by M. J. Wilson
The trailer was eighteen-by-ninety feet, but a straight line from one side to the other. The layout was the same as most trailers: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living area, and some storage on the other end. It was simple, but clean, or at least it had been.
Mavis surveyed the damage. She studied her torn mattress and the stuffing that had migrated out of the bedroom and across the floor. Drawers pulled from their compartments and the contents dumped out. Right offhand, she could see that her laptop, television, and high definition video player were missing. Her love seat had been flipped over and now rested on top of a broken lamp, and they’d left her refrigerator standing open after smashing eggs on the counter.
“Great. Just great,” she said, pressing on the vein throbbing in her temple. Running her hands through her hair, she took a deep breath only to gag, overtaken by the pungent, sour odor of spoiled food. Tears of frustration slid down her cheeks. “No!”
She slammed her open palm against the wall; glass from a picture frame shattered, slicing her hand and falling to the floor. Mavis kicked the door; it crashed against the trailer. She grabbed an unbroken vase from the end table to the right of the entryway.
Mavis raised it overhead when suddenly she froze, chest heaving. Her reflection in the window on the opposite wall stared back at her. She blinked and set the vase back where she got it, wiping the sweat from her upper lip. Droplets of blood fell on her shoes, and she flipped her hand over, studying the small gash. She picked up a dishtowel from the middle of the living room floor and wrapped it around her hand. A tremor raced through her body, and her legs quaked like wet noodles. The pounding of her heartbeat in her ears grew softer, and her breathing slowed. She blinked and wiped away the tears from her cheeks. “I need to call the police.” Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears. She backed out of the trailer to call nine-one-one.
Chapter Four
The department was abuzz with morning shift-change activity. Officers were gathered around the meeting room for the daily briefing. Outside, squad cars sirens wailed and yelped as the patrol officers ran through the before-shift checklist.
“Morning, Bryant. You’re here early,” Weston said, sitting down at his desk.
“What can I say? I’m an overachiever.” Bryant leaned back in his chair. “At least I brought you coffee when I showed up after you.”
“You’re a better man than me, but wait.” Weston held up one finger, symbolizing “just a minute.” He opened his middle desk drawer and shuffled things around. “Yep. Here you go, man.” Weston tossed Bryant a golden sponge cake with a creamy filling. “You’re going to have to drink the crud in the break room that they like to refer to as coffee.”
“No thanks. I want to live to see thirty. How long has this been in there?” Bryant waved the plastic-wrapped sponge cake.
Weston shrugged. “Under a year, but over six months.”
Bryant tore the plastic open with his teeth and shoved half of it in his mouth. “Any more encounters with the dog lady?” Small pieces of yellow cake flew out of his mouth and landed on his desk. He brushed the crumbs off his shirt.
Weston peered up from the file he was reading. “Huh? Oh.” He grimaced.
“Guessing that means ‘yes’, and it didn’t go well.”
“I tried to make nice, but she has a chip on her shoulder the size of a boulder. I’m not going anywhere near her and that vicious little attitude ever again.” Weston’s body stiffened thinking about their last encounter.
Bryant watched him as he chewed the last bite of his snack cake.
“What is it?” Weston snapped.
Bryant held up both hands. “Not my business.”
“You obviously have something to say, so get on with it. Then you can stop looking at me like you’re my therapist who’s diagnosed me with suffering from delusions.”
“I got nothing, man.” Bryant swiveled his chair and faced the computer.
Weston slapped his palm on his desk. “Say it!”
“Fine, and I hope your hand hurts for your over-emotional reaction to my termination of our conversation.”
Weston narrowed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“You’re hung up on the dog lady — bad — and there is no way you are going to walk away and forget about her. I haven’t seen a women get under your skin like this before. Usually you’re love-and-leave-‘em Casanova.”
Weston curled up his lip. “I’m not a Casanova. I treat any woman I’m dating with respect.”
“Not what I meant. Maybe that was a bad choice of words on my part. Ever since you divorced, you go out on two, maybe three dates, and then cut them loose. You avoid getting too close to anyone.”
“That’s why they call it dating and not marriage.” Weston ran his hand through his hair. “Anyway, I have other priorities in my life that come before dating.”
“Whatever… fine. Then why are you chasing this one?”
“I’m not!” Weston’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Did you miss the beginning of this conversation when I said I was done trying to make nice with her?”
“No, I heard you, but it’s the way you said it.”
“You’re nuts.” Weston sighed. “And reading way too much into my motives.”
“Fine then. You’re getting all worked up talking about her because you never want to see her, in any way shape or form, again.”
“Correct.” Weston nodded once.
“I understand. If she were on fire, you wouldn’t spit on her to put it out.”
“Gross, but you’re getting the drift.”
“If you saw her on the street, you’d turn and go the other way.”
“Exactly. Now knock it off.”
Bryant propped his foot on the desk and interlaced his fingers on his chest. “New subject. Is Laney staying with you this weekend?”
“Yes!” He slammed his drawer, vibrating both desks, his patience gone. “Sorry. I mean, yes,” he said with strained control.
Bryant laughed. “Didn’t mean to get you in such a tizzy. What are your big plans?”
“There’s a street fair on Saturday I thought she might enjoy.”
“Want me to come along? Laney loves me you know.”
“No. By the end of the week, I’m sure I’ll have had all of you I can take.” Weston tapped the pencil he had grabbed on his desk. “Is there anything else you want to know about my personal life, or are you ready to start doing your job?”
“Testy, testy. Just remember, you asked me. I tried to end the conversation.”
Weston’s chair banged into the wall when he stood. He scowled one last time at Bryant before walking away.
Storming into the break room, he didn’t stop until he reached the counter. He grasped the sides of it and took several deep breaths. Talking about Mavis reminded him of her bad attitude and how irritating she was. He rolled his neck, releasing the built-up tension.
He eyed the coffee pot. I have to go sometime. Pouring coffee into a disposable cup, he stared at the dark liquid, swirling it around. “A spoon could stand on end in this liquid sludge.”
He took a drink and his lips peeled back away from his teeth as the bitter taste slid down the back of his throat. Everything he’d said to Bryant was the truth. He had no desire to encounter Mavis ever again… but then why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? The way her hair caught the light. The sound of her laughter echoing in the wind as she played with the dogs. His heart clenched. Nope. I’m not going back down that path. I’m done trying with her— she is definitely out of my life. Why would I want to put myself through that humiliation again?
Midmorning, Weston was reviewing a witness statement when Lieutenant Westerhold stopped at Bryant’s desk. “All of our officers are tied up assisting state police with a huge tractor trailer accident which caused a massive pile up out on the interstate, and we got a call about a B&E. Can you run over and check it out?”
“Sure thing.” Bryant took the printout fro
m him.
“Scene is secure. The victim will be waiting outside.”
“Mavis Frost,” Bryant read off.
Weston’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, I was talking to myself. Didn’t mean to distract you. When you’re working so diligently trying to keep your mind off of… other things.”
Weston’s right eye twitched. “No. Who did you say the victim was?”
“Says here a Mavis Frost.” Bryant’s eyes followed Weston as he came around to Bryant’s desk and looked over his shoulder.
Weston glanced over the information and snatched it from Bryant. “I got this.”
“Hey. What’s up with that? Why are you so interested in a breaking-and-entering?”
“You look tired. I’m helping you out.” Weston pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on.
Bryant narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. You wouldn’t happen to know this Mavis Frost, now would you?”
Weston stiffened as he logged out of his computer. He pushed his chair under the desk.
Bryant steepled his fingers, and rested the tip of his index on his chin. “Mavis wouldn’t by any chance be the notorious dog lady?”
Weston’s body tensed, and he held Bryant’s stare. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar. It’s so obvious. You can’t get out of here fast enough. She is the dog lady.” Bryant pointed at him. “I’m a detective… it’s my job to know how to read people.”
“Leave it be, Bryant.”
“Sure… no problem. Duty is calling, and you have a fire to put out.”
Weston chewed on his lower lip as he considered thumping Bryant into the ground. Instead, he walked away.
“So much for turning and going the other way,” Bryant yelled after him. “Watch out, I hear she has a vicious attitude.”
Weston could still hear Bryant chuckling as he flung open the door, leaving the detective division, and entering the world of patrol chaos.
Chapter Five
Mavis sat in the wet grass, uncaring that the dampness was seeping through her denim shorts. She rested her chin on her knees and watched a female get out of a squad car with a case. She assumed she was the crime scene tech.
Standing, Mavis brushed the yard debris from her butt then walked toward the girl who couldn’t be over twenty-one. The crime scene tech wore slim-fitting navy pants, military black boots, and a police department jacket. Her hair, pulled taut in a tight, short ponytail, added to her youthful appearance.
Mavis extended her hand. The two women grasped hands and gave a firm, efficient shake, but instead of the customary release Mavis tightened her grip. Her eyes traveled past the tech to the detective walking up behind. The tech grabbed Mavis’s wrist and pried her hand from hers.
“S-Sorry,” she said, still focused over the tech’s shoulder. The moisture in her mouth dried up as their eyes connected.
“Ms. Frost,” Detective Speier said, the cool tone in his voice capable of dropping the temperature fifty degrees.
Mavis cast her eyes downward, her fatigue bringing her normal defenses down.
He glanced into the trailer, and the coolness in his tone softened. “Are you okay?”
Mavis shrugged, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I’m fine. They were gone when I got home.” She couldn’t believe her luck. Of all the people they could send, Weston shows up. Her face heated, and she wanted to crawl into a hole. Under the trailer might work. Her eyes traveled there, taking in the height of the space and gauging her body size for a possible fit.
Weston finished surveying the trailer. “Can you come inside and walk through with me?” He stepped back to allow her to enter, and the crunching under his shoe made them both glance down. He squatted, coming up with a photo in a broken frame. Weston studied it — Mavis was smiling in her high school cap and gown as two people squished her between them in a bear hug.
She took the photo from him and let her fingers travel across the broken glass, lost for a moment in her memories.
“Your parents?” he asked.
“They were,” she said and set the photo face down on the counter. She didn’t want him to see her vulnerable, and if he’d noticed the “were,” he chose not to mention it.
Mavis walked through the trailer with him. “The television is gone too.” She pointed to the empty stand it had once occupied.
“Anything else missing?” he asked, clicking the pen he had pulled from his breast pocket, looking down at the notebook he’d been listing the missing items in.
“That’s all that I notice so far.”
“When you’re picking up, if you notice anything else, just call the department.”
A stab of disappointment poked her when he didn’t say “call me,” but why would he after she had been so rude to him?
She caught a glimpse of herself in the only mirror still hanging on the wall. Her dark circles and gaunt facial features reflected back at her. The only thing that might have humiliated her more than her appearance at that moment was if she had to undergo a body cavity search. She glared back at her image and wanted to shatter the likeness away. She rubbed the back of her neck and rolled her head side-to-side.
“Are you honestly okay?”
She sighed and forced herself to look at him. “My place was trashed, and I feel violated, so no, I’m not okay.”
“Do you want the good news or the bad?”
“You pick.”
“The good is that it appears it was kids who trashed your place.”
“How do you know that?”
“Professional thieves get in, takes what’s valuable, and get out. They don’t waste their time with tossing the place. Kids usually tear stuff up. You see the egg thing a lot.” He pointed his thumb toward the kitchen.
“And the bad?”
“Your stuff has probably been fenced already. I’ll check with all the pawn shops, but chances are it’s gone.”
“Great,” she mumbled and leaned against her upside-down love seat, dropping her face into her hands.
“You should get a dog.”
Mavis gasped, snapping her head upright. “Oh goodness… Moose!”
“I’m sorry — did you say Moose?”
Springing to her feet, she pushed him from her path. She dropped to her knees, speed-crawling, knocking debris out of her way. She searched under the furniture.
“Ouch,” she yelled. Glass crunched. Sitting back on her heels, she picked the glass sliver from her skin, then wiped at the blood on her knee.
Weston stretched his hand out to her. “I’ll help if you tell me, what’s a Moose?”
She took his hand and came up to her feet. “My cat.” She was unable to hide the gut-wrenching panic in her voice and took off for the bedroom.
“You named your cat ‘Moose’?”
“Really?” she asked, stopping her rampage to face him. “You pick now for that question?” She turned her attention back to her search of the trailer. “Here, Moose… it’s okay, baby.” Again dropping to her hands and knees in the bedroom. There wasn’t much to search. It only had room for a chest of drawers, closet, desk, and double bed.
She crawled backwards to her bed, glanced over her shoulder, and caught Weston looking at her backside. If she hadn’t been panic-stricken, she would have laughed, watching the red flood up his neck.
She sprang to her feet. “Please help me with this mattress.”
They lifted it off the floor and back onto the box spring.
She got back on her belly, looking under the bed, and blew out a sigh of relief. In the back was Moose hunched in the corner, back arched and fur puffed up. Her pupils were round, and her tail was flitting side-to-side. “Come on, sweet girl, it’s okay,” she said, patting the floor. Moose meowed, and slow but sure, reluctantly crawled toward her.
She stood, cradling the long-haired calico cat that resembled a blimp with a head and tail.
“I get the name,” Weston said,
puffing out his cheeks to look like a blowfish.
Mavis gave him a dirty look. “She can’t help it. She’s just big boned.” They both laughed as she stroked Moose’s head.
Weston’s face softened hearing her laugh, and he grinned at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, waving his hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile before. You should do it more often.”
Her face warmed, and she tucked her head to hide her blush.
She found her cat carrier buried under piles of towels and put Moose in. “I’ll take her over to the shelter until after the insurance adjuster is finished. They told me someone would be out here around eleven, and I can’t clean up until after that.”
Weston walked her outside. “Where’s your car?”
“I don’t own one. I just walk through the woods to the rescue.”
His eyes widened, looking like he’d never met someone without a car.
“It’s not that big of a deal. The rescue has a vehicle to pick up and transport animals. I use my bike if I need to get around for personal stuff.” Mavis shrugged, picking up the cat carrier and starting toward the path in the woods.
“Stop,” Weston said, exhaling. When she faced him, he continued. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” she said. To her, asking for help showed weakness and the thought of him seeing her vulnerable tied her stomach in a knot. Not to mention the less time she spent around him, the better.
“Mavis, come on.” He walked toward her. “I won’t say a word, but if you carry that,” Weston said, pointing at the carrier, “you’ll give yourself a hernia.”
She studied his eyes, weighing her options. Her arm already ached after walking only a few feet.
Weston took advantage of her hesitation and took the carrier from her, walking to his car and setting it on his back seat.
She blew out a deep breath and jammed her fists in her pockets as she followed.
****
