She gave him an odd look. “I believe they’re as American as apple pie. If you’re taking a survey, you can put me down in the ‘for’ column.”
He grinned. “Then how would you like to spend Saturday night at one?”
Her grin vanished. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“I’m asking the newcomer to my parents’ house for a steak dinner grilled next to the beach under starry skies.”
“Ah, so Marcus and Lindeen want me to come to a cookout? Sure. What can I bring?”
“Not a thing. I’ll pick you up out at Promise Cove around five-thirty.”
“That isn’t necessary. I can drive into town, we can leave from here.” Sensing an awkward moment and to prevent that from taking root, River suggested, “Why don’t we walk over to the Diner? Maybe get a cup of coffee. I need to take five anyway,” she said, mopping her brow with her forearm as she hopped down from the slope. Tilting her head to one side, she noted the look on his face. “You don’t seem too thrilled about the invitation. Is something else the matter?”
Yes, he thought, something was definitely the matter. For one, he was too damned old for these kinds of silly games. At that moment, he could’ve easily given Lindeen Cody a piece of his mind. Probably wouldn’t do any good anyway, he grumbled as they headed toward Main Street.
The Hilltop Diner did its best to look like a malt shop straight out of a Happy Days rerun. The black-and-white checkered floor hadn’t been new since the place had opened its doors in 1965. Eight padded red stools were tucked under the black marble counter and bolted to the floor. All had been patched several times over with red duct tape.
The Wurlitzer jukebox at the end of the counter provided music from six in the morning to nine at night. In all that time it had only been out of order once. That was when Myrtle Pettibone had walked in, aimed a .22 rifle at her husband, Clete, and fired. It had been the same morning she’d caught the lying, cheating son of a bitch in bed with Nola Davenport. After considering all her options, Myrtle had dug out Clete’s gun from its hiding place in the hall closet and followed him to the Diner. Even though Myrtle might’ve missed Clete’s ear by a scant two inches that day, she’d caught the Wurlitzer dead center in its electronic heart.
It was the only time in almost fifty years the jukebox had been out of commission.
Even with all that, the dining area hadn’t changed much since its opening. There were eight mismatched square tables and four red-vinyl booths that lined the front wall, each offering a window view to Main Street.
River and Brent slid into a booth across from one another.
Over pumpkin pie topped with pistachio ice cream, which he learned was River’s favorite fall concoction, they deliberated the ins and outs of paleontology. For another fifteen minutes she went on and on about uncovering interesting tidbits in the books she’d read about his thousand-year-old ancestors.
When he could take it no longer, he finally stopped her in mid-sentence and said, “How can you eat that? I’m pretty sure you’ve ruined pumpkin pie for me for good.”
“Oh please. This is delicious. Want a bite?” she asked, holding out her spoon.
“No thanks,” he said as he dug into his own apple pie with vanilla ice cream.
She stared at the typical pairing on his plate and said, “No imagination with desserts, huh? Why am I not surprised? I might point out that anyone can order vanilla but it takes someone willing to experiment to come up with blending two flavors together to make them rock.”
“Are you willing to experiment, River?” Brent asked, cocking his head in a devilish dare.
She grinned. “I’m a scientist. What do you think? Maybe if you told me what you have in mind, we could cut to the chase.”
Brent waved his hand to get Mona Bingham’s attention. The waitress sauntered over to their table with her order pad. “Need something, Sheriff? More coffee?”
“That’d be great, Mona. But what I really want is for you to bring us two thick chocolate milkshakes made with chocolate fudge ice cream and double chocolate syrup.” He looked over at River, raised a brow. “Can you handle the triple-triple? Better tell me now.”
She sighed. “I’ve never ever said no to chocolate before in my life. I swear between the Diner and Jordan’s cooking, I’m gonna gain ten pounds while I’m here.”
“You’re what five-nine? Your work must keep you physically fit. Where’d you get a name like River anyway?”
“I come from a long line of Zuni people who were mostly farmers. Water is essential for survival. My parents wanted to give me a strong name hence; I’m River.”
“I thought you were Pueblo.”
River threw him an incredulous look. “Zunis are one of the Pueblo peoples. I guess I thought since you were Native you’d know that.” Eyeing the expression on his face, she realized something else. “I’m surprised you don’t. In spite of the fact your father’s a walking information databank about the Chumash, you on the other hand, know relatively nothing about your tribe other than surface stuff. Why is that?”
Brent let out a long breath. “I’m afraid that’s true. After growing up listening to his stories, I guess there was a point where I started tuning him out. Ethan did it as well.”
“That’s a shame because he truly knows his stuff. Would you like to tell me what’s really behind this invitation to supper? Your father’s great and all but he really didn’t strike me as the friendly sort who would ask me over for a meal. He doesn’t completely trust that I’ll treat the artifacts with respect and the reverence they deserve. Of course, he’s wrong…but that doesn’t play into your angle.”
“You’re perceptive.”
“That’s what they tell me. So what gives?”
Brent decided to level with her and began to relay the plan. He knew almost immediately he’d made a huge misstep. Watching her eyes narrow, watching the temper flare in those dark brown orbs, he began to realize something else. He was attracted.
“So let me get this straight. You want me to show up, uninvited, like a surprise for both your parents?”
Brent knew he was in double trouble when she pushed her plate to the side so she could lean across the table to make her point.
“How dare you? Not only would that ridiculous idea embarrass your mother by inviting me without her knowledge— but you’d put me in a very awkward position with the man acting as liaison on my dig—therefore putting my entire project in jeopardy. I won’t even address the fact that you would no doubt humiliate this Julianne woman.” She wadded up her paper napkin, threw it on the table.
He was surprised it didn’t end up in his face.
“Sometimes I don’t even know what goes through men’s brains or what passes as brain matter. Reasoning seems to fly out the window.”
River stood up, dug in her jeans pocket for a twenty dollar bill which she tossed on the table. “I believe I’ll pass on being part of your childish plan.” She shook her head. “How old are you?” She held up her hand. “On second thought, I don’t care. You’re old enough to know better.”
With that, Brent watched as River Amandez turned on her heels and stomped to the door while the other patrons suddenly got busy finishing their lunch.
About that time Mona brought over the two chocolate shakes, glancing at River’s back as she disappeared out the door. “I take it you’re gonna want these to go now, right?”
Before Brent could answer, he spotted Troy Dayton making his way inside. Troy passed River on the way out. The young man crossed to where Mona stood at the table.
Tall and lean with curly white-blond hair, Troy slid into the booth River had just vacated. The young carpenter nodded in Mona’s direction, then Brent’s. “How’s it going?” But Troy caught the definite lingering tension in the air and added, “Did I miss something? It’s a little early in the day to get stood up.”
But it was Mona who answered for Brent. “He didn’t. Get stood up that is. That archaeologist got mad about so
mething. She just up and took off. She yelled at the sheriff here. How rude is that?”
Troy cracked a smile in Brent’s direction. “Women troubles, huh? We’ve all been there. Not that long ago Mona dumped me over that whole Gina Purvis mix-up. It’s been kind of a sore spot with us since, hasn’t it, Mona?”
Mona eyed Troy. “I’ve never known anyone who got arrested for murder before. It sort of gave me the creeps to think you could’ve done something like that. Just thinking about it...gives me cold chills now.”
Brent stared at Mona then back at the kid. Troy had been wrongly arrested for Gina’s death. The guy had spent weeks locked up in county before the real perpetrator, Carl Knudsen, had crossed onto their radar. “You thought Troy was guilty all that time he spent in jail?” Brent asked.
Mona shrugged and admitted, “The cops don’t usually arrest innocent people. I’ve had a tough time getting past it.”
Brent studied the young couple. Even now it didn’t seem like the relationship had any kind of a chance. But that was none of his business. He used his cane to get to his feet.
“Good thing we got all that straightened out and Troy was completely exonerated,” Brent said loud enough for Mona and all those within earshot who still wanted to give Troy a wide berth to take in the declaration.
Brent looked over at Troy. “Your carpentry skills are excellent. When Logan finishes his lighthouse project, how about coming around to my grandmother’s house? The cabinets need upgrading. You can give me a quote and we’ll take it from there.”
“Really? I’d love to do the work on them,” Troy said, beaming. “Thanks, Sheriff. Was River really rude to you?”
“No, she wasn’t. In fact, she put me in my place.” And he should have his head examined for ever listening to Ethan’s half-baked scheme in the first place.
“Why don’t you two enjoy the shakes? While you’re at it, order a burger and fries to go with them.” Brent threw some bills on the table, adding it to River’s twenty on the table.
As he hobbled off, Mona pointed out, “But this is way more than enough. I’ll get your change.”
“Keep it,” Brent muttered. “Having to eat crow turns you off food for a while.”
Chapter Seven
There was something about the thrill of a bomb going off and sitting back to watch it happen that stirred the senses.
To see the debris fly through the air, to witness the fire ignite and burst into flame, to watch the carnage firsthand had been pure joy.
It had all gone down exactly as planned. The meticulous timing had worked. The device had been brilliant, even clever in its design and simplicity.
The only problem was the sheriff had lived. He wasn’t supposed to live. He’d had all these years to thrive and flourish. He should have been dead by now. Instead of planning a funeral, his family was in the process of pushing to get his job back.
The Codys obviously didn’t know their son very well. They didn’t know what he’d done, what he was capable of doing still. That’s why he had to be stopped, for the greater good.
Because no one deserved to die more than Brent Cody.
Thursday night football found Brent settled in front of the flat-screen nursing a cold brew. It had been hours since the scene at the Hilltop with River and yet it still nagged at him. He’d already gone three rounds with Ethan over it for suggesting the harebrained idea in the first place.
Even now he rested his head on the back of the sofa and considered just how dumb he could be at this stage of his life.
“You shouldn’t beat yourself up over it. Everyone makes mistakes, especially in relationships, especially in the early stages.”
Brent’s head popped up at the sound of the voice. He stared at the man standing in his living room wearing khaki shorts, a T-shirt that read Nerds Do I.T. Better, along with an opened Oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Scott wore sandals on his feet and looked like a man comfortable in his own skin. Trouble was the guy he saw now had never made it back from Iraq.
“I’ve barely had half an Anchor Steam. I know damn well I’m not drunk. And I’m not taking any drugs stronger than ibuprofen.”
Scott smiled. “It’s not the alcohol. Remember when we were teenagers stealing a glance every chance we could get at Farrah Gosse in a bikini?”
Brent’s right hand automatically flew to his heart about the same time he let go a loud sigh that filled the room. “Farrah Gosse, the foreign exchange student from France visiting the Crawford sisters for the summer. God, I couldn’t have been more than sixteen then, and you fourteen. I might point out though what Farrah had on could barely be considered a bikini around here—two skinny pieces of fabric, one held together by string that barely covered all the interesting stuff.”
“Farrah wasn’t skinny, that’s for sure. She was the most well developed sixteen-year-old in town that summer, had to be what, a thirty-six bust?”
“At least. That July and August I made up as many excuses as I could to head over to Pelican Pointe just to get a look at Farrah.”
Scott nodded. “As I recall you used Autumn as the reason. You certainly were a remarkable good Samaritan that summer about helping out your grandmother whenever you could spare a minute.”
That brought a laugh out of Brent as he uncurled his frame off the couch. “I was. It took some creativity on my part. Of course, it wasn’t the same as Farrah with her swimwear. She wore red one day, black the next, although my favorite might’ve been that pale turquoise one with the little white polka dots.”
“I remember the day like it was yesterday when Farrah took her top off right there on the beach like it was the Mediterranean or something.”
“That day thank God I’d agreed to mow Autumn’s grass and decided to go surfing in the bay afterward. I’m in the water, sitting on my board waiting for a wave. Next thing I know, off comes her top. Best day of summer vacation up to that point. I worked up the nerve to ask her out that afternoon. If only we’d had camera phones back then we could’ve captured the moment for posterity to use for…ah…later.”
“I didn’t know you ever asked Farrah out.”
“After her topless day, are you kidding? I had to stand in line. Turns out, Farrah wasn’t as…sociable…as her outgoing personality led her randy fans to believe.”
“Ah. You tried to get past first base?”
“I tried but I didn’t get very far. Good kisser though. I’d offer you a cold beer but…” His voice trailed off as he made his way into the kitchen and the fridge.
It was Scott’s turn to put his hand over his heart. “Beer, one of man’s true pleasures. I do miss it. Jordan’s cooking, too. She’s gotten better at it over the years. Whatever happened to that Ford Mustang you used to drive?”
This time Brent swore. “Drove it until I joined the army and met Cindy. She never liked that car and made me sell the damn thing to get a new foreign job. That should’ve been the first red flag right there.”
“You never talked about Iraq when you came back. I guess there’s a reason for that.”
Brent looked away. “There’s always a reason you never revisit war.”
“Or a lousy marriage.”
“Or a lousy marriage,” Brent repeated before taking a swig of his beer, studied the man with the military-style haircut. “How about you? You want to talk about war, Scott?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. What’s with hanging out with Megan Donnelly?”
“You never forget your first love. Megan was mine. And Jordan has Nick now. Hutton even thinks of him as her daddy, calls him that. Why shouldn’t she? I never even got to touch my daughter in life, run my hand down her cheek, or hold her. If life seems unfair, try death. So what’s the harm in revisiting how I once felt about Megan at seventeen?”
“Not a thing. It’s the afterlife, your afterlife to boot. You spend it doing whatever you want.”
“It may seem that way to you but…it doesn’t work quite like that, not
exactly. What’s bothering you the most? The fact that you’re alone at this phase of life or that someone wants you dead?”
“You get right to it, don’t you? Do you plan to be the one to straighten me out with these late-night visits, Scott? I caught your vanishing act the other day at the pier. Plus, I saw you my first night here in this house. You were standing in the backyard like some vampire who needed an invitation to come inside.”
“I don’t need an invite.”
“That’s what I thought. What do you want from me?”
“How about you work on keeping yourself alive? How’s that for starters?”
“Any ideas on that score? Because I could use some starting points.”
“Sure. I’ll help out where I can. After all, I have plans for you. You’re needed around here more than you think.”
“Who said I wasn’t? What plans?”
But Scott had already vanished into thin air.
“Damn. I hate it when you do that.” Brent raised his voice so that it echoed against the walls. “You’re just like a woman, stir things up and then take off in the middle of an argument.”
But the insult didn’t get Scott to stick around to finish the discussion. He’d left Brent alone to think. And to talk to himself like an idiot.
Chapter Eight
At four o’clock Saturday afternoon River found herself sitting at the side of the Pacific Coast Highway, south of Pelican Pointe’s city limits waiting for the first sign of the RV to round the bend. Because Julian was doing the driving and was known to have a lead foot, River figured her crew would get here in record time. She’d been texting Laura back and forth for two hours since they’d left Santa Barbara right after lunch. As they grew closer, Laura had kept her posted on their progress.
As soon as the motor home came into view towing a faded blue Jeep Wrangler, River laid down on the horn. She waved and watched as the RV pulled to the shoulder.
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