At Witt's End

by Beth Solheim

  Paul paged through a folder on Carl's desk while the deputy responded to an incoming phone call. He jerked his hand away when Carl slammed the folder shut.

  "You don't need to look at anything on my desk,” Carl said. “I don't snoop through your stuff, do I?"

  "That's because you trust me. Trust is a good thing.” Paul grinned slyly. “I hear the Witt sisters don't trust you. You're on their shit list. I still don't know why you think you're going to win that lawsuit."

  "Don't worry about it.” Carl slid the folder out of Paul's reach. “What makes you think I trust you? I'm not as dumb as Nan. I can't believe you dangled your money to get her to marry you."

  "It's none of your business what I do. She'll come around if she wants the mortuary and the land it sits on.” Paul propped his hip against the corner of Carl's desk. “Think about it. Before Nan's Dad died, he planned to buy the mortuary from the Witt sisters rather than continue the land lease. Now Nan wants to do the same thing. She wants to keep the family legacy alive, but can't afford it.” Paul feigned a look of humility. “I'm a genius."

  "Who'd want to continue the legacy of a mortuary, anyway? That's morbid."

  "Her grandfather started the business a long time ago. Nan feels she owes it to him to continue their dream,” Paul said.

  Carl held his thumb and forefinger against his forehead to simulate the letter L.

  "Nan's not a loser,” Paul said.

  "I didn't mean Nan. I meant you. Using something like that to get a woman to marry you is pathetic. But of course if the broad is dumb enough to fall for it, then she deserves you."

  "I'm nowhere near as conniving as you are, my friend,” Paul said. “I'm not the one going after two helpless, old ladies."

  "Helpless my ass. The judge will determine who's helpless. You know how Judge Kimmer hates the Witt sisters."

  Both men stopped as Angie, a twenty-three-year veteran with the sheriff's department, muted an incoming dispatch. Angie spun her desk chair around and signaled to Carl. Carl joined her behind the bullet-proof glass. Two 911 calls had been phoned in simultaneously. The callers indicated they had witnessed a vehicle cross the median, two miles north of town, and hit a pole.

  They both looked back at Paul before Carl returned to his desk. “There was a car accident similar to the one the other night. Angie didn't want you to hear it. She didn't know how you'd react.” Carl said.

  "Who was it?” Paul pulled up a chair.

  "Don't know yet. But it didn't sound serious. The victims didn't need an ambulance.” Carl ran his hands over his face. “Thank God it wasn't as bad as the other night. I still can't believe the whole Fossum family was wiped out in that accident."

  Carl tried to erase the image as he recalled the horrific scene of Richard Fossum impaled on a piece of splintered fencing. “It must be hard to lose your business partner."

  "Yeah,” Paul said, barely audible, as he stared at the folds of fabric in his lap.

  "Want to talk about it? You know you should. He was your business partner. It's not good to keep it bottled up."

  "Nope.” Paul cleared his throat. “I still don't see why you think the judge will rule in your favor. If Sadie wouldn't sell him the resort, why would he want you to have it?"

  "Because I put a bug in his ear,” Carl said. “You know what a fishing fanatic he is. All the judge wants is a place to fish. He doesn't want the whole resort. I told him if I won, I'd make sure he had free use of one of the cabins.” Carl smirked. “I also threw in a boat and all the bait he could use for the rest of his life."

  "Judge Kimmer doesn't need any freebies. He's been rolling in money for the past several years."

  "He dabbles in all kinds of things,” Carl said. “I know he likes to putter with inventions. Or at least that's what he told me. Plus he's involved with a group of investors."

  "Sounds like a conflict-of-interest to me,” Paul said.

  "Why? Because he tried to buy the resort? It was never for sale. So it can't be a conflict. If Sadie uses that as a defense, no one will believe her. Who'd believe a crazy woman who babbles to invisible friends?"

  "Her sister isn't crazy. Did the judge think about that?” Paul said.

  "It doesn't matter. It won't come to that anyway."

  Paul nodded his head toward an office near the dispatch desk. “What's Deputy Friborg doing in the sheriff's office?"

  "He just finished a phone call. Apparently he wanted privacy.” Carl flung the glass-paneled door open. It rebounded with a bang. “Hey, Lon. Did you see the front page of the newspaper?"

  Startled, Lon Friborg pulled his feet off the sheriff's desk so quickly they hit the floor with a thud. “Holy balls. You scared me. I thought you were the sheriff."

  "If I play my cards right, I will be.” Carl leaned against the door frame. He crossed his arms and waited for Lon's reaction.

  "You? The sheriff?” Lon put his feet back on the desk.

  "If you'd pick up a newspaper once in a while, you'd see I threw my hat in the ring.” Irritated at Lon's look of disbelief, Carl knocked the deputy's feet off the desk.

  Carl was fed up with the shock everyone expressed over his entering the election. Lon was the third person this morning who acted surprised, and not one of them said it was a good idea. Stupidity. That's what it was. They weren't intelligent enough to understand the big picture. He absolutely refused to tolerate the laughter that gushed from his wife when he told her his plans. What did she know? She was so ignorant she couldn't remember to wear her underwear.

  Lon bent to pick up the scattered papers. “Are you serious? You're running for sheriff?"

  "Damn right I'm serious.” Carl followed Lon back into the deputies’ office. “I've planned a platform that'll guarantee victory. And in case you haven't noticed, I've started parking my squad car in my driveway instead of in my garage. It'll be good advertising. Kind of an ‘in your face’ approach."

  "Your platform better include proving the Fossum crash wasn't an accident,” Lon said.

  Carl's jaw stiffened. “I thought I told you to drop it. The sheriff said it was an accident. Fossum hit a deer. That's all it was. An accident."

  "And if you remember,” Lon said, “I told you why I disagreed.” Lon held up an index finger. “Skid marks for starters. I've known Richard for years. He was a good driver. The skid marks indicated a sharp wheel turn to the left. Richard knew better than that. He knew to tap on the brake and ride it out. Those skid marks didn't indicate braking."

  Carl rolled his eyes. “That's lame. That's no reason to investigate. People swerve after hitting a deer all the time."

  "What would it hurt to investigate a little further?” Lon said. “Did you see deer hair on the car? Or blood or skin? I didn't."

  "You're blowing smoke out your ass,” Carl shouted. “It was an accident. Get over it."

  "Did you tell Paul about my concerns?"

  "No he didn't,” Paul said, looking at Carl for clarification.

  "Paul's got enough grief right now. Losing his partner was bad enough.” Carl glared at Lon as he returned to his desk. “And besides, it's bullshit."

  "This needs to be investigated. If you're not going to do it, then I will."

  Carl inched closer to Lon. “You do, and you'll jeopardize my chance of winning the election. People will think I'm not doing my job. I'm not about to go on a wild goose chase just because you've got a hunch."

  "I'm telling you, Carl, Richard hadn't been himself before the crash. I'd never seen him so withdrawn,” Lon said. “There's got to be something else going on."

  "Richard was prone to mood swings,” Paul said. “There was nothing else going on. I should know."

  "Listen to yourself, Lon. You're just as loony as Nan's ex.” Carl looked toward Angie as another dispatch call blared over the speaker. “When he made up stupid stories, everyone wrote it off to the booze. You're going to lose credibility just like he did."

  Lon turned his back on the men and walked over
to the coffee pot. He pulled three mugs off the rack and filled them with coffee.

  "You need to hear my campaign strategy,” Carl said. “It's based on what the people need.” Drawing a sip of hot coffee, Carl spit it back into the mug. “Has this been brewing all morning? It tastes like mud. Make a fresh pot so we can have something decent to drink."

  "Yes sir, Mr. Sheriff,” Lon said. “Whatever you say."

  Carl ignored Lon's remark. “I'm bored with being a deputy. I need a challenge. I happen to know what the bigwigs in this town want. That will be my platform. If I act like I believe in what they want, I'm guaranteed a victory."

  Grabbing the brim of his cap and raising it off his head, Carl scratched his scalp with his little finger. As he replaced his cap, he elbowed Paul. “Word has it the sheriff isn't going to run again. He's useless anyway. If I'm lucky, I'll run against some dumb stiff who thinks he can do a better job."

  Lon slipped his Kevlar duty vest over his head. He reached around the corner and grabbed his shirt from a hanger.

  Disgusted at Lon's lack of interest, Carl waited while he buttoned his shirt.

  "Once I'm elected, I'm going to do what I want. I'm going to put them damn Indians back on the reservation where they belong.” Carl sat forward in his chair. “Our current sheriff,” he emphasized the word ‘sheriff’ by making quotation marks with his fingers, “isn't making them a priority. I know several council members who are upset with his attitude."

  "You're not going to build a campaign on an issue like that. Pinecone Landing's got one of the biggest diversity groups in the state. Besides, the Indians have their own judicial system. It's federal law. You'd be a fool to think you can change it. And why would you? It works."

  Paul piped in, “I think Carl's right. The sheriff is too lenient. We need someone in that office who's got big balls."

  "That would be me,” Carl said with raised eyebrows and a big grin. He watched Lon secure a wide leather belt around his waist and check the loops containing his cuffs and pepper spray. “I don't intend to change any laws."

  He jabbed his thumb skyward. “You know how them Indians talk about Father Earth and all that other holy crap. It won't be God they fear, it'll be me. That's the key. It'll be a cold day before they break any more laws in my jurisdiction."

  "You're going to get in a whole lot of trouble,” Lon said. “You mess with the tribal council and you'll be pulled from office before you know what hit you."

  "That's the trouble with you, Lon. You're such a pussy you've lost the ability to think on your feet.” Carl leaned forward and grabbed his mug. “That's why I'm going to be sheriff and you're not."

  "I don't want to be sheriff."

  Surprised at the anger in Lon's voice, Carl said, “Nobody's going to miss a few renegades from time to time. I know enough to cooperate with the tribal council. I'll even help them locate their missing brethren."

  "What makes you think they're the only ones who commit crimes around here?” Lon demanded. “Seems to me a few of your cousins were arrested last year."

  "So?"

  "If you look at the statistics, more crimes were committed by our locals than by the Indians."

  "Then I'll just have to deal with the jack pine savages, too, won't I?"

  "I guess,” Lon said. “It seems to me you're seeking revenge on the whole tribe because of an indiscretion on your wife's part. You'd be better off cleaning up your own backyard first."

  Carl was sick of Lon's blase attitude. Nothing ruffled him. Yet he knew under that calm facade, Lon's brain churned nonstop. “Give me some credit. I intend to deal with all the crime. My plan will get press in the local paper. That'll make me look good. If everything goes the way I expect, there won't be a criminal left in Pinecone Landing.” Carl nudged Paul. “I like the sound of that. Don't you?"

  "Don't count on me to back your election,” Lon said as he stood.

  Carl grinned at Paul. “I think Lon's a little confused.” Carl's grin soured as he directed his gaze toward Lon. “You and I both know you're going to be my strongest advocate. Not only are you going to support me, but you're going to head up my campaign."

  Carl ignored the hateful look Lon shot in his direction. “I seem to remember an incident where you got carried away during an arrest.” Faking curiosity, Carl said, “You do remember that, don't you? If I recall correctly, the Tribal Council had a difficult time believing your explanation."

  Lon glared at Carl.

  "Good. I see you haven't forgotten.” Carl curled his fingers over his palm to examine his nails. He pulled a nail clipper from his desk drawer. “It goes without saying I expect results. If I get them, your past mistakes will remain safe with me."

  "There's not one person in town who'd vote for you,” Lon said.

  "Two things will guarantee my victory. Your stumping efforts during my campaign and finalizing a piece of unfinished business right before the election. That'll be the clincher. Gaining ownership of that resort will be a major attention grabber and my name will be splashed all over the newspaper. Who do you think our fine citizens will vote for then?"

  Carl dropped the nail clipper into the drawer. “They'll vote for the name they see most often. That's a proven fact. Why do you think politicians make themselves visible right before Election Day?"

  "Because they can't win on their own merit?” Lon said. “I don't see why you're so determined to get control of that resort. I'm tired of your vendetta against the Witt sisters. You're obsessed."

  As Carl groaned in disagreement, Lon added, “Those two old ladies wouldn't harm a bee if it stung them. Sadie may be a bit strange, but those sisters keep a whole lot of people employed year round. I think that's more important than your lawsuit."

  "I don't care what you think. Sadie's mother got that property from my grandfather through illegal means. Granddad had a weak spot. He couldn't stand up to her mother's sexual advances.” Slamming his hand against his desk, he said, “Mark my words. I'm going to make my grandfather proud. I'm going to get that property back."

  As Lon walked through the door, he turned and looked at the dispatcher. “I'm on my way up north to pick up that perp.” He nodded to the men at the desk. “Later, Carl. You, too, Slick."

  "It irritates me when he calls me that,” Paul said. He stared at Lon's back. “Lon hates me. He'd do anything to aggravate me."

  "Hates you? What are you talking about?"

  "He's got the hots for Nan. Ever since I started dating her, Lon's been giving me the cold shoulder."

  "Quit whining. He's been interested in her for years. He was the first one who approached her after she divorced his no-good cousin."

  "I hate the way he looks at her. He's waiting for me to make a wrong move."

  "You're crazy. He calls you Slick because you dress like you live in New York City.” Carl's gaze ran the length of Paul's body. “You probably spent more on those pants then I earned last week. No wonder they call you Slick. I thought women were the ones who had closets jammed with clothes."

  When Carl and Paul were in their early twenties, the two had been a formidable pair. Both men stood six feet tall. Between the two of them they possessed the attributes necessary to rank them high on the list of eligible bachelors. Paul had the money and the looks. Carl had the muscles and the swagger. Together they had been unstoppable and enjoyed a longstanding position at the top of the testosterone heap.

  Paul fared well through time, but not Carl. His looks had curdled like cream. Over the years Carl had sprouted a protruding stomach, one that caused him continuous embarrassment. Women no longer found him desirable. Due to his wife's constant belittling and indiscretions, his confidence had eroded. He accepted his fate. Not because he wanted to, but because his wife would kill him if she found out he'd been with another woman.

  Paul poured a mug of fresh coffee and looked out the window. Watching Lon slide into his squad car, Paul said, “Do you think he'll help with your campaign?"

  Carl remove
d his cap and wiped his brow. “The way I see it, he doesn't have a choice. When he was accused of roughing up that perp last summer, I told the Tribal Council the perp had been in an altercation before he was arrested. They wanted to pursue it, but because Fading Sun's such a loser, they finally dropped it."

  "I'm surprised the perp's wife didn't pursue it,” Paul said. Staring at Carl with intense green eyes, Paul ran his hand over his hair before patting it into place. “You're not listening to me. I said I'm surprised his wife didn't pursue it. Mrs. Fading Sun usually doesn't put up with prejudice against her husband. She's one of those diversity crusaders."

  "What gets me,” Carl said, “is why a white woman with a good education would marry him in the first place."

  Paul tipped his head toward his right shoulder, “At least the woman was smart enough to buy an insurance policy on her husband. Her payments are always on time. I can't ask for more than that."

  "Yeah. I suppose,” Carl grumbled. “That's all you think about is your insurance business."

  "It's not just insurance. It's investments, too. And why wouldn't I think about it? I need to make a living, don't I?” Paul looked at Carl out of the corner of his eye. “Did Lon really rough up Fading Sun when the two of you arrested him?"

  "That's none of your business,” Carl said. “All that matters is that the investigation was dropped."

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  6

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  "I'm not hungry, Mom,” Aanders said, pushing the plate with the uneaten chicken aside. Rotating the base of his milk glass against the counter top, he watched the white liquid swirl until it became motionless.

  "Don't worry about it.” Nan picked up her son's plate.” I'll put it in the fridge. You might want it later.” The ringing of the phone cut across her words.

  Aanders crossed to the counter as the phone rang for the second time. “Harren Funeral Home."

  The two-bedroom mortuary apartment made a shoebox look large, but Aanders had grown to love it. They had moved into the apartment after Nan's divorce. His mother installed a second phone line in the apartment to handle business calls after countless attempts at running from the apartment to the office had failed. Aanders knew his mother wanted to house hunt, but she told him the convenience of being on-site to run the business as well as the luxury of not having house payments was too good to pass up. Thoughts of relocation had been placed on hold.