by Meg Muldoon
He chuckled.
“You look like a gal on a mission.”
A lopsided grin crossed his face. Probably because he knew that my tab tonight was going to be a big one.
Harold probably missed the old Cinnamon Peters. The recently-divorced Cinnamon Peters who used to sometimes come here after work to drink and leave good tips. The Cinnamon Peters who used to be sad.
That Cinnamon Peters hadn’t been around for a while. But tonight, she was making a comeback.
He went behind the bar, grabbing a mid-level brand of bourbon. He did as I asked, pouring me a generous amount into an old-fashioned glass. He pushed it toward me on a coaster.
Despite the fact that there were others who were trying to get his attention, he paused for a moment, leaning forward toward me.
“Trouble at home?” he said. “I couldn’t help notice that that fella of yours isn’t here tonight with you again.”
I knew Harold was only trying to help. But I didn’t feel much like discussing my problems with one of Warren’s old buddies at the moment.
There were two types of people who sat at the bar. Folks who liked to spill about their problems. And folks who just wanted a place to drink said problems away.
I was of the latter variety tonight.
“No, everything at home’s just fine,” I said, taking a sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat.
“Well, seems to me something’s got your giblet, dahlin,’” he said. “You sure there’s nothing you want to talk about? I did tell Warren that I’d see after you while he was gone.”
I looked down the length of the bar, noticing that there were at least three people on the other side trying to signal him for a drink.
“Thanks, but I’m okay, Harold,” I said. “Nothing that this here whiskey can’t cure.”
“God help us if there ever is anything that whiskey can’t cure,” he said, winking at me. “But suit yourself, girly. Suit yourself.”
He waddled away on his bum knee to the other side of the bar. I sat there, nursing the glass. Staring at my reflection in the mirror behind the shelves of liquor. At all the happy people behind me.
Maybe if I drank enough, I would be like them. Able to forget about all my troubles.
I thought about what Daniel had said. That he needed me to be strong now.
I guess this was my way of doing that.
I took another sip of the whiskey, my eyes scanning the crowd behind me, finding a familiar face.
My throat tightened, seeing her there at one of the tables.
I had seen a blue VW Bug parked outside the tavern when I’d walked in, but I hadn’t put it together that it was hers.
She had her bright red curly hair pinned off to one side. She was wearing red lipstick that matched her holiday red sweater. Her smile seemed to brighten the entire bar.
She was surrounded by a large group, some of which I recognized as being part of Meredith Drutman’s crowd of socialites, if there was such a thing in a small town. There were also a few young guys in the group, guys who had a certain sparkle in their eyes as they listened to the red haired lady speak. A moment later, they all broke out in a fit of laughter.
“And that’s when I told Marcel: Hey, there’s no ‘we’ in ‘qui,’ buddy boy.”
Another outbreak of laughter erupted from the group. Pepper grinned, pleased at the response.
I downed the rest of my whiskey in one shot, averting my eyes, hoping she hadn’t seen me.
Was there no place I could get away to?
“So Pepper, how’s your gingerbread house coming along?” one of the ladies in the crowd asked.
Pepper shrugged modestly.
“I think it’ll probably be okay for a first-timer,” she said. “I’m not expecting anything from it. Just a little bit of fun. Hopefully to meet some other folks in this town.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest,” Belinda Cooper, Meredith Drutman’s right hand girlfriend, said. “I’ve seen your gingerbread house, and you’re going to win that competition hands down.”
“In my dreams maybe,” Pepper said, as if she was in a 1960s family sitcom.
The rest of the group laughed.
I signaled Harold for another drink, but he was busy with a customer.
I let out a sigh, playing with the cardboard coaster in front of me, rolling it up between my hands.
Then I suddenly felt eyes drilling into the side of my face.
I glanced over.
“I’ll get you another drink,” the man said.
Chapter 35
“So I heard those bastards got your pup, too,” Pete Burgess said, plopping down on the barstool next to me.
His tie was loosened and he looked to be a few drinks into the night already. But he didn’t have that vacant, faraway look in his eyes that he’d had the other night when he had been talking to Daniel and me. And he wasn’t leaning sloppily on the bar top, the way he had been then, either. He was sitting up, mostly of his own volition.
Though I imagined in a few hours, all bets were off when it came to Pete Burgess’s sobriety.
“Bastards,” he mumbled again.
“They got Huckleberry,” I said. “And another dog I was taking care of for the weekend.”
“Picking on a lady like you.Bastards.”
He grimaced, then took a sip of his trademark rum and coke.
“Have you heard anything about Daisy?” I asked.
He shook his head, staring down at the drink in front of him.
“Nothing,” he said. “Your hubby came by a couple days ago, questioning me about her going missing. And I thought to myself, ‘What does the Sheriff care about a missing dog?’ But then I started putting things together. Seeing all them missing dog posters up all over. It can’t be coincidence, can it?”
I looked over, shaking my head.
“Then there’s rumors about that police dog,” he said. “People say nobody’s seen that dog for a while now.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Play it coy then,” he said. “Don’t matter much to me. I know I’m right.”
He took another sip of his drink.
“I wasn’t on the city council for all those years for nothing. I have a good mind up here.”
He pointed to his head.
“‘Least when I haven’t had too much of this here sauce.”
He took a rather large gulp of his beverage, cutting it down to ice.
“So what was your doggy like?” he asked. “What made him special?”
I shivered, noticing he used the past tense to describe Huckleberry.
I spun the coaster in front of me.
“Everything,” I said. “Everything about that dog is special. Without him, me and Daniel wouldn’t have…”
My words came out slow and thick, like cold molasses. I gave up trying to push them out.
I took a sip of the new drink Pete had just bought me.
“Chadwick wasn’t too dull himself,” I said. “I’d only known that dog for a few weeks, but I really liked him. He was a pain in the neck, you know? But he had personality.”
Pete lightly placed a hand on my back. At first I flinched, the touch making me uncomfortable. But then I saw that he didn’t mean anything by it, and he was only trying to be nice.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “My Daisy was like that too.”
He leaned in closer.
“You know, sometimes I think…” he trailed off, then started again. “Sometimes I think I loved my dog more than my wife? Sometimes I wonder if Barbara didn’t know that. If she didn’t leave because she knew that when it came to me, she’d always come in third. The council has always come first. Then Daisy. Then her. You must think I’m heartless, admitting to a thing like that. But it’s the truth, you know.”
His words were beginning to slur a little bit at the ends. He let out a sigh, his breath smelling like a distillery.
“But what good has any of that done me? Look at
me. I’m here. No Barbara. No Daisy. And a town that turned its back on me for some community college bimbo.”
He took another large gulp from his drink, his straw hitting air.
“You know, after your husband stopped by, I started thinking about Daisy going missing. Thinking it was personal, like somebody stole her because they didn’t like me, or maybe I crossed them. Like all those years spent on the dog board made a few enemies maybe. Like maybe someone had it in for me, you know? But now I know… now I know that I ain’t alone.”
He was beginning to lose it: repeating words, and not making much sense.
He looked down at his glass.
“I mean, when it comes to my dog going missing, I’m not alone. But I am alone, Cinnamon. Twenty four hours, seven days a week now, alone.”
I furrowed my brow, something he said having caught my attention.
“Dog board? What are you talking about?”
“The dog board,” he said, leaning toward me. “You don’t know about the Pohly County Dog Board?”
I shook my head.
He let out what could only be described as a chortle.
“Well, whenever a dog does something bad here in Christmas River that’s not necessarily of a straightforward criminal nature, it’s a town ordinance that said dog and his owner are reviewed and tried by the Pohly County Dog Board Committee.
“I’m talking about offenses like injuring or killing livestock or pets. Like chickens or rabbits. Things of that nature.”
I hadn’t ever heard of it. Though I guess I hadn’t ever had any cause to.
“You see, the board reviews those kinds of things to ensure that justice is carried out. It’s a way to save the courts time, and to have more community involvement in the system. The committee makes decisions about what happens to the offending dog and the owner.”
“Like if the owner should be fined, or the dog should get taken away?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Or if the dog should be put down.”
I felt my eyes grow wide. But he shook his head quickly.
“That never happened, though,” he said. “Not in a dog-crazy county like this. Most of the board members are dog-drooling old ladies anyway. Lenient, mushy folks who were always on the side of the canine. It was like fighting upstream anytime I thought one of the owners deserved a fine. And let me tell you, some of them deserved a lot worse than what they got…”
He trailed off, staring into the distance for a moment, that vacant, boozed-up look having returned in his eyes a few sips back.
He shook his head.
“But I can’t think of anybody who’d want revenge for one of those rulings,” he said. “I’m just clutchin’ at straws. The worst thing that ever happened was that we told the owner of a dog that kept killing chickens that he’d either have to give up his dog to stay on his property, or keep the dog and move somewhere else. That was the very worst sentencing. That don’t seem like grounds for revenge to me.”
He sighed sadly, a faraway look on his face.
“I sure do miss little ol’ Daisy.”
He stared at the bottom of his empty glass glumly.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” I said.
“I’m sorry for you too, hun,” he said, leaning closer to me, his distillery breath overwhelming me.
“Do you think that Sheriff of yours will find my doggy?”
“He says he will,” I said.
“Do you believe him?”
“When Daniel says he’ll do something, he’ll do it,” I said. “He takes his word seriously. You can believe that he’ll do the right thing.”
He stared back down into his empty glass.
“Guess I don’t believe in much anymore,” he said.
I finished the rest of my whiskey, then checked my phone.
It was getting late. Daniel probably would be getting home soon. And after two solid glasses of whiskey, I was in no condition to drive.
I knew I should get walking home.
I could have stayed and kept drinking. Stayed and talked to Pete Burgess some more. Wallowed with him in sadness over all the lost dogs of the world.
But in the end, all that wallowing didn’t do a damn thing to bring those dogs back.
Same for the booze, for that matter. Sure, it could dull the pain for a little while. An evening, if you were lucky. But nine times out of ten, when the booze wore off, you’d end up feeling worse than when you started.
I didn’t need any more sadness tonight. What I needed was a cup of tea. A warm bed.
And a reassuring smile from Daniel.
I’d been foolish, holding onto a grudge over his stop at Pepper’s Pies. I’d been foolish to let it fester the way it had.
I started putting on my scarf which had been resting on the bar top.
“Where you going?” Pete said, his hollow eyes probing mine.
“I’ve got to go, Pete,” I said. “I’ve got things to—”
“Cinnamon, do you think Barbara was right to leave me?”
He placed a hand on my arm, his sad eyes leaning into me like an unstable brick wall.
I stopped tying my scarf around my neck.
“I wouldn’t know, Pete,” I said. “I didn’t know Barbara very well. But what I can tell you, from my own experience, is that one day things will get better. I know you think they won’t now. But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, Pete. And like Daniel said, there’s a lot of fish in the sea. Ones that you might actually grow to love more than the city council or your dog.”
He leaned in closer to me.
“You know, Cin – can I call you Cin?”
I shrugged.
“You’re a good lady, Cin,” he said, his tongue getting stuck on his teeth. “You helped me get home the other night. Nobody in this damn town has ever done that for me.”
“It was nothing,” I said, straightening my scarf. “Besides, Daniel’s the one that—”
“Cin, I’m so lonely,” he said, desperation running like a river through each word. “I’m so, so lonely.”
Each aching syllable tugged at my heart.
I felt real sorry for the man.
Real sorry.
That is, until I felt Pete Burgess’s hand fumbling for my thigh underneath the bar.
Chapter 36
I recoiled, pulling away from Pete Burgess like he was the plague.
The whiskey haze that had caused the world to turn soft at the edges immediately wore off, as the situation came into harsh focus.
“Get the hell—” I started saying to him.
But I quickly realized I didn’t need to.
A shadow fell across the bar in front of us.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up on end.
Then the man spoke.
“Pete,” he said, an ice in his voice that could have cut through steel. “You keep your hands off her.”
I looked up.
His face was stoic and unflinching.
But his eyes… his eyes were on fire.
Pete gasped and pulled far away from me, like I was the plague.
I almost felt bad for him.
Almost.
Chapter 37
We drove home in silence, the utter darkness of a winter’s night in the Cascade Mountains closing in all around us like a thick black fog.
I glanced over at Daniel.
He was staring hard ahead at the road. That serious, steely look on his face that he’d had back at the bar was still there, but the fire in his eyes had gone out. Now there was just a cold, empty look to them, like a fire pit after a rainstorm.
I swallowed back a thick glob of spit that had accumulated at the back of my throat, and looked out the window again.
I didn’t know if he was angry with Pete or if he was still processing what had happened at the bar, but knowing him as I did, I was willing to wager that it was a little bit of both.
The silence settled over us like a thick layer of dust. I just stare
d out the window, quiet.
After Daniel had told Pete to get his hands off me, the room had hushed. Everyone’s eyes had suddenly turned on us.
Daniel had given Pete a look that could have frozen sunshine. And then a moment later, he had turned his attention toward me.
“You okay?” he had asked.
I had nodded.
He grabbed a hold of my hand then. We walked out of there fast, everyone watching us like we were celebrities caught red-handed in a love tryst.
I closed my eyes.
I knew the folks in Christmas River well enough.
This was going to be the talk of the town come tomorrow morning. And then the rumors would start. I could almost hear them – the Moira Stewarts, the Meredith Drutmans, the Belinda Coopers – the town’s worst gossips having a field day with this.
What was she doing drinking there alone in the first place? What kind of lady goes to a place like that by herself anyway? Maybe there was something going on between her and Pete Burgess. His wife did leave him rather suddenly last month. Could it have been because he was having an affair with Cinnamon Peters? But wait, didn’t you see how she pulled away from him when he touched her leg? Why would she do that if she was seeing him? Because she knew people were watching, of course. She has the Sheriff, but it’s not enough. Cinnamon Peters has always been an ungrateful little—
I grabbed my head, hoping it would stop the runaway dialogue in my mind. But it didn’t.
“Nothing happened between me and Pete,” I said abruptly, looking over at Daniel, breaking the icy silence that had encased the car.
He didn’t answer at first. His eyes remained glued to the road.
We pulled down Sugar Pine, and then into our driveway. He killed the headlights, and then killed the engine.
Daniel turned toward me in his seat.
“Why would you feel like you have to say that?” he said, some of that steeliness still in his voice. “Why would I ever think anything was going on between you and that…”
He trailed off, scrunching his face up in disgust.
“You know, I have a mind to visit Pete tomorrow at city hall. Give him a piece of my—”
“I just…” I started saying, but then stopped.
I sighed.
