Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

  Ms. Jenkins walked forward, and her hands were now behind her back.

  “Well,” he said, “it sounds a little silly, but on a rainy night like this, I just love a cup of chamomile tea.”

  The woman’s eyebrows lifted and her chest heaved.

  Bang. Set the hook. Jack Stratton, you are so bad.

  They both moved closer, and Jack once again smelled chamomile flowers on her breath.

  “Would you like me to bring some up?” she offered.

  He gently touched her arm, nodded his head—then clamped his mouth shut when he remembered: Replacement was upstairs. Damn.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My . . .” Jack coughed. “Coworker.”

  “That young woman isn’t your girlfriend?” Disbelief and surprise, followed by understanding, flashed across the woman’s face.

  Jack shrugged and nodded.

  “That’s why you wanted another room.”

  Game over. I shouldn’t be flirting anyway. “Thanks anyhow.” He sighed. Jack turned and started back up.

  “I can get you a cup to take back to your room,” she said with a smile that begged him to follow her. She never took her eyes off him as she backed toward the open door behind the counter.

  Jack swallowed and forced himself to walk slowly. Her hand traced along the wood of the countertop. She was using it to guide herself as she walked backward, but the soft, feminine gesture sent a spark up Jack’s spine.

  Smiling, she turned and strolled into the back room. The interior was dark but warm, with two tall standing lamps for light. “I’ll be right back. The water’s already hot,” she said and disappeared again.

  Jack scanned the room. All the furniture was antique, as was the rug, and he was still soaking wet. He debated running upstairs and changing, but quickly drove that thought from his mind. He took one look at the well-preserved chairs and couch and chose to remain where he was, slowly dripping on the carpet. He shivered, and the cold rushed back into his being. His head fell forward; he leaned against the doorjamb and closed his eyes. The smell of the old house mixed with the scent of rain was calming. He inhaled a couple of times.

  The door clicked open and shut and Ms. Jenkins stood in the doorway with a tea tray in her left hand and a robe over her right arm. Her eyes met his, and warmth spread inside his chest. Jack grinned and strode forward. He could see the flush on her neck as she swallowed.

  “I thought you might need to warm up. I can dry your clothes.” She set the tray on a small table beside the couch and walked over to him, both arms held out with the robe draped over them. “You can change in there.” She tilted her head toward a small door, but didn’t take her eyes off Jack.

  “Thank you.” He took the robe and headed in the direction she’d indicated, relieved to break eye contact for a moment. Slow down. Cool it. Think about what you’re doing . . . The small bathroom had just a sink, a toilet, and an ornate, full-length mirror stand. Jack’s hands shook as he removed his clothes. He couldn’t tell whether it was from the cold or nervousness.

  How old is she? Mid-forties? She doesn’t look it. Dancer? Guaranteed she’s a dancer.

  The robe could have been custom-made for him. It was plush midnight blue with an ornate trim and covered him from his chin to his toes. It warmed him instantly—she must have just taken it out of the dryer. He stood even taller as he checked himself in the mirror. The robe gave him a regal appearance. He spoke into the mirror. “Lord Jack of Tingsberry.”

  When he opened the door and strode majestically into the room, Ms. Jenkins was seated at the end of the couch. He was startled to see she had taken her hair down, and the auburn waves spilled over her shoulders and around her low neckline. She smiled and held out a cup. “Tea?”

  Jack sat down at the other end of the couch and took the ornate teacup. “Thank you . . .” He let his words hang in the air—he realized he didn’t know her name.

  “Kristine,” she answered with a slight nod.

  A small moan escaped Jack’s lips as he sipped the tea. “This is really good,” he said, surprised. He really wasn’t a tea man at all.

  Kristine smiled broadly, set her cup down, and folded her hands in her lap. “Tea and a bath . . .” She tilted her head. “Do you really like to take baths?”

  Jack thought about continuing the charade, but one look at her face caused him to dismiss the idea.

  She’s smart. She’ll see right through it.

  “You’re right. I haven’t taken a bath since I was seven.” He smiled.

  “Which probably wasn’t that long ago.”

  Jack saw his chance for romance plummeting. In situations like this, he went to his old standby: the truth.

  “Kristine, I wasn’t interested in a bath or tea. Honestly, at first I wanted to tease you a little for not helping with the room situation, but . . .” He exhaled and looked into her eyes. “There was also something about you. The way you move, like a dancer. When I got close to you, I could feel your breath and I smelled the chamomile.”

  “I thought that was just too much of a coincidence. May I ask what you do for a living?”

  Jack lifted his chin. “I’m a cop.”

  “Figures.” She leaned in. “Good detective work. I was a dancer.”

  Jack also leaned in, wanting to know more, but he was still taken aback when in one swift move she kissed him.

  Think about what you’re doing. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t . . . I should.

  With one hand, Jack lifted her up slightly and pulled her forward on the couch. The move was fast and fluid, taking only the time for Kristine to gasp and then exhale as he gently laid her down. Jack’s eyes closed as he let the different sensations wash over him: her sleek hair in his left hand, the firmness of her toned back in his right, chamomile dancing lightly over their tongues. Her hands drew him closer, and his leg rubbed against hers.

  “That was some kiss,” he whispered.

  She searched his face, her long lashes fanning up as her blue eyes widened.

  Then her face went white, and her body went rigid in his hands. “Get out.”

  Jack froze. “I’m sorry. Did I . . .”

  “Just leave, please.”

  This was the age of “no means no,” but he couldn’t begin to understand the one-eighty turnaround. This was some new kind of crazy. “Are you all right?”

  “Now.” She clenched her jaw and turned her head toward the back of the couch.

  Jack carefully lifted himself off her and backed up toward the door. He moved quietly and quickly but hesitated when he grabbed the old doorknob.

  “I’m sorry if . . .” But he didn’t know how to finish.

  Kristine pulled her legs up and curled into a ball. He opened the door just enough to slip through, and closed it behind him.

  Oh, no! My clothes.

  His shoes, pants, and, most importantly, his keys were in the bathroom. He debated with himself for only a moment, then headed up the stairs. By the third step, he’d figured out that he had to hold the ornate robe above his ankles to avoid tripping.

  This blows. This is so bad.

  He pulled the robe tighter as the touchy-feely couple from today’s breakfast walked past. They gave him an odd look, and he heard them giggle.

  So, so bad.

  14

  Complimentary Laundry

  Jack sheepishly walked up to the room and knocked.

  Replacement opened the door. “What happened to you?” She snickered as he walked into the room. “Where’d you get that fancy robe?”

  “Um . . . my clothes were wet. The . . . front desk offered . . . to do a complimentary laundry. So they gave me a robe.” Jack cringed at his lie.

  “They do laundry, too? Can they dry my stuff?”

  “No, they . . . can only do one load per room a day. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I hung mine up in the bathroom. Do you want a bath? It’s real nice.”

  “No, thanks.” Jack shook his head rapidly.
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  “Are you going to sleep with me tonight?” Replacement asked innocently.

  Jack’s head snapped up at the question, and his neck flushed. Replacement’s expression didn’t change. Jack sighed. “No. Thank you.”

  “Please sleep with me.” She put her hands together in a mock begging position.

  Jack swallowed. “I have . . . my air mattress.” He grabbed the box and held it up, turning away quickly.

  “Suit yourself.” Replacement climbed back on the bed.

  Jack pulled out the air mattress and started to blow it up. But after several minutes of huffing and puffing, the mattress was still only half-filled. Jack leaned back against the bureau, and Replacement slid off the bed.

  “Want some help?” She picked up the corner of the mattress and began to blow air into it. After only a few breaths, she hit his leg. “See? I’m so much better at this than you. It’s almost all the way up.” She inhaled deeply and blew into the valve again.

  “Okay. That’s good enough.”

  Replacement stopped, put down the mattress, and leaned onto it. It made a creaking sound as she bounced.

  “I can sleep here,” she offered. “This is bouncy.”

  “No. That’s good. Thank you. I’ll sleep here.”

  “Suit yourself. But how about right now, you get some real clothes on. I want to go down to dinner. I’m starving!”

  “Again? Are you ever not starving?”

  Replacement patted her stomach and smiled. “What can I say? Undercover work makes me hungry.”

  Jack rolled his eyes.

  Jack forced himself to remain absolutely motionless on the air mattress. The slightest movement would cause the whole bed to wobble like Jell-O.

  Make a list for tomorrow. Get the info from Cindy. One by one, talk to the three suspects. What possibly happened with Kristine? Did she . . . maybe she just changed her mind. I didn’t see a ring. No indentation . . . What’s that sound?

  It was a steady hiss from the air mattress. When he shifted his position, it changed to a noise like a kid’s whoopee cushion.

  “Jack? Was that you?” Replacement asked around a mouthful of laughter.

  “Ha, ha. No, I assumed it was you.” Jack froze, waiting for the sounds to stop. He listened for several moments, hearing only Replacement smothering her giggles into a pillow, until his body began to shake with the effort of not moving and not exploding with laughter—which was enough to cause another noise—like someone who’s eaten way too many beans for days on end.

  Replacement didn’t even bother to restrain her whoops of laughter at this point. Jack threw his pillow at her, yelling, “That one was definitely you!”

  Suddenly the mattress busted out in one long, loud fart, and just kept going. They were both crying with laughter by the time his bed deflated and gave its last dying squeaks.

  Jack’s body finally settled onto the hard floor, and the laughter stopped. He wrapped his blanket tightly around himself as he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw his mother’s face; never quite the same, it would change back and forth between her young self and Patricia, the broken old woman at the institution. Sometimes she was silently screaming, her finger outstretched, terror in her eyes.

  And now there were more faces tormenting him. Another old woman, Mrs. Ritter, tears rolling down her cheeks, lips trembling. The face of his father, Steven, was unclear. Jack could bring it up in his mind, but it lacked detail, just a young man, his face tilted for the yearbook photo that looked out of date now, like a film from another era. And finally, there was Kristine. For some reason her face haunted him too.

  Why did she freak out?

  Outside in the hallway, the floor creaked. Jack silently drew up his legs and rolled over into a crouch. He hadn’t heard the footsteps approach, but he did hear them leaving. Replacement was breathing deeply, far gone in sleep. He made himself wait a few more seconds before he cracked the door open.

  Next to the door were his clothes, neatly folded in a pile, with his shoes on top.

  15

  The Foreman

  The next morning after breakfast, Jack sat in their room, reading over the reports Cindy had sent him, while Replacement showered. It was annoying reading on a tiny phone; Jack much preferred paper.

  Replacement came out of the bathroom wearing her new “I Love Hope Falls” shirt and hat. She stopped short. “You gonna shower? You look like crap.”

  “Gee, thanks.” He looked into the mirror in the bathroom, and he had to admit that Replacement was right: he looked pretty rough. His skin was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. Even his pupils seemed black. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  Jack wanted to get moving. He didn’t want to hang around the inn any longer than he had to—and risk running into Kristine. All through breakfast he had worried she’d show up, but she never did. Maybe she was hiding from him too. He hoped so.

  He hurried out of the room. Replacement chased after him.

  “What’s the first stop?” She had to jog to stay beside him.

  “Terry Bradford. He’s a foreman at K and K Construction. It’s a ten-minute drive.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “Cindy got me his information. Guy has bounced from one low-level job to another. One DUI. Married three times. Divorced. Four kids by three different mothers. Two bankruptcies.”

  “Boy, he’s a keeper. Do you want me to drive?”

  Jack shot her a crooked frown, so when they got out to the car, she headed for the passenger side.

  “Do you have a plan?” she asked hopefully.

  Jack jumped in the car quickly, still worrying about being seen by Kristine. He started the engine and sped out of the little parking lot. “It’s 9:04. Construction workers should all be there by now.”

  “Okay . . . but do you have a plan?”

  “No. I’ll play it by ear.”

  Replacement raised her eyebrows. “Well . . . shouldn’t we come up with a plan first?”

  “Okay, here’s my plan. I don’t scream, and I don’t yell, as I calmly ask him if he had anything to do with murdering my father. And if he gives me a sideways glance, I’m going to beat him to death.”

  “Sounds like a great plan.” Replacement’s lip curled.

  It’s all I’ve got right now. Jack turned his tired eyes forward and punched the gas pedal.

  Heading into the center of town, Jack noticed an old white pickup had been weaving through traffic behind them. He pulled down the rearview mirror and slowed down. The pickup took a sharp right from the left lane, then disappeared from view.

  “Is everything okay?” Replacement craned her neck to look behind them.

  “I’m just paranoid.”

  The Impala slid into the parking lot at K and K Construction and they stepped out, taking a minute to get their bearings and for Jack to scan the layout. Mini-mountains of gravel, sand, and stone behind the structure dwarfed the building. In back, giant machines were dumping loads into trucks while a group of men talked out front.

  “Remember, keep quiet,” Jack said to Replacement. Then, thinking that might have been a little harsh, he added, “You’re my eyes and ears.” She nodded solemnly.

  A couple of the men stopped and turned toward Jack as he came up.

  “I’m looking for Terry Bradford,” Jack said, too tired for anything but the direct approach.

  The men just glanced at each other and then back at Jack.

  “Just point me in the right direction,” Jack grumbled.

  They looked at each other again. As a cop, Jack had seen the look a thousand times. No one wants to be a snitch.

  Replacement tapped Jack’s shoulder and tilted her head toward the building. Jack zeroed in on the guy in the middle of a group of five men in green shirts, jeans, and work boots trooping out of the office.

  Early forties. Five ten. Two hundred pounds. Terry Bradford was t
wenty-six years older than the yearbook photo and had apparently taken to shaving his head, but it was him.

  Jack jogged over. “Terry, you got a second?”

  The other men stopped but Terry kept walking.

  “I just have a few questions.” Jack forced a smile onto his face.

  “I’m workin’. Talk to me later.” Terry held up a hand, still walking.

  “It’ll only take a second.” Jack stepped in front of him. “I need to ask you about Steven Ritter.”

  Terry stopped, sour-faced. “Who? I don’t know any Ritter. Get the hell out of my way, or I’ll break your nose.”

  “Steven Ritter. You went to high school with him.”

  “Ritter? The kid who got killed at the pond?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know him. He was a year under me. He didn’t play football, right?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “Then I didn’t know him. We gotta be someplace,” Terry snapped. He stepped forward and got right in Jack’s face. “Move.”

  Nose to nose, they glared at each other. “Did you know Patricia Cole?” Jack asked calmly.

  Terry made a face again. “Patty? Put-out Patty?” His tongue hung out of his open mouth as he laughed. “Everyone knew Patty . . . if you know what I mean.”

  Jack’s hand twitched into a fist. Replacement put her hand on his arm.

  “You guys on vacation?” a large man bellowed from the doorway. “Get your asses in gear, now!”

  Replacement kept her hand on Jack’s arm while Terry walked around him and climbed behind the wheel of the truck. “Not now,” she whispered. “Get him alone.”

  The truck pulled out of the parking lot, Terry roaring with laughter and pounding the side of the door. Jack turned and stormed back to the Impala. Replacement dashed over to it and stood in front of his door.

  “Out of my way,” Jack said.

  “Not now, Jack.” She put both hands on the door handle. “You taught me that. Wait until you can ask him alone. You know where he lives, right?”

  “He could be the guy who killed my father.”