some other information for her locked in his own desk, knowing she had a copy of the key. She gathered everything together and sat down to read.
Exhaustion finally caught up with Trixie on Sunday morning. After taking an unexpected late-night call out for what proved to be a case of nothing more than mild vandalism, followed up by tangling with a treed cat, she’d arrived home much later than she’d originally planned and for the second night in a row, she was only able to snatch a few hours of sleep. Although she managed to drag herself into church just before service began, had anyone asked her about Pastor Keith’s sermon, she would have been hard pressed to find anything to say. She hadn’t gone so far as to nod off in her pew, but she was chagrined to realize she couldn’t claim to have paid much attention, either. She parted ways with her family in the parking lot, returning to her Cherokee and pondering her choices for lunch. Her refrigerator and cabinets, she knew, were bare.
After a brief consideration, she decided to stop at Wimpy's before heading home. She cut down 5th Street and turned onto Main, driving north a few blocks to Sleepyside's most popular diner. She was unsurprised to see the parking lot was nearly full. Designed to look like a converted railroad car, Wimpy's was a Sleepyside treasure that had been in business for over sixty years, though it had changed hands in ownership several times. Famous for its burgers and shakes, it was a favorite of locals young and old, as well as a frequent stop for the few tourists who came to the area.
Inside, several people stood in tight clumps, waiting for seating to become available. Trixie's brow furrowed as she tried to estimate how long it could be before she'd find either a stool at the counter or a seat at one of the tables. Just as she was thinking she might leave, she heard someone call her name.
She stepped around a middle-aged couple with two teens and saw Tom Delanoy waving to her from a booth in the very back. Excusing herself as she pushed through the crowd, she walked along the narrow aisle that separated the diner's counter from its single row of tables.
“Hey,” Tom said cheerfully, scooting over and patting the space next to him. “Join us.”
“Hey, yourself. And thanks.” She dropped down next to him and nodded to the tall redhead across from her.
Regan offered her a smile that disappeared almost as soon as it formed. “What happened to your arms?” he demanded, frowning at her multiple bandages.
Trixie slumped back against the seat. “Mr. Tibbles happened to my arms,” she said with an exaggerated groan. “There was another McGurty – Reybourne row last night that culminated in me getting run over by Rex the Wonder Dog and climbing a tree to rescue Mr. Tibbles, the World’s Most Ungrateful Cat.”
Tom shook his head. “Is there ever a day that June McGurty and Clifford Reybourne aren't fighting over something?”
“Not that I know of. And their pets seem to be carrying on the feud. As far as the owners go, this time it involved the deaths of three innocent boxwood shrubs. Mrs. McGurty was convinced Clifford ran over her plants, but the Reybournes have a solid alibi.”
“Well, I would say at least your first days as Acting Chief don't seem too taxing if you're investigating the murder of bushes,” Tom remarked, “but that would be discounting the big fire and the robbery out at the Greysons' farm. I saw your press conference Friday, doll. You did good.”
She smiled slightly at that. “Bet that seemed a bit surreal to you, eh? Gotta be weird to see the girl you can still remember begging you to take her along on your hunting trips with her older brothers, now up on a stage fielding questions as a police chief.”
Tom chuckled as he reached for his iced tea. “Is this some only slightly subtle way of you trying to make me feel old?”
Trixie puffed out a breath. “Please. That's nothing. In the past four days, I've had to question the Greysons, Mrs. McGurty, and Clifford Reybourne, not to mention speak with Jakob Grieg on several occasions. You just know they're all looking at me and thinking, 'Wait. Our Police Chief is the girl who once got caught running out of Crimper's Department Store in nothing but her panties? We're doomed.'”
Both men went completely still for a long moment, staring at her. Finally, Tom cleared his throat and set his glass back down on the table. “Please, please tell me you're going to give us the details of that particular event.”
“What?” Trixie demanded, her lips twitching. “You aren't gonna ask for pictures are you, Tom? What would your darling wife think?” She laughed and leaned forward to unabashedly swipe an onion ring from Regan's plate. “Seriously. I was two! Moms took me to Crimper's to buy an Easter dress and apparently I wasn't having any of that. I went running out of the dressing room, straight out the store, and was streaking down Main Street before Spider Webster managed to catch me and bring me back to her. Poor Moms was trying to chase after me and drag Mart along with her. By that point, from what I understand, half of Sleepyside had seen me, because it was lunch hour on the Friday before Palm Sunday. I'd brought the traffic to a complete halt in both directions, and of course everyone dining here had a front row seat to the show.”
Tom's laughter was loud enough to attract attention from several of the other patrons around them. He slung an arm around Trixie's shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “Trixie, have I told you lately how the world is just all that more wonderful because you're in it?” he asked with a wide smile.
“Hmmmm. No, not lately,” she replied, her grin distinctly mischievous. She grabbed another onion ring. “But don't worry. Captain Grumpy Pants here never misses a chance to remind me that I'm nuttier than a bag of trail mix, and that's kinda the same thing, right?”
“It's definitely the same thing,” Regan said evenly. As she took a third onion ring from his plate, he slid his glass of water across to her. “The world needs crazy people to keep the sane ones entertained.”
“Exactly! You'd all be lost in a sea of dullness without me, and don't you forget it.” She took a sip from the glass and leaned away from the table, looking down the length of the diner. “Who's your waitress? I want to see if I can get her attention and place an order.”
Even as she said it, her cell phone chirped and vibrated. She pulled it from her pocket, tapping the screen. “This is Acting Chief Belden.” She paused for a moment to listen. “No,” she said firmly. “Send Garza. I want Holt to stick with the arson investigation. He should keep his focus on interviewing the unit renters. We need as complete an inventory as possible within the next forty-eight hours, and that's his top priority. Tell him I said it's his only priority at the moment. I'll meet Garza at Blackie's and see what O'Brien's got.”
Tom looked over at Regan with one brow raised. The rapid change from laughing, teasing young woman to competent, no-nonsense police chief was startling in its abruptness. The Wheelers' groom shrugged a shoulder in response. Trixie finished her call and shoved her phone back into her pocket, then slid from the booth. “Sorry. I have to go. Thanks for letting me almost have lunch with you.”
“Couldn't you stay at least long enough to order something to go?” Tom asked.
Trixie shook her head. “No. I can't wait. It's all right. I'll pick something up later. If I don't see you before next Saturday... yeah, well, I'll see you at the wedding then.” The smile she shot them as she spoke was decidedly lopsided. With that, she turned and strode briskly away.
Tom picked up his BLT and took a bite, watching her as she left, noting that unlike on her approach to the table when she'd slipped around anyone in her way, she now walked with a purpose that demonstrated her expectation that people move. And they did, stepping aside to let her pass. “You think she's still pining for Jim?” he wondered aloud.
“She accepted that relationship was over a long time ago,” Regan replied quietly. “But that doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt.”
“Poor kid,” Tom murmured. “You know, I never understood why your nephew didn't step in once she was available. The two of them have always been close. Sometimes they seem closer than she and Jim ever were, if you ask me.”
“They both insist the idea of being anything more than good friends horrifies them because it would be almost like incest,” Regan explained. “They really see each other as family, as strange as that may sound.”
“Huh. I guess it works for them,” Tom mused. “I sure hate to see her all alone, though. I hope she finds someone who loves her as much as she deserves.”
Regan said nothing to that.
As Trixie pushed her way back out the diner's front door, she did her best to ignore the way her stomach rumbled. She dug around in her purse for the granola bar she always kept for “emergencies.” It wasn't much of a lunch, but it would have to do. She wondered how the old joke ever got started about overweight policemen and donuts. In her experience, being a cop was the most effective diet around. There never seemed to be time to eat.
Luke O'Brien, owner of Blackie's Pawn Shop had called the station to alert them to possible suspects in their Greyson robbery case. Two young men, matching the general description provided by Sophie and Eddie Greyson had come into Blackie's that morning, attempting to pawn a watch that O'Brien thought could be Mr. Greyson's. Although they'd left when it became apparent O'Brien was suspicious, the pawn shop owner had video surveillance to show the police. Trixie hoped they could take a still shot to the Greysons for confirmation.
Blackie's Pawn Shop took its name from the antique wooden sign that hung outside its door. At one point in its fabled history, the plaque had adorned the wall of a popular pub known as the Angry Parrot. The carved and painted picture was reputed to be of Blackbeard the Pirate himself, and Luke O'Brien had always refused to explain how he'd come to own it. Trixie had long suspected O'Brien's acquisition of the sign was something as mundane as purchasing it at a flea market, but O'Brien was shrewd enough to recognize the potential advertising boon behind letting people dream up more romantic and exciting stories.
She'd just pulled into a parking space and cut her engine when Garza arrived in one of the two Sleepyside patrol cars. Bernado Garza was the son of Puerto Rican immigrants, born and raised in NYC. Short and wiry, his small stature often gave people the mistaken impression that Garza was weak. Trixie knew this was far from the case. She'd seen him almost effortlessly take down suspects considerably taller and heavier than himself. Twelve years of working in construction in the city before making the career change to law enforcement had given Garza considerable strength.
“Chief,” he said as he joined her on the sidewalk outside the pawn shop.
“Garza,” she replied in kind. “Let's see what O'Brien's got for us.”
“Could be nothing,” Garza said with a casual shrug.
“True,” Trixie conceded. “Or it could be something. And now that we've both indulged in a bit of 'I, too, can State the Obvious' fun, let's go find out exactly what 'it' is.”
She caught the small smile that Garza tried to hide. Of everyone on the force, Garza was the least well-known to her. Their shifts had rarely ever coincided, and she'd never directly worked a single case with the man. What she did know was something Dan had passed on to her shortly after Garza had joined the SHPD. Never call the man “Bernie,” unless you were looking to make an enemy for life. Fortunately, Dan had learned that through observation, not by making the mistake himself. Beyond that, Garza was a devoted family man who kept pictures of his wife and children all over his desk, and a good cop who worked hard at his job.
They walked into the pawn shop together. Blackie's was a dark, over-crowded store filled with a jumble of electronics, various appliances, shelves that held a collection of everything from music instruments to china figurines to silver candlesticks, and one long glass cabinet where jewelry was placed on display. Dust motes hung thick in the air, and a musty smell gave evidence that it had been many long years since the building had received a thorough cleaning. There were no customers either shopping or looking to pawn or reclaim any items, and Trixie fleetingly wondered how much business O'Brien typically did on Sunday afternoons.
Despite the disordered, chaotic nature of his store, Luke O'Brien was a pleasant, well-dressed man who took good care of himself, looking many years younger than his mid-sixties. He was honest in his dealings, and kept meticulous records. He also cooperated with the police whenever necessary.
“Good afternoon, Detective. Officer,” he said, stepping from around the counter that ran along the back wall.
“It's Chief now,” Garza said, cocking his head in Trixie's direction.
O'Brien's expression revealed mild surprise. “Is it, then? I'd heard that Chief Molinson lost his battle with the cancer, but I wasn't aware you were the new chief, Detect- uh, Chief.”
“Acting Chief,” Trixie explained, wondering if she should have cards printed up that she could simply hand out whenever this particular subject came up. If nothing else, it could save her some time. “It's only for the interim. The council still has to decide on a permanent replacement.”
He regarded her speculatively, but let the matter drop, instead beckoning them both over to a door marked “Employees Only.” They passed through into a tiny office barely big enough to hold the three of them.
O'Brien leaned over his desk and tapped a few keys on his computer keyboard, bringing up a file. “I don't have sound, unfortunately,” he said, “but the picture is good.”
They watched as the video recording loaded and played. Although only black and white, the images were clear and easy to distinguish. With keen interest, Trixie studied the two young men talking with O'Brien, especially the shorter one who bounced on his toes with a nervous energy and constantly looked over his shoulder toward the door.
“That one's hyped up on something,” Garza muttered, giving voice to Trixie's thoughts.
“An addict,” Trixie agreed. “That could make him much more dangerous. Mr. O'Brien, I'd like to print off a few stills, please, to show to our victims.”
“One step ahead of you, De- uh, sorry,” he cut himself off with a self-deprecating smile, “I mean Chief.” He reached for a manila folder.
Trixie waved a hand, dismissing his apology. “Don't worry about it, sir.”
“I printed these just as soon as I called in to report them,” O'Brien continued. “I hope this will help.”
Trixie opened the file and flipped through the four photos inside. “Excellent,” she said. “As always, Mr. O'Brien, we appreciate your assistance. If either of these men return....”
“I'll be sure to phone you immediately,” he promised.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about them?” Trixie asked. “Anything they said that might give us an idea who they are or where they're from?”
O'Brien was silent as he considered her questions. “I'm afraid there's not a lot. The one in the green shirt did most of the talking. He claimed the watch was something he'd inherited from his father, but something just didn't seem right to me. When I asked him for more information, he got pretty agitated. He was also extremely upset when I asked for a photo ID. That's usually a good sign someone's not on the up and up.”
“Did he give any name at all?”
“Yeah,” O'Brien scoffed. “John.”
“Of course. All right. We'll take this and see what we can find out.”
“Oh, there was one thing,” O'Brien said suddenly. “The little guy, when he first came in, he made this remark about one of the guitars to his buddy. Said he used to have one just like it. Don't know if that's helpful or not.”
Trixie's eyes narrowed in thought. “Do you know which guitar he was referring to?”
O'Brien nodded his head. “The Epiphone Spirit.”
Trixie stared blankly at the five guitars on display. Just as she was about to ask O'Brien to tell her which guitar he meant, Garza stepped up and pulled one down. He held it lightly in his hands, turned it over to study it, then plucked the strings. “Do you play?” Trixie asked him curiously.
“Doesn't every boy play guitar at some point in his life?” Garza asked dryly. “I thought that was like girls and ballet.”
“Hmmm. I tried ballet when I was in kindergarten,” she admitted. “I was dressed up like a flower and I fell right off the stage. Thus endeth my career in the performing arts.”
Chuckling softly, Garza replaced the guitar. “It probably won't lead anywhere, but I guess it's a bit of information to file away, if these losers even are our suspects.”
“We can drive out to the Greysons now and show them the photos. Call me an eternal optimist, but I'm hoping these are our guys.”
Garza followed her back to their parked vehicles. “Hey, Chief,” he said hesitantly. “Can I offer you a bit of advice?”
Surprised, Trixie paused in the act of pulling her keys from her purse. “Yeah?”
He walked around the squad car and came to stand next to her. “Go home, ma'am.”
“What?”
He smiled slightly. “I'll call Stew and tell him to meet me at the station. He's been point with the Greysons anyway. This is supposed to be your day off. This isn't an emergency. If you don't set some boundaries now, you're in danger of becoming the next Chief Molinson in more than just the job title.” He reached out and gently took the folder of photos from her hand. “If this turns out to be anything, I'll call you and let you know. Meanwhile... go home.”
Trixie looked up at him, nonplussed. “Are you trying to tell me to get a life?”
Garza's face broke out into a smile that completely altered his appearance, showing off a dazzling set of perfect white teeth, and a warm humor that reached his eyes. “I'm not sure it's that bad yet, is it, Chief?” he asked. “I was trying to tell you to protect the life you do have.”
Trixie winced. Probably the “get a life” advice was more appropriate. She slowly nodded. “Call me regardless of what you learn,” she said. “If these two aren't our perps for the Greyson job, they may still be trouble for us somewhere down the line.”
“Will do, Chief.”
Trixie glanced at her watch. It was still relatively early in the afternoon. She decided against returning to Wimpy's for a second try at lunch. Instead, she drove east along 1st Street until she reached Glen Road. Less than ten minutes later, she was pulling up the drive of Crabapple Farm.
Her mother greeted her at the door. “Hi, honey. Were we expecting to see you out here today?”
Laughing lightly, Trixie shook her head. “No,” she said. “And I guess it would've been nice of me to call first, huh?”
“Oh, phooey, Trixie. You know you're welcome here any time. Can you stay for dinner this evening?”
“Uh... well, you know how after church I said I was going to get lunch and go home? It didn't exactly work out that way. Lately, I seem to be missing more lunches and dinners than eating them. Dan had to feed me Friday night and now here I am bumming a meal from my folks. Do you have any leftovers I could warm up?”
“I can do you one better than that,” Helen told her only daughter. “Come to the kitchen. Bobby only just woke up about twenty minutes ago. I was about to make him a turkey wrap and I have some homemade applesauce simmering on the stove. You two can have lunch together.”
A few moments later, Trixie found herself sitting at the breakfast table, watching as her mother quickly assembled two plates. There had been very few changes to the Crabapple Farm kitchen in Trixie's lifetime. The wood cabinets were originals to the house and still shone with loving care from regular polishing. The copper-bottom pots and pans that hung from a black metal rack above the stove had produced countless dishes for family and friends. Occasionally, Helen changed to a new table cloth or updated the window treatments, but overall there was a constancy to the kitchen, and indeed the entire house, that never failed to make Trixie feel safe and comforted no matter how much time went between her visits. “Moms?” she asked quietly.
“Hmmm?”
“Do you know Officer Garza? Bernado?”
“Isn't he the one with all the kids?”
Trixie grinned. “Yeah. That's him. There are even more Garzas than Beldens or Lynches. And his wife is pregnant with number seven.”
“She has my deepest sympathies,” Helen said with feeling. She glanced over at her daughter. “Why do you ask? Are you having some kind of trouble with him?”
“Oh, no. Not at all. In fact, when I talked to him on Friday about whether or not he wanted to stay on with me as Acting Chief, he just looked at me and said, 'Why would that be a problem?' Outside of Dan, that was the most openly supportive attitude I got. In its own way, anyway.”
“So...?” Helen prompted.
“He said something to me today that really got me thinking.”
Helen carried the two plates to the table and set them down. “Thinking in a good way or a bad way?” she asked, studying her daughter closely.
“I don't know, really. He told me to go home! Seriously. I doubt anyone ever said that to the Chief!” She huffed out a breath in a low sigh. “He said if I don't set up boundaries, I could wind up being just like the Chief where work is my whole life and I have nothing else.”
“Ah. This Officer Garza sounds like a very wise and perceptive man,” Helen said.
Trixie looked down at her lunch. “Yeah. But the thing is... it kinda already is. Work being my whole life, I mean. It's been that for a couple of years now, really.”
Before Helen could reply, the door from the den opened and Bobby sauntered in, his hair still wet and slicked back from his shower. “Hey, Sis. Didn't know you were here.”
“Yep. Came to check up on you,” Trixie said with a grin. “How late did you stay out?”
“About six. The sun was coming up when I left Larry and Terry's.”
Trixie looked over at her mother. “So, my record stands!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, dear,” Helen agreed wryly. “None of your brothers managed to pull off what you girls did on your graduation night, staying up for almost forty hours.” She sent Trixie a significant look. “We'll talk some more later,” she added, going back to the refrigerator and removing two cans of cola.
Trixie dug into her wrap, ignoring the suddenly curious look Bobby sent her way. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss her lack of a social life with her outgoing, popular younger brother. That was a level of humiliation she had no desire to sink to.
