As Janelle drove, it sank in that she was a stranger in a strange land. Many of the townsfolk must have agreed that she didn’t belong, because no one smiled when cracked a polite smile in greeting through the car window. She wasn’t sure if she had imagined it, but it seemed that some even narrowed their eyes at her with suspicion as she drove by. She guessed she didn’t look like the average tourist coming to town.
Don’t worry! Just passing through. As soon as I find Pops, I’m out of here!
She quickly spotted City Hall, where the Mammoth Falls Police Department was located.
It was an unassuming two-story, brick building near the second intersection on Main Street. A simple “CITY HALL” in stark, black metal letters sat above the double doors.
She parked her Volkswagen in front, in a parking space labeled “For Visitors” between a Chevy truck and a police cruiser. Janelle climbed out and took a fortifying breath before striding through the building’s entrance.
“I am capable of doing this. I can do this. I can do this,” she chanted softly to herself.
She walked down a series of hallways with placards along the walls. When she finally found “Police Department,” she stepped through the doorway and was met by an open room with a reception counter and several office desks in a bullpen arrangement. All of the desks but one were empty.
Janelle had hoped the universe would cut her a break and she’d stumble upon a friendly face as soon as she stepped through the doorway—maybe the Mammoth Falls version of Barney Fife. But instead she found a surly-looking, hefty old man in a navy blue police uniform. He was hunched over his desk, reading a newspaper and drinking from a mug with a deer carved on the front. She got a clear view of his pink scalp through the few graying strands he had shellacked across his crown. Janelle pitied him for having such a horrible comb-over.
When she loudly cleared her throat to get his attention, he slowly looked up from his newspaper.
“Can I help you?” he drawled. His mustache bristled. He raised his puffy white eyebrows. His name tag read “Sgt. Bachmann.”
Think Zen. Think Zen, she told herself. She was trained to deal with delicate situations. She could do this.
“Well, I hope you can,” she said with a forced laugh as she lowered the zipper of her coat. “I need help finding my grandfather.”
His mustache bristled again. “Pardon?”
“My grandfather,” she said, taking another step toward the counter. “He’s missing . . . I think.”
“You think?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but someone told me he was missing, and he isn’t answering my phone calls, which isn’t like him.”
Sergeant Bachmann rose from his desk with a long, loud sigh—like he was being severely put upon, like she had just stopped in and asked for directions to Mount Rushmore. He walked toward the counter, grabbing a yellow steno pad, and brought it with him.
“And you stopped by his place, and didn’t see him there either?” he asked, licking his thumb and flipping the first page of pad over. “Was the door locked?”
“Well . . . no, I didn’t stop by,” she said.
Janelle hadn’t considered going to Pops’s place first. From what Pops had told her, his cabin was in one of the more remote parts of Mammoth Falls. It wasn’t something she could plug into her Google maps app. It didn’t even have an address—just one of those weird postal descriptions you only saw on envelopes going to rural and far-flung places.
“No, I didn’t go to his cabin because I’m from out of town and I . . . well, I don’t exactly know where it is,” she conceded.
She could tell from the way Sergeant Bachman looked her up and down that her being an out-of-towner was plainly obvious.
“It would be too hard to find on my own anyway.”
“So let me see if I’m hearing you right,” he said, leaning one of his thick forearms against the Formica countertop. “You think your grandfather is missing because he didn’t answer his phone. And . . . how long have you been calling him?”
She cleared her throat. “Since yesterday.”
“Uh-huh. You’ve only been calling for one day and you haven’t been to his place, either?”
Grudgingly, she nodded and watched as he flipped his notepad closed.
“Well,” he said, tapping his pen against the counter, “I suggest you go and pay your grandfather a visit first and then—”
“All right, Hank!” a woman shouted from behind Janelle. “They didn’t have your bacon bison burger so I had to get you just a plain ol’ double bacon burger.”
Janelle turned around to find a petite blonde shoving her way through the door, carrying two plastic bags filled with Styrofoam trays. The woman blew a gust of air out of the side of her mouth, making her bangs flutter.
Sergeant Bachmann slapped his pad and pen on the counter in outrage. “But I wanted the bison, Rita!”
“Well, there’s no point in pouting about it!” Rita argued, glaring back at him.
Janelle thought the woman sounded vaguely familiar.
“That’s what happens when you order off the lunch menu when it’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon,” Rita countered. “I tell you that every time!”
She dropped the bags on the counter in front of Janelle and yanked off her wool coat and rainbow-colored gloves that were so small that they looked like she could have stolen them from a five-year-old. She shoved the gloves into the coat pockets. She then tossed her coat onto a nearby metal rack, standing on the balls of her feet to reach one of the pegs.
Rita turned and looked up, finally acknowledging Janelle’s presence. She smiled. “Have you been helped, hon?” she chirped.
Hearing the woman’s voice again, Janelle realized this was the same woman she had spoken to on the phone when she called the police from the airport.
Sergeant Bachmann nodded before reaching for one of the Styrofoam containers and turning back to his desk. “Yep, she has,” he muttered, flipping the lid of the container open.
“Actually, no, I haven’t,” Janelle answered tightly. “I’m looking for my grandfather, and I would like police assistance if it isn’t too much to ask.”
Rita pointed up at her. “Hey! Are you the lady who called this morning asking about Little Bill?”
“Yes! Yes, that was me, and I—”
“Still haven’t found him, huh?” Rita shook her head, sending her blond ponytail swinging. She raised a partition in the counter so that she could step behind it. It landed with a thwack, startling Janelle. “Well, I’m sure you’ll wrangle him up soon enough. Can’t think of why he won’t answer his phone. He might be busy or his phone died. I know I never remember to keep my phone charged. And I’ll tell you . . . that thing goes through a battery faster than salmon through a river.”
“He has a charger,” Janelle said through gritted teeth.
Rita snapped her fingers. “Or maybe he’s in a place where he can’t get reception. He could be up at Pasque Lake doing some ice fishing before the thaw.” She tilted her head. “Or he could be over at Connie’s place. Sometimes, I can’t get a signal up there too good, either. Did you try Beaver Lodge?”
“She hasn’t even tried his cabin yet,” Sergeant Bachmann mumbled between bites of bacon burger.
He was back at his desk and flipping through his newspaper again. Bits of medium well ground beef and sourdough bun tumbled out of his mouth to the broadsheet’s pages. Some of it commingled with his mustache.
Rita let out a high-pitched laugh. “What? Here I was thinking you looked all over for him!”
Think Zen, Janelle told herself again. But she was losing her battle of tranquility. She balled her fists at her sides then unclenched her hands.
“I can’t go to his cabin,” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice even. “Because I don’t know where it is. That’s why I need your help. I—”
“Oh, finding Little Bill’s place won’t be that hard!” Rita assured with wave of her tiny hands. S
he pointed to one of the adjacent windows overlooking the scenic thoroughfare. “You just head out here and make a left. Then you go straight down to corner of Jasper and Big Tree. You can’t miss it. The post office is right there on the corner. It’s been there since ’06.”
“’02,” Sergeant Bachmann corrected between munches.
“The post office moved there back in ’06,” Rita repeated firmly. “So you make the right turn there and then you—”
“It was 2002,” Sgt. Bachmann corrected again.
Rita’s hundred-watt smile dimmed. She pursed her lips and turned to glare at the officer. “It was in 2006, Hank!”
Janelle closed her eyes. She had officially lost the Zen battle. She wanted to thump her head on the counter in defeat. The only thing that kept her from doing that was it would make her budding headache worse.
“Hank, I remember that they built the new post office back in June 2006 because it was back when I was getting a divorce from my first—”
“Good afternoon,” a booming baritone rumbled behind her. “What I miss?”
Great, Janelle thought.
Here was yet another interruption, yet another Mammoth Falls resident who would probably add to the meandering conversation about cell phone reception and the ground-breaking at the local post office. And none of it would bring her closer to finding Pops.
Janelle turned and opened her eyes. When she saw who stood in the doorway, her breath caught in her throat.
It’s the Marlboro Man!
Well, not really. The Marlboro Man of her memory wore chaps, sat astride a stallion, and held a lasso while a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The towering human colossus in front of her wasn’t riding a horse or wearing chaps or smoking, but he did have the cowboy hat—a tan Stetson with a brown leather band around it. In fact, he was in full Wild West regalia, from the leather vest to the snug fitting brown pants and cowboy boots to the silver star on his chest with the word “Sheriff” stamped on it.
He pushed back the brim of the hat and glanced down at her with striking blue eyes—a cerulean flecked with green and gold. When his gaze settled on her, the openness of his expression disappeared. His blue eyes went flat. He flinched, like someone had pinched him or jabbed him with a salad fork. Janelle became overwhelmingly self-conscious, wondering why he had reacted to her that way.
I don’t look that bad, do I?
She turned and gave herself a quick once-over in the reflective surface of a display case filled with award plaques from the Kiwanis and Lions clubs and photos of smiling police officers striking poses with gangly, bespectacled Cub Scouts.
Janelle’s curly hair—which she usually painstakingly styled, brushed, and gelled into some semblance of order—was now haphazardly held back by a cloth headband. The rest was an unruly mess that would probably make Brenda faint. Her outfit wasn’t one of the carefully chosen ensembles she usually wore, either. She’d had to grab the first thing that looked clean and comfortable, and she hadn’t changed her outfit since she boarded the plane back at Reagan National. Her slacks now had more wrinkles than Methuselah. She winced when she realized she also wasn’t wearing any makeup. The dark circles of fatigue that were under her eyes were clearly visible.
You’re a hot mess.
“Hiya, chief!” Rita gushed, tearing Janelle’s attention away from her own reflection. Rita’s face went brighter than a Times Square sign. “Don’t you look handsome? That getup turned out nice!”
He slowly turned away from Janelle, though his uneasy stare lingered on her a bit longer than she would have liked. His lazy smile finally returned as he rolled his eyes at Rita. “I guess. Personally, I’d prefer to be wearing my uniform, but the mayor wants us to show up in costume, so . . .” He patted his vest and looked down at himself. “At least I only have to wear this monkey suit tonight for the festival kickoff at the Legion.”
“The Wild West Festival was a dumb idea and everybody knows it,” Sergeant Bachmann grumbled, licking barbeque sauce off his fingers. “It’s one of the dumbest ideas Mayor Pruit’s had in quite a while. Who ever heard of having a festival when it’s cold enough to freeze snot?”
“I don’t think it’s dumb! Pruitt probably didn’t want to have to compete with Wild Bill Days over in Deadwood or the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. And this festival isn’t the only thing we have when it’s cold outside. What about the Black Hills Stock Show and Rodeo in Rapid City? They have it in February. This is no different!” Rita argued. She inclined her head thoughtfully. “I kinda like the idea of a festival. It adds a little fun and excitement to town! And it could bring in tourist money. We aren’t hurting for it, but it could certainly help the town. There are plenty of places around here that could use some sprucing up.”
“The stock show and rodeo are at the Civic Center—indoors! This isn’t,” Sergeant Bachmann said, slapping shut the lid of his Styrofoam container like he was slapping aside all the other valid points Rita had made. “No one wants to freeze their tail off while they stand in line for popcorn and cotton candy.”
Rita tiredly shook her head. “I swear you are such a curmudgeon, Hank. Look to you to bring the storm clouds on a clear blue—”
“Excuse me,” Janelle said, holding up her hand. “I hate to interrupt your little debate, but can we please return to the topic of my missing grandfather?”
The chief’s expression abruptly changed again. His dark brows knitted together with concern. “Your grandfather’s missing? Was he vacationing here in Mammoth?”
Janelle hesitated under the intense gaze. She opened her mouth to answer but wasn’t fast enough.
“She’s talking about Little Bill. I was just giving her directions to his cabin so she could see for herself that he’s all right. But Hank here”—Rita glanced over her shoulder in annoyance at Sergeant Bachmann—“had to poke his big nose in and interrupt me.”
“Just pointing out that you got your facts wrong, that’s all,” Sergeant Bachmann said as he flipped another page of his newspaper and shifted, making his rolling chair emit a loud, painful squeak.
“I do not have it wrong! The post office was built back in ’06. Tell him, Chief!”
The chief bit back a laugh. “Actually, it was ’04, and I’ll take it over from here, Rita.”
Sergeant Bachmann chuffed through his flared pink nostrils like a dog that had grown bored with listening to the humans’ conversation.
The chief had been shrugging out of his camel wool coat while the officer and Rita argued, but now he tugged it back on. Seeing him standing there with his Stetson, cowboy boots, and sheriff’s star, all the stereotypes Janelle held of the Wild West came rushing forward. She expected the chief to stride to the door, kick it open so hard that it slammed against the wall, walk through City Hall and out the double doors before hopping on the back of a calico horse. He’d then go thundering off with clomping hooves and a twelve-man posse to rescue her grandfather.
“You can come with me, Miss . . .”
“Marshall,” she finished for him. “Janelle Marshall.”
He nodded and tipped the brim of his cowboy hat in greeting as she stepped in front of him, but the wariness returned to his face. She wondered what it was about her that kept making him look at her like that, like she was on the verge of speaking in tongues or sprouting a second head.
Was it the out-of-town thing? The black thing?
It’s my hair, isn’t it, she thought, smoothing her curly tresses.
“So when’s the last time you talked to Little Bill?” he asked as soon as they stepped outside.
Janelle raised the zipper of her coat just as the blast of cold air hit her, making her duck her head and raise her fur-trimmed hood. She watched as he shoved his hands into his pockets after raising the collar of his coat around his ears, which were already turning pink from the biting chill.
“I talked to him about three days ago,” she said.
Where are we going? Janelle thought as she shuffled b
eside him, watching the few people who milled about on the sidewalks and in front of storefronts. They passed more vans and trailers where vendors were unloading their wares for the festival—cowboy hats and boots, plastic pistols, and beaded jewelry. Two blocks down, a crew was adding the finishing touches to a small stage that looked like it had been borrowed from a high school gym. A few men were unloading speakers and mike stands. Another adjusted lights on the scaffolding overhead.
“Did Bill say anything out of the ordinary?”
She thought back to her last phone conversation with Pops. Her grandfather had asked her about her plans for the weekend. She reminded him that she was having a housewarming party. He mentioned that he was going into town to get more deicer. The conversation had seemed so bland and inconsequential. No warning signs. Nothing that screamed, “This may be the last time you talk to me!”
“Not really,” she said.
She sniffed, feeling a trickle form under her nose. It always did that in blustery weather. She tried to discreetly wipe it with her gloved hand.
“Well . . .” He paused. “I’m sure he’s all right.”
The chief licked his slightly chapped lips, keeping his eyes focused forward on a destination that still was a mystery to her. She studied his face in profile—the pointed nose, slightly hooded eyes with the first signs of crow’s feet at the corners, the downturned mouth, and his cleft chin. Ruggedly handsome was the description that came to mind when she looked at him. She didn’t know faces like his existed in real life outside of movies or print ads.
“Little Bill has been around these parts long enough to know how to take care of himself,” the chief continued. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“I’ll try not to,” she mumbled, though she could feel her anxiety growing with each step they took. She silently willed the cell phone in her purse to ring. She willed her grandfather to finally call her back.
Between Lost and Found Page 5
