A Hopeless Discovery

by Daniel Carson

  Remember, Hope. Work. Just work.

  Ten minutes later, I found Mr. Clowder in the middle of the pasture, pouring grain into some kind of feeding tub.

  He waved when I walked up. “They mostly eat grass,” he said as if I’d asked him a question. “But it’s nice to add a little grain to their diet. Not too much, mind you. The grocery store has become nothing but high-fructose corn syrup, so I don’t want to be adding to the problem. Plus, left to their own devices, goats would want to eat grain all day. Animals can be dumb. Then again, at least they only eat when they need to eat. Us humans, we eat for no reason at all. Sometimes when it comes to the simple stuff, we’re the dumb ones.”

  “You seem philosophical today.”

  “I guess it comes from reflecting on Percy, on a good goat life well lived. So—what’d you think about that picture?”

  “Pretty and scary,” I said.

  “That April really captured her likeness. I showed it around to a few people.”

  “Anyone recognize her?”

  “Nope. Showed it to Stank since I was there at the hardware store. Then I showed it to Cup. Showed it to Pastor Lief, Buck, Flo. Nothing.”

  “Well, I found someone who recognized her. Nick, the barista at A Hopeless Cup. He knew her immediately.”

  Mr. Clowder stood up straight. “Really?”

  “Said she came in a week ago.”

  “And he’s sure?”

  “He’s sure.”

  “Then I didn’t make her up.”

  “I never thought you made her up, Mr. Clowder. I’m going to stop by some of the other cabins here on the mountain, too. If she’s trying to buy up property, you’d think they’d all know her.”

  “Hope, in case I forget to mention it, I really appreciate your help.”

  I smiled. “I’d love to say it’s just because you’re so darn charming…”

  He laughed. “Oh, you mean that isn’t the reason?”

  “Mr. Clowder, killing a goat in cold blood…”

  “It’s terrible.”

  “It is terrible. But I was going to say it’s also weird. And this beautiful real estate agent with eyes like cold gray ice is also weird. In my experience, people like to read about weird. I don’t know what it is, Mr. Clowder, but somewhere in here, there’s a story. And it’s my job to find it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The first big snowfall of the season hadn’t come yet, but I was sure it would soon. The days were getting shorter, the air chillier, and I saw smoke coming from the chimneys of most of the cabins. But I was headed for one cabin in particular: Mrs. Greeley’s. The bird lady.

  Halfway up the mountain, I parked beside the old moss-covered stone wall that framed her property. Mrs. Greeley was outside watering the flower baskets that hung from her front porch. I hadn’t seen her since I was a kid, but I recognized her right away. I wondered if she would recognize me.

  I opened her front gate and walked up the cobblestone path. As I approached, she scrunched over and squinted, her face full of worry, no sign of recognition. I guess I had changed more than she had.

  I smiled as widely as I could. “Hi, Mrs. Greeley, I’m Granny’s granddaughter, Hope Walker. I used to visit you and your birds when I was little.”

  She straightened up, and a smile formed across her wrinkled face. “Little Hope Walker!” She stepped down to the path and gave me a warm hug. Her body was frail, and I felt like she might break if I squeezed too hard.

  She stepped back and gave me a long look. Then shook her head. “It has been a long time. You’re a grown woman. Come, join me on the porch.”

  Two old gray rocking chairs sat on the porch. Mrs. Greeley took one and I took the other. Almost instantly, a fat white cat appeared between my legs and purred. As I put my hand down to let it lean in, I looked out into Mrs. Greeley’s yard, remembering all the bird feeders that had been here before.

  Mrs. Greeley spoke up. “You’re probably asking yourself, ‘What happened to the birds?’”

  I nodded.

  “I wish there was a good answer. But the truth is, I got old. The wind blew and I got tired and it all just became too much.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. We all get older. Except your granny. Anyways, what on earth brings you to my front porch after all these years?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter.”

  “I’d heard something about that. Portland?”

  “Not anymore. Been back in town for a little while, helping out Earl Denton. I’m doing a story on the death of Mr. Clowder’s goat.”

  She nodded gravely. “Percy. Mr. Clowder was fond of him. Heck, he’s fond of all his goats.”

  “I noticed the sold sign in your yard.”

  “And you came to ask me why I’m selling my soul to Wilma Jenkins.”

  “Not sure I would phrase it quite like that.”

  She chuckled. “Well, I would. I can’t say I really wanted to sell… but the offer was good. Like I said, I’m old. And I didn’t want to bother with all of it.”

  “With all of what?”

  “With whatever makes these cabins suddenly so valuable to Mayor Jenkins and the other real estate snakes who’ve been nosing around the past few months.”

  “There’ve been others?”

  “Yep.”

  I took out my phone, pulled up April’s sketch, and handed the phone to Mrs. Greeley. She pulled a pair of reading glasses out of her pocket, hung them off the end of her nose, and studied the image. Then she looked at me over the tops of her glasses.

  “That’s one of the real estate snakes I was talking about.”

  “I know.”

  “She was a real piece of work. Called herself Ms. Jones.”

  “She also visited Mr. Clowder.”

  “I suspect she visited everybody on this side of the mountain.”

  “Does she work for Wilma?”

  “That wasn’t my impression. She called herself an independent real estate consultant. Said she was buying up land for a motivated investor. That’s what she called it, a ‘motivated investor.’”

  “Anything else you remember about her?”

  “Well, you’ve got the picture right there. That’s a spitting image of her by the way. She had those eyes…” Mrs. Greeley shook as if the memory gave her the willies.

  “She was scary?”

  “Yes. I’d have to say she was. And when Wilma called me a few days later and upped her offer, I decided, what the heck. This mountain has been my home for a long time, but things change, and you have to change with them. Maybe it’s time.”

  “Did Ms. Jones leave you a card or a phone number?”

  “Nope, she just said she’d be back. But then Wilma called, put the sold sign in my yard, and I haven’t heard from or seen Ms. Jones since.”

  “Where do you plan to go, Mrs. Greeley? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I’ve got a spot waiting for me at a retirement community in Boise. State of the art. Lots of bells and whistles. I’ll miss Moose Mountain, but they say you make good friends there. Heck, maybe there’s a couple hunks around for a little eye candy.”

  “Mrs. Greeley!”

  She smiled. “I said I’m old—didn’t say I was dead.”

  I spent the next two hours visiting the other cabins on the mountain. Showing everyone the picture. Hearing the exact same story every time. Ms. Jones had visited everyone, and without exception, she gave everyone the heebie-jeebies. They’d also all heard about the shooting of Mr. Clowder’s goat, and though none of them were torn up about it like Mr. Clowder was, it concerned them. The general feeling I got was that people were uneasy. And at least a few were seriously considering Wilma’s latest offer.

  I had time for one more visit before I needed to head back into town for my super-fun court date with Judge Thurmond. I stopped at an old A-frame log cabin with a small barn to one side and a paddock with a herd of cows on the other. A man and
a woman were working in an oversized garden out front. The man was tall and thin and wore light blue jeans and a brown Carhartt jacket. The woman wore jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt and looked sturdy and tough.

  As soon as I got out of my car, the woman hollered. “We’re not selling, so go away!”

  “I’m not here to sell you anything,” I hollered back.

  “That’s a load of crap!” The woman stepped toward the road. “I never seen you before, and neither has Cal.” She turned back. “Have you, Cal?”

  He shook his head.

  “See, neither Cal or I have seen you before. So you best be on your way.”

  “Ma’am, my name is Hope Walker. I’m a reporter for the Hopeless News, and I’m working on a story.”

  “Good for you. Now leave us alone and be on your way.”

  “Mr. Clowder’s goat Percy was shot.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?”

  “He thinks it’s suspicious. That it might have something to do with people wanting him off his land.”

  The woman muttered an obscenity under her breath. Then she shook her head angrily. “I knew this was going to happen.” She walked over to me, not screaming this time.

  I flipped my phone around and held it out. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  The woman muttered another obscenity. This time not under her breath. “Yes, I remember this scary wench. She threatened us.”

  “How?”

  “The way people do when they’re saying one thing but meaning another.”

  “And did Mayor Jenkins call a few days later and increase her offer on your place?”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what happened. What was your name again?”

  “Hope Walker.”

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  A shot rang out from the direction of the trees, and the woman and both spun to see one of the cows in her paddock drop to the ground.

  The woman took off running toward the paddock. “Cal!” she screamed.”Get the gun!”

  Her husband ran to their cabin.

  And all I did was stand there, frozen, looking toward the trees. The smart thing to do would have been to call 911, or call Sheriff Kramer, or duck down, or get in my car and drive away, or at the very least wait for Cal and his gun.

  But I did none of those things. And I didn’t stay frozen for long.

  I sprinted toward the trees—straight toward where I’d heard the gunshot.

  The woman shouted. “Mabel’s dead, Cal! She’s dead!”

  As soon as I reached the trees, I dropped to my knees—just like Granny had taught me to do when I was chasing a deer—closed my eyes, and listened. And I heard it: branches cracking to my right. Maybe thirty yards, maybe more.

  I leapt to my feet and started sprinting, winding my way through the trees.

  A minute later, I stopped again. Dropped to my knees. Closed my eyes. Listened.

  Left, still thirty yards away. Heading for the ridge.

  I burst forward, crashing through branches and thorns. And before I knew it, I was at the ridge, standing on the same trail that Katie and I had hiked a few weeks back, the one that descended to Patrick Crofton’s cabin.

  Then I noticed a yellow nylon rope attached to a tree and hanging over the edge of the ridge. I got on my hands and knees and peered over the edge. The rope hung all the way to the river. And beside the river was a red sedan. As I watched, it kicked up dirt and gravel, and it was gone.

  Adrenaline takes over in situations like those. Fight or flight. But suddenly, the adrenaline wasn’t enough. My body realized that it wasn’t sixteen anymore, and I was not a deer. Hell, I wasn’t even in shape. I stayed on my hands and knees, breathing heavily. And I realized how stupid I had been for running after the shooter.

  When I’d recovered myself, I retraced my steps. Ten minutes later I emerged at the paddock. Cal and his wife were standing over their dead milk cow. The man’s shotgun was in his hand.

  The woman looked at me and screamed, “What is going on here?” She strode angrily toward me, her face flushed. “It’s that psycho Ms. Jones, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. I have no idea.”

  “Did you get a look at the shooter?”

  “No. They had an escape route and everything. Rope hanging down the ridge. By the time I got there, the car was already pulling out.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Red, four-door sedan. Maybe a Chevy?”

  “License plate?”

  “Couldn’t see it.”

  “Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?”

  “I never saw the shooter.”

  The woman uttered yet another obscenity. And this time she screamed it.

  Chapter Twenty

  I arrived at Judge Thurmond’s court with one minute to spare. Racing through the heavy wooden doors that framed the court, I was sweaty, I was a bit scared, and I wasn’t the least bit ready for whatever was about to happen.

  Judge Thurmond sat straight ahead, wearing his black robe and a not terribly happy expression. To my left was Gemima Clark, adorned with the type of dark sunglasses an old lady with cataracts might have. She also had a sizeable bruise on the left side of her face.

  In front of her, seated at a solid wooden table, was a severe-looking man in a dark blue suit.

  To the right of him was an empty table. No man in a suit—because I had no lawyer. I quickly strode to the table and sat down.

  I heard the door open behind me and turned around to see Sheriff Kramer enter the courtroom, followed by Granny and Katie. Alex avoided my eyes, but Katie and Granny both smiled and waved.

  The loud crack of the gavel spun me back around.

  Judge Thurmond spoke. “Would the city and the defendant please stand? In the matter of the city of Hopeless versus Hope Walker, it appears we have an assault. We also have a brand-new lawyer representing the city. Mr. Bean, on behalf of Hopeless, I welcome you to my court. Now can you please tell me what happened here?”

  The man in the blue suit stood. “Thank you, Your Honor. Last night, Sunday night, Ms. Walker assaulted Ms. Gemima Clark. Ms. Walker was not defending herself. It was malicious. It was violent. And frankly, she needs to be punished.”

  “And what kind of sentence is the city seeking, exactly?” asked Judge Thurmond.

  “Your Honor?”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “Yes, Your Honor, but this is an arraignment, not—”

  The judge banged his gavel. “Mr. Bean. I know you’re new here in Hopeless, so I’m inclined to give you a little leeway. But let me make one thing clear. In my courtroom, when I ask a question, I get an answer.”

  Mr. Bean’s eyes widened. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Now. Recommended punishment?”

  “Two weeks in city jail, a thousand-dollar fine, and six months’ probation.”

  My heart fell into my stomach as Judge Thurmond nodded and turned my way.

  “Ms. Walker, I understand that you are representing yourself, which, for the record, is a very stupid thing to do. Do you agree with the description of events that Mr. Bean has just provided?”

  I wondered briefly what a lawyer might say. Would they object? Would they use ten words where one would do? I had no idea.

  Then I thought about what Granny might do. And I went with that.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Judge Thurmond shook his head. “And that’s why I really wish you had a lawyer. You agree with the city?”

  “I agree that I punched Gemima in the face. Yes, Your Honor.”

  “So you’re pleading guilty.”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You guess, or you are?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  Judge Thurmond smiled. “Good. Then we can move directly to sentencing.”

  Mr. Bean cleared his throat. “Your Honor? This is highly unorthodox. I’m not prepared for
a sentencing hearing.”

  “And Mr. Bean, it is also highly unorthodox for lawyers to tell me how to do my job in my own court. The city wants two weeks’ jail time, a thousand-dollar fine, and six months’ probation, right?”

  Mr. Bean looked perplexed. “Well, yes.”

  Judge Thurmond nodded. “And I assume Ms. Clark intends to pursue a civil matter in this court to pay for emotional trauma and any plastic surgery she will need. Mr. Bean, would you mind leaning over the rail and asking Ms. Clark if she does intend to sue Ms. Walker?”

  “Are you serious?” asked Mr. Bean.

  “Young man, I once threw my gavel at a young lawyer who asked me too many questions. They needed the jaws of life to extract my gavel from his skull.”

  The life drained from Mr. Bean’s face. He covered his head with one hand while he spun around and began talking to Gemima.

  After a moment he turned back around. “Ms. Clark does intend to pursue the civil matter.”

  “Super,” said Judge Thurmond. “We’ll just handle that matter now.”

  “Your Honor, I’m the city’s lawyer. I don’t represent Ms. Clark.”

  “You do now.”

  “That’s… that’s not how things work, Your Honor.”

  Judge Thurmond turned to the side and started talking to no one in particular. “There he goes again, asking me a bunch of questions.” He tossed his gavel into the air and caught it after one rotation. “I wonder if I still have the magic.” He leaned over and spoke to the court reporter. “Be ready to call 911 in case my gavel gets stuck again.”

  Mr. Bean looked around the court like he didn’t know what to do. I’m pretty sure he thought Judge Thurmond was crazy. And I’m certain I thought the judge was crazy.

  Judge Thurmond pointed at Mr. Bean with his left hand as he started to go through a throwing motion with his right arm. I really wanted to see how hard the judge could throw that gavel.

  But Mr. Bean spoke quickly. “I—I guess I could represent her if you really want me to.”

  Judge Thurmond stopped and smiled. “See, that wasn’t so hard. Okay, I’m the judge, so I can do pretty much whatever I want. And I don’t want to ever have to deal with this case ever again, so I’m going to proceed to the civil action now.”