A Stranger in Town: a Rockton novel

by Armstrong, Kelley

  “I knew someone who did that.”

  “My parents always did. Now it has a whiff of the white-savior complex, but at the time, it was cool getting updates. My parents were so proud when ‘their’ kids grew up and graduated high school and went to college or learned a trade. As if they’d played a role beyond sending checks. That’s a bit like Émilie with Eric. She’s very proud of him, and she definitely has a soft spot for him. You can use that to your advantage.”

  “Got it.”

  “Otherwise? Don’t underestimate her. She’s old. She’s a woman. She isn’t physically intimidating. She uses all that to her advantage.” Petra slides a glance my way. “As someone who meets those last two criteria, though, I suspect you’re prepared for that.”

  “She flew a plane out here on her own. I would not make the mistake of underestimating her.”

  “Good.”

  We change the subject once we reach the bakery. It’s almost closing time, meaning pastries are half-price, and there’s a line. I feel gazes on me, people wanting to ask questions, but Petra keeps up a running patter that no one dares interrupt.

  Once we reach the counter, I know I need to say something. Devon is watching me. He’s a baker and one of the town . . . I won’t say “gossips.” To me, that implies malicious intent. Devon fills the role of news source in a town without public media. His partner—Brian—bakes in the back, and Devon interacts with people. Conversation will naturally turn to current events, and he’s happy to discuss them. So when he watches me with that look, I know he’s waiting to see whether I have anything to pass on.

  “Lots of talk, I’m guessing,” I say.

  “Talk and speculation.”

  “Mmm.”

  The latter is the problem. The less we say, the more people make shit up to fill in the blanks. Let it go too long, and there’s no point correcting them. What they’ll remember is the speculation.

  “Tell people I’ll call a meeting first thing tomorrow,” I say. “We have someone here from the council, and I can’t speak until I’ve run it by her.”

  “A woman from the council?” Devon says.

  I nod. “Petra is taking her in.”

  “What about Phil?”

  He means why not have her stay with Phil, but as soon as he says the name, I mentally smack myself. Émilie is here, and no one has told Phil.

  Shit.

  * * *

  Earlier, I’d had a mini-meltdown, overwhelmed by everything after Sophie attacked Jay. Now I’m tempted to have another. Not so much a meltdown as a short-circuiting, my brain pulled in too many directions at once. So many things to do, and it’s already dinner hour, and I’m torn between needing more hours in my day and feeling like it should be midnight already.

  Instead of ticking items off a to-do list on this endless day, I seem to be adding a dozen an hour. Juggling more and more balls only to be reminded, every now and then, of the ones I’ve dropped. Like telling Phil about Émilie.

  I’m halfway across town when I see the man himself . . . walking with Dalton in the direction of Petra’s house. Dalton catches my eye and gestures something between a shrug and an exhausted shake of his head. He’s picked up this particular dropped ball then, having told Phil about Émilie, and now Phil is insisting on speaking to her and Dalton doesn’t have the energy to argue.

  We reach Petra’s house at the same time. Phil marches straight inside, door banging in his wake.

  “He’s taking it well,” I murmur as we follow.

  “This is unacceptable,” Phil says as he strides into the living room, where Émilie sips tea.

  “Hello, Phil. You look good. The fresh air obviously agrees with you.”

  He stops in the middle of the room. “All visits by board members must be sanctioned by the council, with ample time provided to prepare for such a visit.”

  Émilie frowns. “Are you certain? I don’t recall such a rule. Of course, at my age, my memory can be—”

  “Do not even attempt that with me. Your memory is fine.” He glances back at us, his face hard. “The council insisted on a full psychological exam last year, when they had reason to doubt her faculties. She passed with flying colors.”

  “Reason to doubt my faculties?” Émilie snorts. “They wanted to doubt my faculties. When Bruce was diagnosed with dementia, it gave them an idea. They hoped I would fail so they would have reason to oust me.”

  “I thought you two had never met,” I say. “That’s what you told us last year, Phil.”

  “We have since spoken, and I have launched inquiries. Her mental faculties are in perfect working order.”

  “Excellent,” Émilie says. “Then you will have no excuse to ignore my advice.”

  “And you have no excuse for being here.”

  “Well, I could say that I came to help translate, but I don’t actually need an excuse. I am an original board member, and my husband and I were the largest early contributors to Rockton’s financial health. As such, we are grandfathered from all restrictions later placed on the board, which is why I was able to contact you last year without fear of censure.” She meets Phil’s gaze. “Section 9.3.2.1 of the policies and procedures manual.”

  “I will check that. I have a copy in my lodgings.”

  “I’m just surprised you haven’t memorized it.”

  Phil rocks back on his heels. “I did not foresee the need before my tenure here, but I have been working on it.”

  “That was a joke, Phil. Sit down. Have a tea. Try to relax. Whatever rules I have or have not broken, no one will blame you.”

  “That is not my primary concern.”

  “Then it seems Rockton has worked her magic on you, too. I’m glad to see it.”

  Their eyes lock, and Phil stiffly lowers himself onto a seat. Dalton and I sit on the floor—unless you have one of the chalets, your place isn’t big enough for group entertaining, and Petra’s job at the general store doesn’t qualify her for better. I’m sure she could get top-notch accommodations with Émilie pulling the strings, but Émilie doesn’t seem the type to do that, and Petra certainly isn’t the type to accept it. Their privilege is the sort that only greases wheels that undeniably need greasing.

  Petra sets out a platter of cookies. As I reach for one, she pulls it away with, “Everyone else, take yours fast, or they’ll be gone once Casey gets her hands on them. I’ve never seen a woman eat so many cookies without an extra ounce to show for it.”

  “We work it off,” Dalton says as he takes a cookie.

  Both Émilie and Petra sputter laughs.

  “I bet you’re very helpful that way, Eric,” Émilie says. “Keeping Casey in shape.”

  He hesitates, cookie to his mouth, and spots of color bloom on his cheeks. “I meant the job. It keeps us busy, which is the reason for this meeting.” He glances over, his eyes begging me to change the subject.

  Before I can, Petra pushes the plate my way and looks at her grandmother. “If you want to get in Casey’s good graces, these are the key. Cookies. Preferably with chocolate. Chocolate chip, peanut butter with chocolate, oatmeal with chocolate . . . The bakers have learned to incorporate chocolate into at least one batch of every cookie they make. They know Casey’s weakness.”

  “Nah,” Dalton says. “It’s not a weakness. It’s a trick. People think they can get on her good side with cookies and chocolate, and she lets them believe that so she gets all the cookies and chocolate she wants. No one actually benefits from it except Casey. And me. I’m the exception, right?”

  He looks my way.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Just keep telling yourself that, and keep the chocolate coming.” I glance at Phil, who has finally relaxed.

  “So, to bring everyone up to date . . .” I say, and I explain what happened this afternoon, for Petra and Phil, who’d only known the basics.

  “Unfortunately, you’re going to need to throw Jay to the wolves,” Petra says.

  When we all look at her, she wipes a crumb fro
m her mouth and says, “I should be careful. Up here, that could be taken literally. What I mean is that I know Casey’s first impulse will be to downplay his responsibility. The poor guy is in a coma. No one wants to suggest it’s his own damn fault but . . .” She looks at me. “It is.”

  “I’m not convinced he was aware of the risks—”

  Dalton cuts me off. “He was, Casey. I know that. Diana knows it. April knows it. He knew Sophie was an outsider. He knew her companions had been killed. He knew her head injury and infection left her confused and periodically violent. What the hell was he thinking untying her?”

  “He was being kind.”

  “Yep, and it may have gotten him killed. Petra’s right. Blaming the poor bastard is shitty, but it’s not a lie. We’re telling the true story, one everyone involved can verify. Sophie seemed calm but was distraught over the restraints. Jay went to remove them. Diana told him not to, but before she could call you in, Sophie had Jay on the floor. In the ensuing struggle, he was strangled with the IV cord, and you and Will were forced to shoot Sophie to save him. He is currently in a coma. That’s the story for the town, too. The truth. If you want me to tell it, I will.”

  I shake my head. “It should come from me—and Will if he wants. I just struggle with telling people that we let a brand-new resident become involved in a dangerous situation.”

  “Because he offered. He offered because he had a unique skill you needed. It was not a dangerous situation until he removed the damned restraints.”

  “I barely knew the guy. I don’t want to eulogize him. I just . . .” I glance at Dalton. “Does he have anyone at home? Family?” I pause. “Sorry. I shouldn’t ask that.”

  Émilie shakes her head. “Under the circumstances, I think you should have that information, as we may have some difficult decisions to make. Phil and Eric already have it, and I can get it easily enough.”

  Petra rises. “But I don’t need to hear it. I’ll take Storm for a walk.”

  No one stops her from leaving. When it comes to resident background, nobody tries to overhear anything they shouldn’t. If they were the subject of the discussion, they’d want equal care to be taken.

  Once Petra’s gone, Dalton looks to Phil, letting him take the lead. Also covering his ass against any charges that he shared privileged information. Phil takes it as a sign of trust, possibly even a ceding of authority, straightens and pulls out his cell phone.

  “You have a cell phone?” Émilie says.

  “To be used as a secured PDA rather than a communication device. The council has allowed me the use of the generators to charge it in return for access to my files on request.” Phil taps icons. “Jay came to us as a professor of Nordic studies from a Canadian university. The name of the university is, I believe, unnecessary. His credentials were validated.”

  “Nordic studies,” I murmur. “He claimed his mother was Danish, but I guess his specialty explains the real reason he knows the language.”

  “Yes, he is fluent in several Nordic languages. He volunteered that information and offered any necessary translation services, though at the time, we assured him everyone admitted to Rockton spoke English.”

  “I hate to say it, but that helps our case. The council knows he was willing to translate.”

  “As for family, he has an ex-wife and no children. He did not list his ex as an emergency contact. His mother is deceased. His father is not in the picture.”

  “Again, I hate to say this too, but please tell me that means he’s essentially on his own.”

  “He is. A lack of close family ties is not unusual for our residents, and Jay fit that pattern. There is no wife or long-term girlfriend or child or parent waiting for his return. If he must be moved to a hospital, though, he has sufficient funds to cover any care over and above his provincial health insurance.”

  “Anyone else who might come looking for him? Something to explain that healthy bank account? I’m not asking why he came here, but if he cheated someone out of money . . .”

  Phil shakes his head. “His bank account is healthy due to a tenured position and presumably frugal habits. He is here due to issues with a female student.”

  “Ah.”

  “He was briefly involved with a graduate student from a different department. When the relationship dissolved, she reported him. He claimed a consensual relationship and says she targeted him in retribution. Whatever the truth, the university granted him a two-year sabbatical, which he wished to take in Rockton to distance himself from the young woman. He paid the higher entrance fee required for nonvital cases, and so he was granted access as a low-risk, high-return resident.”

  It’s good that he doesn’t have close family, in case he doesn’t survive his coma. It’s good that he has a nest egg, in case of long-term brain damage. It’s very good that he offered to act as a translator. Otherwise, Jay is exactly what he seemed—an ordinary man who otherwise would have passed through his two years without a ripple.

  “That’s Jay,” I say. “Now, though, we have another problem.”

  I tell them about the bullet.

  17

  Émilie has a plan. And, by this point, I’m really only in the proper mental state to process step one, which fortunately is the only step that matters right now. Her suggestion? That we take no further steps tonight.

  It’s too late to contact the council. They’re on eastern time, and it’s midnight for them. Insisting on notifying them at this hour suggests an emergency. Well, I suppose a dead body and a comatose resident does qualify as an emergency, but there’s nothing they can do. Sophie isn’t a resident, and the resident is stable. Notification can wait, and if anyone questions that, it was Émilie’s decision and her authority supersedes ours.

  I try going to check on Jay, but Dalton threatens to physically block the clinic door. April will notify us of any change in his condition. The next step is dinner. He sends one of the militia to fetch us a hot meal and deliver it to our home, one of the perks of being the guy in charge. We curl up on the sofa to wait for it and . . .

  And the next thing I know, I’m waking on the floor, under a blanket, still curled up with Dalton, who’s asleep. Storm dozes on my other side. It’s dark outside, and I can faintly smell dinner, but there’s no sign of it. Just me, my guy, and my dog, napping by a smoldering fire.

  Dalton has stripped down to his boxers—raised up here, the man is not good with heat—and I slide the blanket off his shoulder to admire the view, the hard curve of lean muscle, the smooth skin with only a few faint scars, so much different from my own marred canvas. I touch his chest, too lightly to wake him, and run my hand up to the bristle of his stubble.

  I trace a finger along his jaw as my gaze traces the curve of his lips, and heat sparks deep inside me, the urge to kiss those lips and run my hands down his body and—

  And the poor guy is getting some much-needed sleep, which I will not disturb even if, come morning, I’ll confess this urge and he’ll assure me he never needs sleep that badly. I chuckle under my breath and press my lips to his with just enough pressure that I hope the touch wends its way through his dreams.

  When one gray eye opens, I smile and murmur, “Sorry.”

  “Looking for your dinner?” he murmurs back.

  “Not . . . exactly.”

  His lips curve in a sleepy smile. “Hungry for something else?”

  “You could say that.”

  The smile grows, and he rolls onto his back, arms folded behind his head, blanket pushed down over his hips.

  “All yours,” he says.

  I pause a moment to enjoy the view. Then I roll onto him.

  * * *

  Sex and then dinner, which we eat on the floor, naked in front of the fire. We don’t talk. Talking right now would be police work, so we eat in companionable silence. When we’re done, Dalton shifts closer, leg hooking over mine, both of us on our stomachs.

  “How are you doing?” he asks.

  “Scared,” I say,
and the word comes with a jolt, as if someone has pushed it out of me. I shake it off with a ragged laugh. “I don’t know where that came from.”

  He looks over, his expression calling me a liar.

  I shift uncomfortably and shrug. “I’m feeling overwhelmed right now, but I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “I can manage this, Eric.”

  “Not doubting that. I mean are you sure it’s just feeling overwhelmed? Not feeling like there’s a boulder over our heads, rocking there, ready to fall? ’Cause that’s how I’m feeling.”

  “I hoped it was just me.”

  “Nah, sorry.”

  He flips onto his back and puts an arm out, and I slide onto it, letting him tug me half onto him.

  He continues. “I just feel like all this . . .”

  “Might be the last straw? With the council? That, at the very least, this mess with the hostiles makes a good excuse for clamping down? And by clamping down I mean doing something drastic.”

  “Like firing me? Sending you away? Separating us so we can’t cause more trouble?”

  I nod.

  He exhales, a long hiss of breath. “I was really hoping it was just me being paranoid.”

  “It’s probably both of us being paranoid. Separation is our biggest fear, and it makes sense from their point of view. You were always a thorn in their side, but put the two of us together and . . .”

  “Double the pain in their asses?”

  “More than double, I think. I provide you with the justification you need to push harder. They can no longer blame your lack of formal education or your lack of experience in the world. Likewise, you give me the nerve to fight harder. I feel you at my back, and I don’t waver the way I did on the force, always worried about my job security, worried about coming off like a bitch.”

  I shift. “It’s like in school, sometimes two kids who were only mild troublemakers before get into the same class and they play off each other. First thing the teachers will do is separate them.”