by Terry Odell
Walking past signs for the DMV, Traffic Court, and assorted legal offices, he headed for the entrance to the police department, pausing at a drinking fountain to pop another pain pill.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and covered the last few feet to the door. He did a quick personal inventory. Slacks pressed. Clean shirt. Neatly knotted tie. Sport coat. He ran a finger along his freshly shaved jaw. See, LT. I’m not being stupid. Proud of me?
Taking a deep breath, he pulled his body erect and twisted the knob. Pine Hills, get ready for your newest civilian employee.
The desk clerk motioned Scott inside. “This way, sir,” she said.
Scott followed her to a door with an old-fashioned frosted glass window and gilt lettering proclaiming it the office of the Chief of Police. Passing through an ante-room, empty except for an unused desk, she tapped twice on an inner office door, opened it and gave the man inside a brief nod before heading back the way she came.
Scott stepped inside. The man behind the desk rose. He wore a three-piece suit, tie, and matching pocket square. Scott wondered if he’d come from a press conference. No, he’d probably have been in uniform for that kind of occasion. Buzz-cut hair. Not a large man, but the aura of authority added to his stature. Piercing steel gray eyes. Eyes of a cop, not a politician.
“I’m Preston Laughlin. Sorry to keep you waiting. Welcome aboard.” Scott gritted his teeth as he returned the proffered handshake. Laughlin gestured toward the chair.
Scott nodded, gripped the armrests, and lowered himself onto the wooden seat.
Laughlin sat. “I hope we’re not too much of a letdown after working homicide for the county.”
No way Laughlin wasn’t aware of Scott’s history. He was skirting the issue, making polite small talk.
“I appreciate the opportunity to serve,” Scott said. “Even in a civilian capacity.” And for the first time, he regretted not doing his homework. He’d accepted LT’s word that Pine Hills would be a smart move, but in the back of his mind, Scott had considered it busywork. Something to fill his days. A paycheck to supplement his pension. Nothing worth taking seriously.
“Let’s get the formalities over with,” Laughlin said. “You’ll start on the morning shift. Seven to three.”
“Not a problem.” Aside from the fact he’d have to get up by five to get his body moving. But that shouldn’t be permanent. At least that’s what the rehab therapist had said. Scott was still waiting.
Laughlin shoved a folder across the desk. “If you’ll fill these out, Doranna will get you into the system.” He smiled. “Paperwork’s a bitch, but it generates those paychecks.”
Laughlin continued talking while Scott filled out the endless forms. “We’re even more short-handed with Detective Detweiler on his honeymoon.” He frowned. “Town council has cut our sworn officer budget. Had to cut hours. Two on half-time, and our civilian staff is down to two per shift. He tilted his chin toward the empty ante-room. “My secretary was one of the casualties.”
Was he supposed to play secretary to Laughlin? “I’ll do what I can.”
“Afraid it’ll include a lot of paperwork.”
Scott looked up from the forms. “I accepted the position, sir. I do what I’m told.”
Laughlin gave him a level stare. “I’ll expect nothing less.” He picked up his phone, punched a few buttons, then spoke. “My office.”
Laughlin’s tone was civil, but Scott had the feeling he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a summons when the man was in a bad mood.
Seconds later, there were two raps on the outer door, which opened without an invitation to enter. A man in khakis, a polo, and a badge on a chain around his neck entered. Under six feet, blonde, with a pale complexion Scott could empathize with. At least Oregon was a good place to live if you were prone to sunburn.
The man nodded at Laughlin, then went through the handshake thing with Scott. By now, Scott’s arm made it clear it missed its sling, and he promised it a rubdown later.
“Kovak,” the man said. “Proud to be working with you.”
Scott gave the tiniest of nods and kept his expression neutral. The coddling was bad enough. Hero worship—especially since he didn’t consider himself anything remotely approaching a hero—was worse.
“I’ll turn you over to Detective Kovak,” Laughlin said. “He’ll show you around. Once you cut through all the red tape, you’re free to go. You can report at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow.” His gaze lingered on Scott long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Then Laughlin smiled. “And unless you’re stuck with my job, we tend to dress more casually here. No need for the tie. Be comfortable.”
Once again, Scott brought up the rear as Kovak showed him through the various departments of the station, carrying out introductions. Scott found himself recalling Laughlin’s words and feeling … comfortable. This was an environment he recognized, one he felt at home in.
“That’s about it,” Kovak continued, opening one last door to a room barely large enough for three desks and a bank of file cabinets. “These are the detective digs. We’re alternating three and four day shifts, but with the big guy on his honeymoon, we’re a man short.
“We don’t have anything like what you’re used to,” Kovak was saying. “Generic detectives. No homicide squad like where you come from. We had a homicide here last year—the biggest case this town has seen in decades. Diamond smuggling. Maybe you remember. County did most of the work.”
Scott gave a noncommittal shrug. What was big time in Pine Hills was another day at the office at County. Kovak paused, as if he wanted to say something. Scott recognized the look.
“Ask it,” Scott said. “What was it like, right?”
Kovak held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, we all wonder what we’d do if we’re caught in the middle of a clusterfuck.”
“You pray,” Scott said.
***
“Can you believe it, Lily?” Ashley tipped her watering can and gave the potted peace lily on her windowsill a drink. “I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.” She moved down the row of plants. “Pretty cool, right, Violet? A brownie bakeoff, with the winner’s dish showcased on the menu.”
She moved on to the hanging plants, each sitting in its own intricately knotted web. Tempted to hurry through her ritual watering process, she forced herself to give each plant a moment of her undivided attention. Maybe not so undivided, because her mind spun through a swirl of questions. Would there be time? Or should she consider a soft opening, and have the bakeoff a week later?
Maggie had promised to recruit volunteers from her contacts at the Women’s Center. Ashley hadn’t been aware there was a Women’s Center in Pine Hills, much less what they did, but if Maggie said they could be counted on, that was good enough for her.
She set the empty watering can under the sink, then put on a pot of coffee. Sitting at her kitchen table, she started making notes.
As Ashley created a to-do list, Maggie’s comments about someone sabotaging Sarah’s shop insisted on intruding. Maggie had dismissed it as an impossibility, and she was probably right. But probably wasn’t letting Ashley concentrate on her task. Even if that guy—what was his name?—was still in jail, didn’t they have ways of communicating with people on the outside?
You’ve been watching way too many movies. If he was going to do anything, he’d mess with Sarah’s shop, not yours.
The phone provided a welcome interruption.
“Ashley, it’s Maggie. I know this is last-minute, but can you come to a meeting at the Women’s Center at seven? A group of us are more than happy to help get your store off to a spectacular start.”
“You’ve got it.” Ashley hung up, feeling as if she’d been wrapped in a warm blanket. People where she came from didn’t go out of their way to help each other. Especially if they’d never met you.
They’re doing it for Maggie, not you. Nobody says no to Maggie Cooper.
She thrust her notes a
side. So what if they were rallying to help Maggie. Right now, she’d take all the help she could get.
And she wasn’t going to show up at the meeting empty-handed. Not to mention baking was her therapy. She headed straight for her recipe files. Something new, or stick with something foolproof?
New, she decided. If she was going to run a specialty shop, the more weapons in her arsenal, the better. She thumbed through the red folder of “worth a try” recipes. Closing her eyes, she plucked one.
Promptly at six-forty-five, Ashley peeked into the doorway of the meeting room at the Women’s Center. Pale institutional green walls, vinyl flooring and folding chairs arranged around six foot tables. Maggie was at the far wall, plugging a coffee urn into an outlet beneath another table, this one draped in a blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. She straightened and flashed Ashley a warm smile. “Welcome.”
Ashley held up the foil-covered tray she was carrying. “I brought some goodies. Cookies and mini chocolate tarts.”
Maggie hustled over and took the tray. Peeling back a corner of the foil, she peeked at the confections Ashley had baked that afternoon. The aroma of chocolate mingled with freshly brewed coffee. “These look—and smell—fantastic.”
Ashley helped Maggie arrange the cookies on the table. “I can’t thank you enough for all this. Your idea of the bakeoff was fantastic, and to pull together an organizing committee out of the blue like this—it’s too much.” She leaned over and hugged Maggie’s slender frame.
Maggie’s face colored to rival her hair. “Don’t be silly. We’re happy to help a neighbor.”
Ashley busied herself arranging the napkins next to the cookie platter. “I’m hardly a neighbor. And these people don’t know me.”
“You live in Pine Hills. That makes you a neighbor.”
Ashley’s eyes burned and her throat tightened. Total strangers offering support. Something she’d never gotten from people close to her, who were supposed to love her unconditionally. She poured herself a plastic cup of the lemonade Maggie had added to the table and sipped it until she regained her composure. “You let them know that any time they need something, all they have to do is ask.”
Maggie’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be requesting donations now and again for bake sales. And you can tell them yourself.”
Heavy footfalls clunked through the hallway. “That’ll be Penny Foxworth. She’s always first to arrive.” Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. “She always wants first crack at the refreshment table.”
A plump woman whisked in, wearing a long, floral skirt paired with a long-sleeved turtleneck in a darker shade of rose than the flowers on her skirt. Strands of colorful ceramic beads of all shapes and sizes hung around her neck, resting on her ample chest. A floppy, crocheted hat sat on her head. The wooden clogs on her feet explained the noisy footsteps. “Am I too early?” she asked.
Maggie threw a quick wink at Ashley, then turned to Penny. “Penny, this is Ashley. Ashley, Penny teaches art at the middle school.”
Maybe being an art teacher explained the woman’s eccentric attire, although to Ashley, it looked more like Penny shopped at The Second Chance thrift store. Then again, maybe she did. Teachers didn’t make much money.
Penny edged toward the platter of desserts. “Oh, my, don’t these look delicious. Where did you get them?”
“I baked them,” Ashley said. “Help yourself.”
Penny took a double chocolate chip cookie. “Oh, my. I’ve died and gone to heaven. If this is the kind of food you’re going to be selling—well, everyone here’s going to bend over backward to help you open with a bang.”
Ashley felt a blush creep up her neck. “I can’t thank you enough.”
Penny whisked a hand in front of her face, picked up a paper plate and filled it with two of everything on the tray. “These are plenty of thanks. Of course, instead of having to lose ten pounds, now I’ll have to lose twenty.”
She settled onto one of the metal folding chairs, set an oversized tapestry tote bag on the chair next to her, and munched on a cookie.
Ashley smiled at the next arrival, a familiar face. Kathleen Duncan worked part time at the Tool Shed, Pine Hills’ small-town version of a do-it-yourself emporium. As usual, Kathleen wore her silver hair in a perfectly coiffed up-do, a conservative skirt and sweater duo, along with her trademark string of pearls around her neck. Kevin, Kathleen’s son, owned the Tool Shed, and Ashley had spent some time there, choosing paint colors, floor coverings, and a multitude of other odds and ends.
“I was so sorry to hear you had another little setback,” Kathleen said. “Some days are like that.”
Or weeks, Ashley thought. “Carl assures me we’re going to open on schedule.”
“I’m sure you will. Kevin’s expediting orders, and Willie can put in some extra time if need be.”
Kathleen’s husband, Willie, was a local handyman. Carl had employed his services during the construction. Unlike many of the Klutz Brigade, Willie did get things done right the first time, although he seemed more of a plodder than a home-improvement-show expert.
The door opened once more, and a petite woman wearing baggy sweatpants and a long-sleeved sweatshirt shuffled into the room. Head down, she found a seat near the rear. “Sorry I’m late.” Her words were barely audible. Kathleen and Penny turned away. Penny pulled a hank of yarn and a crochet hook from her bag and concentrated on some brown-and-green creation. Kathleen dumped sugar and creamer into a coffee cup and busied herself stirring.
“Good. Lorna made it.” Maggie rushed to the woman’s side, taking the chair next to hers. She wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulders and whispered something. The woman wiped her eyes, nodded, and squeezed Maggie’s hand.
Maggie strode to the front of the room, ignoring Ashley’s questioning glance. “Let’s get started, everyone.”
Chapter 3
Scott slapped at the alarm, grimacing as his sore shoulder protested the sudden motion. He lay there, panting, filmed in sweat, waiting for his heart rate to drop. Slowly, he took in his surroundings. Pine Hills. His new apartment. His bedroom. Hints of sunlight filtered through the gap between the shades and the window’s edges. The encroaching daylight chased away the nightmare.
He lay there, breathing slowly. Staring at the ceiling. Working up the guts to move, knowing the pain was waiting when he did.
As always, the need to pee forced the issue. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself to a half-sitting position. Waiting for his muscles to accept his demands.
At least you can do this on your own. No calling for a nurse.
He limped to the john, took care of what had to be done, and leaned against the counter. More slow deep breaths. He splashed his face with cold water, brushed his teeth and found the swim trunks he’d laid out last night. He closed the lid on the toilet and sat there, working his good leg, then his stiff one into the trunks.
Be glad you can dress yourself. Suck it up.
The gentle gurgling sound and the aroma of fresh coffee brought a faint smile to his face. At least he’d had the brains to set the timer on the coffeemaker before going to bed.
He stood, yanking the nylon swimsuit over his hips. Limping around the boxes he’d brought over last night, he made his way to the kitchen and savored that first sip of that first cup of coffee. Nothing better. He sniffed again. Chocolate? He’d noticed it last night, too.
He opened the oven and gave another sniff. Not the source. No matter. As residual smells went, chocolate sure beat cigarette smoke or eau de litter box.
After setting the cup on the counter, he took a few tentative steps around the kitchen, loosening up muscles that had stiffened overnight. When he could step without gnashing his teeth against the pain, he grabbed a towel, slipped his feet into rubber sandals and headed for the fitness room.
Opening the door to the fitness center, he smelled the mixture of sweat, disinfectant and swimming pool chemicals. He shuffled to the hot tub and spent a
minute figuring out the controls. Climbing in took some doing, but at last, he surrendered to the heat and pulsating water. Head back against the side of the tub, he closed his eyes.
Damn, he should have brought his watch or phone and set an alarm. Mornings sucked. He glancing around the room, noticed a clock on the far wall. That would help, as long as he stayed awake. His gaze took in someone stepping onto the treadmill in the far corner. She had the obligatory ear buds in, and seemed oblivious to anything else in the room.
Her brunette ponytail bounced as she ran. Her ass was hidden beneath baggy sweats. After about ten minutes, she shrugged out of her hoodie, revealing the sports bra she wore underneath. Not bad. She had some meat on her. Not one of those twig-thin numbers you were afraid you’d break if you got too close. Not that he had any intention of getting close to anyone in Pine Hills. But he could look.
Maybe living here wouldn’t be so bad. He dozed off and on, the buzz of the jets and bubbles blocking out any extraneous noise. When he’d gone well into prune territory, he hauled himself out of the tub, pleased with his increased mobility. Treadmill woman had already left. Her replacement had a bit too much meat on her for his taste. He avoided eye contact, although she, too, was engrossed in whatever came through her ear buds.
Drying off, then wrapping the towel around his hips, he left the fitness center, barely limping. As he approached the door to his apartment, the smell of chocolate intensified. Curiosity aroused, he followed the aroma past his apartment. It definitely emanated from the unit next to his. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since his early pizza dinner yesterday, and he turned back to his own place.
