We left Cherise and Owen once I got all the pertinent information from them. While the cop in me says they tampered with a crime scene, the realist acknowledges that, given the state of the other crime scene—and the bodies—I’m grateful for their interference.
They found the corpses on a chilly morning, when the scavengers had yet to do more than nibble. The fire had still been smoldering, suggesting the family died during the night, which gives me a rough time of death. By wrapping the corpses and placing them in a sealed cave, Cherise and Owen provided me with three relatively intact bodies.
They earned their pay on this one. As for the crime scene, I’m not sure there’s much point in visiting it. Cherise and Owen already stripped it of goods. As callous as that seems, the alternative would be animals ripping it apart or other settlers hauling off the usable items. Cherise described what they found, and that’ll be enough.
As for what happened to this family and what it portends . . .
“No,” Dalton says as we reach the ATV and dirt bike.
“No . . .”
“No to what you’re thinking.”
“And tell me, O Psychic One, what am I thinking?”
“That this is our fault.” He pauses as he unhooks the ropes from Storm’s harness. “Nah, you aren’t thinking that. You’re thinking it’s your fault. Ours—Rockton’s—but mostly yours.”
“Isn’t it?” I watch as he hooks the stretcher up behind his ATV. “Everyone says we riled up the hostiles, and we can bristle at that, but we kinda did. And the reason we riled them up? Because I started getting curious. Wanting to know more about them. Wanting to solve a mystery I was not hired to solve.”
“Stop taking all the damned credit. If they got riled up, it’s because of what Cherise said. We killed their leader . . . who’d been about to kill us. Are you saying I should have let them kill me to avoid this mess?”
“Of course not. Yes, that was unavoidable, but it’s the fallout that’s the real problem.”
“So when we found Maryanne after that, we should have ignored her? Better yet, tied her up and delivered her back to them?”
I sigh and check the bindings on the bodies.
“I’m exaggerating,” he continues, “but I’m also making a point you can’t argue. We didn’t have a choice. Not if we’re human. And, when you stop fretting about it, you’ll do the math and realize this might not have shit to do with us. It’s been a year. You think they’ve been stewing all this time and suddenly decided to start slaughtering tourists and settlers?”
“Something set them off recently, and that wouldn’t be us.”
“Exactly.” He tightens the strap. “Now, unfortunately, you have three more murders to solve.”
* * *
At the clinic, I help unwrap the bodies and find fatal wounds in all three—one slit throat and two chest stabs. There are more wounds, too. Brutal ones. With the other bodies, we’d ascribed damage to predation, but I’m no longer sure we didn’t jump to a false conclusion there. Yes, serious predation had occurred, but it could have been nonfatal injuries that the scavengers had used as entry points to feeding.
Without this new information, we’d have reassured Sophie that her companions died quickly. Now I’m not so sure.
On these bodies I see frenzied rage of exactly the sort others have described in hostile attacks. I also see a family. I’m not sure what their story was. Cherise only knew they’d come up from Whitehorse to trap two summers ago and decided to stay.
I wondered what their son thought of that. He looks about sixteen. Had he happily embarked on this great adventure? Or resented his parents for pulling him away from a normal life? What had he thought of Missy? A bit of fun, sex between a couple of hormonal teens? Or had he seen in her the possibility of a partner?
And this is why April makes me leave the autopsy. I cannot afford those melancholy thoughts, and yet in my state of exhaustion, they seep in like ghosts. I’m sad and frustrated and overwhelmed.
My brain and my soul need a break, and so, once I’ve done my preliminary examination of the bodies, Anders volunteers to assist in my place, and before I can more than squeak a protest, I’m outside, with Dalton’s hand between my shoulder-blades, steering me into town.
“Am I being sentenced to an afternoon nap?” I ask.
“Would you sleep? Or make notes?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer. “I’ve got a couple hours of work. By then, April will be done, and you’ll have her report, which we can go over at dinner.”
I smile. “You might be the only person I know who’d suggest reading an autopsy report as dinner entertainment.”
“Yeah, not exactly a break from work, is it?”
“For future reference, Eric, to most people, the problem wouldn’t be working through dinner. It’s reading that over dinner. My stomach can handle it, though, so we’ll do that, and I’ll take a break now instead. I have a few outstanding issues to follow up on—”
“Your definition of taking a break is as shitty as my definition of suitable mealtime conversation.” His fingertips press into my back, that steering hand turning me left. “As your boss, I’m prescribing this instead.”
I glance up to see we’ve stopped outside the Roc.
Dalton says, “Earlier April wanted a drink. She can’t do that right now, but I’m going to suggest you have one for her. This is what they call cocktail hour down south, isn’t it?”
“Not quite. Also, the bar doesn’t open until five o’clock, and even if you have the key, I’m not drinking alone.”
“You won’t be. Isabel’s doing inventory.”
“She’s not going to want—”
He shoves open the door and leans in to bellow, “Iz? Casey needs a drink.”
A shadowy figure leans out from the back. “Oh, so I’m playing bartender now?”
Dalton nudges me inside before I can protest. The door shuts, and I’m immersed in cool darkness, lighting only as my eyes adjust to the candles on the bar. The shutters are pulled, both to keep out the strong sunlight and to warn off anyone who might consider sneaking into the Roc for their own private happy hour.
I walk to Isabel, standing beside the bar. She wears an apron over a stylish sundress, her hair piled on her head, dust streaking one cheek.
As she reaches for a glass, I say, “You don’t need to serve me a drink. I can get my own if I want one, and I don’t. Eric’s just fussing. I’m happy to help with inventory.”
“Sit.” She pours something from a condensation-stippled jug and then adds a deft shot of vodka. “You can help by sampling my new cocktail. Blackberry-infused vodka with lemonade.” She puts the jug back into a basin and flips two ice cubes into the drink. “Those will cost extra.”
“Naturally.” I take a sip. “Nice. Very refreshing. Is this what I’ll actually get if I order it? Or will the official version be a little lighter on the vodka and heavier on the lemonade?”
“It’s getting warm out, and alcohol dehydrates.”
I settle onto a barstool. “You know, you look good back there, Iz. No need to hire a new bartender. You can just do the job yourself.”
She extends a middle finger as she rearranges the bottles.
“Why not?” I say. “You were a shrink. You’re used to having people tell you their problems.”
“I got paid for it.”
“So? Make a new policy. Telling the bartender your woes is free. Getting advice, though? That’ll cost you.”
She snorts and starts wiping the counter. “Obviously you haven’t ever been to therapy, Casey, or you’d know that’d be the worst moneymaking scheme ever. Most people don’t need advice. They just need someone who’ll listen to them.”
“I actually have had therapy.” I sip my spiked lemonade. “And you are one hundred percent correct. I wanted someone to listen to me talk.”
“Listen to you confess more like,” she says, slanting a look my way.
“True enough. Now I have Eric for tha
t. Problem is, he also gives advice. So much advice.”
She chuckles. “Our sheriff is quite certain he knows what everyone needs. Sometimes he’s even correct. As in this case. I need a bartender, and I am ready to hire one.”
“Mmm, pretty sure you’ve been hiring them. And firing them. And hiring more.”
“Well, I’m ready to hire a proper one now.”
I nod and say nothing as she pours herself a lemonade even stiffer than mine. Isabel hasn’t had a real bartender since Mick died, eighteen months ago. Mick, former cop, expert bartender . . . and Isabel’s lover.
When her glass is full, I clink mine to hers.
“Guess it’s working out with Phil, huh?” I say as we toast.
She flinches, just a little. I consider, and then sip my drink, saying as casually as I can, “Should we switch spots? Let me play bartender while you talk?”
I expect an eye roll. Instead, she says, “Have you ever been in a relationship that scared you, Casey?”
I tense.
She shakes her head. “Not like that. I had a man lift a hand to me once, and I showed him the door.” She takes a drink. “A strategy that always works so much better in our heads. And in advice columns. He didn’t go quietly. Once he was gone, he didn’t stay gone. Old story. Women can say they won’t put up with that shit, but that presumes the men listen. Most don’t. Phil, however, is not remotely a problem in that way. The issue is . . .”
She sets down her glass. “I almost screwed up the other night, Casey. The new guy. The one who just arrived. James?”
“Jay.”
“See? I don’t even know his name, but when he flirted with me, there was a moment where I considered taking him home for the night. I certainly flirted back long enough to give him hope.”
“Are you and Phil exclusive?”
“It hasn’t come up, but it’s clear that Phil considers it so, and unless I’ve said otherwise, that would be a poor excuse. The unforgivable part is that before Phil, I wouldn’t have flirted with James. He isn’t my type.”
I start to ask why she did, then I remember what she said. “Ah, when you asked about relationships that scared me, you meant emotionally. You flirted back with Jay to convince yourself you aren’t serious with Phil.”
She gives me a hard look. “A therapist isn’t supposed to offer interpretations.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m a detective, where it’s my job to interpret.”
Isabel takes two bottles from the shelf and disappears into the back. I don’t take offense at her sudden departure. Where I would simply go quiet, she signals that she doesn’t want to discuss it by removing herself from the conversation.
Bottles click and shuffle in the back. I’m halfway done with my drink before she returns.
“Do you consider me a soft touch, Casey?” she says.
I choke on my lemonade. She picks up her cloth to wipe away the spatter.
“Perhaps I worded that wrong,” she says.
“Unless that was extreme sarcasm, yes, you did. No one would ever mistake you for a soft touch, Iz.”
“I do have my vulnerabilities, though. After Mick . . .” She keeps cleaning, although my mess is long gone. “He was the pursuer.”
“He told me that. He chased, and you resisted.”
“Not just at the beginning, either. I always resisted. He let me know exactly how he felt, and I . . . did not reciprocate. I hope he knew—” She clears her throat. “I trust he knew. Some women might see dating a significantly younger man as a point of pride. Smug self-satisfaction. To me, it was like revealing a weakness. Uncovering a place where others could poke me. I fought back by acting as if Mick was just a plaything. Not in private but . . .”
Another throat-clearing. “I was less respectful than I ought to have been, and I regret that. When Mick was gone, I realized just how much I’d cared for him. It’s one thing for a successful man to have a hot young thing to show off. It’s quite another if he’s fool enough to fall for her. I worry that Phil . . .” She downs a gulp of her drink. “I worry he saw my weakness, and he’s taking advantage.”
“Of you?”
“Of my position here. My power in the community. I worry that he sees me as an easy mark. Get me in bed, and I’m just an older woman making a fool of herself.”
“I don’t see that at all, Isabel. If Phil was using you, he’d be flaunting the relationship, which he is not.”
“Because he’s embarrassed.”
“Uh, no. Jen accused him of that yesterday. He said he’s being circumspect because of your mutual positions in town. Also . . .” I run my finger down my glass. “I get the impression he’s being quiet about the relationship because you are. You might not be the only one who’s worrying about where you stand, Iz.”
She takes another sip and says, “I don’t want it happening again.”
I pause, processing her meaning. Then I nod. “You think he’ll betray us, like his predecessor. That he’s insinuating himself with you in hopes of winning you to the council’s side. Or, at the very least, stripping you of your power as an ally to Eric.”
She doesn’t answer, which tells me I’m right.
“Have you seen any sign of that?” I ask.
“No, which means I’m being a fool. Coming up with excuses for keeping yet another man at arm’s length.”
“So this is serious then.”
She dries her hands on her apron, gaze down. “God knows, it wasn’t supposed to be. Phil was my horse. I’d fallen off, and I was getting back on again.”
“Taking him for a ride,” I say with a smile.
“A much-needed ride. As many rides as I could get. A fling with a man I would never fall for. Too young. Too pretty. Wound too tight. I wanted a shot at unwinding him.”
I grin. “Which you did.”
“I certainly did, and that man is . . .” She exhales. “There’s a brain behind that pretty face. A fascinating brain, along with the kind of ambition I don’t see anyplace but in the mirror.”
“It’s easier to think he’ll betray you than to admit you’ve fallen for him.”
“Much easier. I also don’t want to be played for a fool, Casey. I worry about that.”
I lean on the bar. “If you’re truly worried, then test him. See if he bites. If not . . .” I shrug. “Then you’re going to need to figure out where you stand, and whether he’s standing in the same spot.”
“You know, that James seems like a lovely fellow. Quite handsome.”
“Jay is indeed handsome, and completely not your type. He hasn’t been coming on strong, has he?”
“No. He flirted. I flirted back and then wised up and sent him on his way. I don’t think I was ever in danger of inviting him home. I realized I wouldn’t do that to Phil.” She finishes her drink. “I need to test him.”
“Or you could just trust—”
The bar door creaks open, Anders peeking in.
“Eric said you were in here,” he says. “We found something you need to see, Casey.”
13
Anders and I are halfway to the clinic when Jay jogs up to us, and I tense, thinking of Isabel. She’d said he had readily taken no for an answer, but earlier today, I’d been reflecting on the trouble Owen caused in Rockton. The woman he’d stalked had been Isabel. She attracts admirers. Some are nice guys like Mick, who pursue ardently but respectfully. Others are like Owen, assholes who hear “no” as a challenge. I have to wonder what would have happened if Cherise hadn’t said yes. Or what will happen if she stops saying it.
As for Jay, though, Isabel said it was fine. I’m just being overprotective.
Jay falls in step with us because he’s heading in the same direction . . . apparently with the same destination.
“I heard Sophie’s stirring,” he says as we walk. “I was going to try talking to her again.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry I haven’t been around.”
“You went looking for her friends,” he says
. “Someone said they thought they saw bodies being brought in the back way. I’m guessing you found them?”
Anders cuts in. “Jay has been stopping by the clinic every time Sophie wakes. She hasn’t said much, but he’s been taking notes.”
Jay nods. “It really isn’t much. I wrote it all down, though.” He holds out a notebook. “She seems to be more lucid today. Is there anything you want me to ask her?”
“There is. We found two campsites about a kilometer apart. It looked as if the group split up. Can you ask about that?”
“Sure.”
We reach the clinic, and Diana’s waiting on the front porch. She takes Jay into the storage closet. That’s where we’ve put Sophie. It’s big enough for a bed, though I always feel guilty when someone needs to sleep in it. The clinic doesn’t have a room for overnight stays, and right now, there are three corpses in the main examination area.
I head into the exam room, where April is jotting notes. There’s a body on the table. The other two are stacked, still in their rudimentary shrouds. Yes, they’re on a tarp, but it still feels a whole lot like stacking bodies in the corner.
“Ever get the feeling Rockton needs a proper morgue?” I say to Anders as I enter.
“Only since you got here.”
April doesn’t look up from her note-taking. “If you are suggesting there are more murders since Casey arrived in Rockton, that is logistically impossible. She would need to be creating them herself, and I doubt she is.”
“ ‘Doubt,’ ” I murmur. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, sis.”
She looks up then, frowning. “Since I am not a mind reader, I cannot exonerate you completely. However, I do not believe you murdered these people. Isn’t that proper sisterly support?”
I shake my head and walk to the exam table. The body on it belongs to the son. The boy, his beard patchy with youth.
A beard that will never get the chance to grow in properly.
I hesitate. Anders reaches to pull up the sheet, but I wave him off as April says, “Casey does not require that. She is simply pausing in reflection. You knew this young man?”
A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel Page 11
