A Hopeless Game

by Daniel Carson

  Dr. Bridges took the body back to the hospital so he could perform an autopsy. Just to make sure the findings were consistent with suicide.

  “That means the funeral will have to wait,” Alex explained.

  “That’s okay,” said Susan Mossback. “Randy would have hated anything that distracted the boys from their precious game. This week, they practice. This weekend they play. Next week we can say goodbye.”

  Back at the Library, I told Granny and Bess the news. Granny said nothing—just quietly sat down and shook her head. My granny had seen a lot of loss in her life, but this loss made her as speechless as Bess.

  Then I called Katie to let her know.

  “That’s crazy, Hope.”

  “I know. Just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You don’t think it was suicide?”

  “It looks like suicide. But suicide or not, something is going on. There’s a story in here somewhere.”

  “And you’re going to figure it out.”

  “I’m not sure if I should.”

  “Like that’s ever stopped you.”

  Katie was right, of course, and in fact my very next stop was the Hopeless News. When I walked in, Earl Denton was sitting solemnly at his desk with his hands folded in front of him.

  “So you’ve heard,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “How should we cover it?”

  “Carefully. Very carefully.”

  “How about the special football edition?”

  Earl waved his hand in the air like he was erasing it from his memory. “Forget all of that. Normal edition. Cover the news. None of the extra stuff. Not with all of this.”

  That evening, much of the town gathered at the school for a prayer service in honor of Coach Mossback. There were plenty of sad faces, but not a lot of actual tears. People stayed strong—or maybe the reality simply hadn’t sunk in.

  Elliot Sunderland stood up and gave a short talk at the end. “This is a real tough blow,” he said. “But Coach was a tough guy, and he would want us to be tough for him during this time. Let’s go win one for Coach.”

  At the end of the day I slipped under my covers and found myself reflecting on how horrible it all was. Maybe Coach Mossback was a turdball, but so what? Even turdballs deserve love. They deserve to not feel so alone.

  I opened my wallet and dug out the photo I’ve kept behind my license for years. An old photo of my mom and me. She was twenty-three. I was six months old. She looked so pretty and so happy. But she obviously wasn’t. Because four months later, she left. And I hadn’t seen her since. I didn’t know where she was. I didn’t even know if she was dead or alive.

  Perhaps she had started over. Perhaps she had another family now. I hated that idea. The idea that she had left us for something better. But I also feared the alternative. That wherever she was, my mom was all alone.

  And nobody deserves to be alone.

  Chapter 9

  I started my Monday at A Hopeless Cup, where Nick and I decided the best way to kick off the week was to ignore each other. He didn’t call me “ma’am” or “old,” and I didn’t yell at him—or even roll my eyes. This was a positive step in our relationship.

  I took my perfectly prepared white mocha latte, sat at a corner table, opened my laptop, and got to work. As Earl had instructed, I wrote a simple and respectful article about the memorial at the school Sunday night. I wrote that Coach Mossback died unexpectedly, but nothing more than that. At least for now.

  I also wrote a simple article about the victory on Friday night. Just the facts: who, what, where, when. There would be time later to go into more detail, but this week was not the week.

  Katie called me at eleven fifteen.

  “How you doing?” she asked.

  “It’s not the first dead body I’ve seen,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m worried about. I read in US Weekly that people who find more than three dead bodies a year are more likely to get type 2 diabetes.”

  “You did not read that in US Weekly.”

  “That is correct, but there’s something I did read in US Weekly that I really want to chat with you about. It just feels like it’s in poor taste in the aftermath of you finding another dead body.”

  “Is this something super trashy, and will it put a smile on my face?”

  “Yes to both.”

  “Then please tell me, because I could really use a laugh.”

  Katie shared her ridiculous US Weekly gossip with me, and we laughed and felt better about ourselves at the expense of rich Hollywood folks who take themselves way too seriously.

  Then Katie asked if I was hungry.

  “Depends on what you’re having.”

  “Fish sticks.”

  “In what world would fish sticks make me hungry?”

  “Don’t get hangry on me, Walker. I was looking for Ben & Jerry’s and noticed a pack of fish sticks in the back of the freezer.”

  “Which is like the natural habitat of the fish stick. It should never be moved from the back of the freezer.”

  “It was either that or Spam, and I’m saving the Spam for a special occasion.”

  “You should really start your own lifestyle brand.”

  “I really should. I’d be the next Martha Stewart.”

  “Except for the prison time. You don’t need that.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Katie laughed. “Five months without my kids? I’d be a way better parent if I didn’t have to be around my kids.”

  “Like I said, Katie. Lifestyle brand.”

  I drove out of town on Highway 15, past the spot where Jimmy and I had our accident so many years ago, past the cabin I’d once wanted to live in, and turned left into the tree side of Moose Mountain. I zigzagged my way up the mountain, through the beautiful Sawtooth forest that was preparing itself for winter, and stopped at Lydell Clowder’s place. As I got out of my car, I noticed the wind had whipped up since morning and the temperature was falling.

  A few weeks earlier, Mr. Clowder’s prized goat Percy had been shot dead. Murdered. The culprit was a mysterious woman named Ms. Jones. She was right out of central casting for a Bond movie villain, complete with high cheekbones, platinum-blond hair, and soulless gray eyes. She called herself an independent real estate consultant and had been up and down the mountain trying to get people to sell their properties. On the side, she’d been taking shots at people’s animals. Mr. Clowder’s goat. The Rutledges’ dairy cow. Eventually she confessed to me. And then—poof, she was gone.

  My theory was she was somehow working for Wilma Jenkins, the mayor. Mayor Jenkins was trying to buy up all the cabins on the tree side of the mountain so she could develop what she wanted to call “Sawtooth National Resort.” Essentially, she wanted Hopeless to become the next Vail. If she was successful, then her burgeoning real estate empire would be worth a fortune.

  What was more, I was sure Wilma was somehow involved with mob boss Tommy Medola and the Medola crime family—though I didn’t know how. I hadn’t put it all together quite yet.

  And the mysterious Ms. Jones had taken on a very particular role in all this. Her job was to scare the people on the mountain, so they would sell. Hence the dead animals. Unfortunately, it was working. Mrs. Greeley had already decided to sell. So had Mr. and Mrs. Clayborne. And now Mr. Clowder had left me a message saying we needed to talk. I was afraid he was going to announce his intention to sell as well. That’s why I was here.

  I found him on the edge of his pasture, watching his goats dance in and out of the trees that bordered his property.

  “How’s the herd doing without Percy?” I asked.

  “A bit lost, I’d say. Though Leon’s stepped up a bit. He’s no Percy, but he’s trying his best.”

  He walked toward the main house and waved for me to walk with him. “You heard about the Thompsons?” he said.

  “Don’t tell me.”

  He nodded sadly. “They agreed to sell on Saturday. I found out about it yeste
rday.”

  “How many is that in total?”

  “Four of the thirteen cabins have agreed to sell.”

  “And the Crofton place would make five, if the mayor can get it out of probate. But there’s still plenty if you all stand strong.”

  Mr. Clowder sighed. “That’s what worries me. Pretty soon the dominoes are going to fall. Mayor Jenkins is making the rounds again, each time increasing her offer just a bit. I’m worried people will just give up.”

  “Not you,” I said.

  “No, Hope. Not me.”

  “And not the Rutledges either.”

  Mr. Clowder laughed. “No, not Cal and Debbie.”

  “Then relax.”

  “I can’t. This is my home and my livelihood. What happens if she clears all the trees from the properties she buys? What then? Didn’t you say you think Mayor Jenkins is mixed up in something bad?”

  “I did.”

  “Well then, I think the only way this stops… is if you figure out exactly what that something is.”

  I spent the afternoon driving from cabin to cabin, talking to everyone who was home. No, Ms. Jones had not been back. Yes, Mayor Jenkins had. And as to whether or not they were considering selling? People’s lips were saying one thing… but their eyes were saying something else.

  Except for Cal and Debbie Rutledge. I’d actually been at their property the day their dairy cow was shot. I’d even foolishly gone after the shooter through the woods. It was stupid, and I was lucky I wasn’t hurt. But my actions had bought me some credit with Debbie Rutledge. She was sturdy and tough, and if I found myself in a dark alley and had to get help from either a grizzly bear or Debbie Rutledge… I’d choose Debbie Rutledge every time.

  She offered me a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. I gladly accepted, because you don’t refuse the hospitality of a woman like Debbie Rutledge. Nor do you refuse a fresh-baked cinnamon roll.

  “So Mayor Jenkins came back out?” I said.

  “She had the nerve. Cal had to hold me back. She said we were lucky that ‘someone like her’ valued this land so much. The audacity! I told her she was lucky my husband was standing between us.”

  Mr. Clowder was right: this was not going to end unless I put a stop to it. And that meant finding out what bad things Mayor Jenkins was mixed up in—and how she was connected to the Medola crime family.

  When I returned to my apartment over the Library, I went through all my notes on the Medolas. I was deep into my old files from Portland when someone knocked on my door.

  Granny was pretty much the only one who ever came to my door, and she wasn’t much for knocking. But there was a time, a few weeks ago, when Alex showed up to bring me food when I was at Katie’s house watching her kids. I wondered if this might be Alex again. And that made my heart beat faster. Alex and I had an understanding. We’d agreed on not yet.

  Maybe he didn’t want not yet?

  I thought about going to the bathroom and fixing myself up, but when the knock came again, I decided I was who I was and I looked how I looked. And if he really liked me, then that would have to be fine.

  I opened my apartment door to find myself standing in front of a handsome man with a big smile and a bag of food.

  But he wasn’t Alex Kramer.

  He was Fireman Bob.

  Chapter 10

  Fireman Bob walked right in and set the bag from the Taco House on the counter, along with a six-pack of Coronas.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He was wearing his regular firefighter uniform: navy-blue pants, navy-blue T-shirt, and black boots. He gave me his big goofy smile while he pulled out tacos and burritos… and they smelled so good. I’d been avoiding the Taco House ever since I’d punched Gemima there, but every time I drove past, the smell of their tacos made my stomach do cartwheels. But as much as I appreciated those tacos being in my apartment, I still wanted to know why Fireman Bob was accompanying them.

  “I don’t remember inviting you over,” I said.

  He opened a beer by hitting the end against the corner of the counter, then handed it to me. “Seriously, Hope? When your first date is nine burritos, you shouldn’t need an invitation for date number two.”

  “You’re telling me this”—I gestured to the tacos and beer on the counter—“is date number two?”

  He grabbed a couple plates from my kitchen cabinet and piled burritos and tacos on both. “Well, I mean, I don’t really consider carrying you around in your underwear a date… but if you want, we can call this date number three.”

  I didn’t know what was happening. I just knew the smell of the food was weakening my capacity to think straight.

  Fireman Bob plopped down on my couch with his plate and his beer.

  “How’d you know I liked the Taco House?” I asked.

  He turned on my TV. “Who doesn’t? What do you want to watch?”

  I was being taken advantage of in my own apartment because I couldn’t resist the smell of Taco House burritos. I took one bite, and my eyes rolled back into my head. “I’ve missed you, beef and bean burrito,” I whispered.

  “You more of an HGTV chick, or Lifetime?”

  I texted Katie.

  Emergency. Fireman Bob just invaded my apartment.

  You wearing those stupid underwear again?

  He brought Taco House burritos!

  Be sure to brush your teeth before you make out.

  I’m not making out with him!

  Then what’s the point of him being there?

  Not helping, Katie!

  Remember to get him out of there before the burrito gas hits you. That’s no way to start a relationship.

  Fireman Bob and I do not have a relationship!

  You invited him over to your apartment to eat burritos. Sounds like a relationship to me.

  You’re a giant butthead.

  But I’m YOUR giant butthead.

  By now Fireman Bob had his feet up on my coffee table, his Corona between his legs, and he was watching Chopped. It was one I hadn’t seen before, so I cautiously walked over and sat on the couch, putting as much space between the two of us as I could. Which was hard. It wasn’t a large couch.

  “Dig in, Faith!” Bob said.

  “It’s Hope,” I said.

  He grinned. “I was just messing with you.”

  I took another large bite, and my head lit up like I’d just taken a hit of something very illegal. I didn’t want to admit it, but Fireman Bob had rescued me again—this time by bringing me exactly what I needed. I took a big sip of my Corona. Then I dove in for another bite of my burrito.

  “I didn’t peg you for a Chopped kind of a guy,” I said after a minute.

  “Oh, the guys at the firehouse love it. All cooking shows, really. If you can’t tell, we like to eat. If there were a network full of eating shows, I’d watch that, but cooking shows are the next best thing.”

  “I figured you guys would sit around and watch Deadliest Catch, or maybe Ice Road Truckers.”

  “Those are okay. We also like watching Fixer-Upper. That Joanna’s pretty hot.”

  “You’re one classy guy, you know that, Fireman Bob?”

  He took a swig from his Corona. “So I’ve been told.”

  I continued to enjoy my burrito as they introduced the mystery basket ingredients for the dessert round. They were brown sugar, star fruit, stinky tofu, and beef tongue.

  “That’s the hardest basket I’ve ever seen!” yelled Fireman Bob enthusiastically.

  “How do you make a dessert out of beef tongue?” I asked.

  “If anyone can figure it out, I’m betting on this chick from New Orleans. That girl can cook.”

  And before I knew it, I was lost in the drama of a cooking show next to a dopey-in-a-cute-way firefighter who’d just happened to drop by. And you know what? I didn’t hate it. The male company was nice. And, in contrast to sitting on a couch next to Alex, I felt absolutely zero pressure. The woman chef from New Orleans did in f
act win, and as we finished our burritos and grabbed more beers, we kept on watching the next episode. Fireman Bob did a lot of hooting and hollering. To him, the female chefs were “chicks” and “girls,” and though that was mildly irritating, it was quite consistent with his whole meathead shtick. And occasionally, after a particularly satisfying moment, he’d extend his hand across the couch for a fist bump.

  When we got to commercial break before the next dessert round, I thought it appropriate to learn more about my male suitor.

  “So, Fireman Bob, why’s everyone call you Fireman Bob and not just Bob?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m a fireman, and my name is Bob.”

  He shrugged as if this much was obvious. For Fireman Bob, it probably was as simple as that.

  “Okay. And do you have a last name?”

  “O’Malley.”

  “You don’t look like an O’Malley.”

  “My mom’s a Scarpano and a Drapa. Half Italian, half Pole.”

  “So an Irishman, an Italian, and a Pole walk into a bar… and Fireman Bob pops out.”

  He tilted his beer at me. “Pretty good for a third date, don’t you think?”

  I laughed. “Second date. Lucky Charms doesn’t count. How many burritos you gonna give this one?”

  “Well, this is a little unfair because burritos are actually part of this date. But the way I see it, if the makeout session’s as good as I think it will be, then this will be a ten burrito date.”

  “We’re still not gonna be making out.”

  He sighed. “Then it’s more like an eight burrito date. Which is still pretty good.”

  The commercials ended, and they unveiled the mystery basket for the dessert round. The last ingredient was lamb placenta.

  Fireman Bob and I screamed our disbelief in unison. And let me say, the actual visual of the lamb placenta was even worse than it sounds. One of the judges talked about how it had a sweet and slightly chewy texture, but it would need to be cooked longer than you think. That description apparently so creeped out Fireman Bob that he had to kick his feet in the air in an attempt to ward off the grossness of it all. Unfortunately, his feet hit his plate, which flew into the air, throwing burrito bits all over my carpet.