by A. Gardner
“Someone get fancypants out of here.” Sheriff Williams wasn’t amused by the mayor’s antics. Ever. He smoothed the sides of his gray mustache and touched his shirt pocket out of habit. It was the place he’d once kept his smokes before promising his wife, Sharla, and Doc Henry he would finally quit.
“Are we using code names now?” Murray Williams raised his eyebrows, a bemused look on his face as he straightened the collar of his shirt.
“Yes.” The sheriff’s voice was low and raspy. He glanced up and down the street as the mayor snapped a few more photographs with a squad car in the background. “That’s code for get the mayor the hell away from my crime scene.”
“Your crime scene?”
Cydney Keene and Sheriff Williams were opposites. For one thing, Cydney was always clean-shaven, and he kept his dark hair short and gelled. His clothes were always neatly pressed, and he needed no reminders to tuck in his shirt. He was a man who lived by the book. Except when it came to my co-worker Taryn.
“Technically, I’m the one with more experience when it comes to matters like these.”
“Is that why you’re still a bigshot in Denver, Detective?” The sheriff narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin in a way that made him appear taller than his deputy. Sometimes he reminded me of a grouchy old bear on the hunt for his dinner. Irritable. Avoided by everyone. Horrible people skills.
“I’m still a detective,” Cydney added, slightly lifting his right knee—an old injury that flared up once in a while when he didn’t baby it. “The rest is none of your business. Sheriff.”
“Last time I checked, I’m still your boss.” The sheriff cracked his knuckles. His rough, calloused hands had seen better days. They looked more chapped than usual. “Now, get to work, son. You can start by escorting the mayor back to his castle.”
“Don’t come crying to me when all of your evidence winds up contaminated.” Cydney rolled his eyes as he walked off. No matter how many times he challenged the sheriff, it always ended in him being scolded like a rebellious schoolboy and sent on his way. But I knew Cydney Keene had aspirations of his own. The only thing standing in the way of his overthrowing Sheriff Williams was the fact that the locals weren’t huge fans of him either.
“Who was gunfightin’ today?” The sheriff glanced up and down Canyon Street. The body on the asphalt was the center of everyone’s attention, and the other gunfighters hadn’t lingered around long enough to hog the spotlight for themselves.
“Booney,” I answered. “And then there’s Breck Adley. He must be in town helping out at the bakery. And the last one I saw was Old Man Simpkins. My guess is that he was filling in for someone because no one in their right mind would give that man a gun.”
“Afternoon, Essie.” The sheriff’s gaze slowly shifted toward me. He inhaled a long, drawn-out breath. And then he took another one.
“New tactic?” I raised my eyebrows. Deep breathing and counting were Anger Management 101.
“Just stopping myself from saying things I’ll regret,” he answered. “You know, things like stay the hell out of my business, what kind of moron can’t parallel park, and we close at five. Things like that.”
“You’re doing a fine job.” I nodded. Sheriff Williams nodded back. He gave off a horrible first impression, but the two of us had been through a lot together, and we had a mutual understanding—no name calling. “Do you want our statements?” I tilted my head toward Patrick. “We were sitting across the street at Oso Cantina when the shots were fired.”
“Booney, Breck Adley, and Simpkins himself, you say?” The sheriff touched his front shirt pocket. “Sounds like a careless mistake cost a man his life.”
Cydney pushed his way through the crowd, catching his breath and rejoining the sheriff. He eyed Murray’s binder and snatched it from his hands.
“Mr. Mayor is refusing to. . .” Cydney stopped when he saw me. His eyes darted to Patrick and then the sheriff. “Why am I not surprised to see you here? Let me guess; you had a front row seat?”
“Hey—” Patrick stepped forward, but I placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Patrick. He gets testy before his afternoon snack.”
Sheriff Williams chuckled.
“I’m done with the ride-alongs and the coffee runs,” Cydney complained. “You’re not a town consultant anymore, whatever that means, and we have plenty of help at the station. Sheriff, you promised the county commission there would be no mistakes like last time.”
“Chill, Detective,” I responded.
“No way.” Cydney waved his hands in front of him. “Nope. You butt out.” He pointed at Patrick. “And you butt out.” His eyes darted back and forth between groups of confused tourists. “Everyone just needs to butt out.”
“That’s a whole lot of butts, Detective,” Murray added, biting his bottom lip.
“I’m sorry, how old are you?” he muttered back.
Patrick raised his hand. “I’ll deal with Mayor Millbreck. He wants me at one of his charity dinners this summer. He won’t ignore my request.” His hair looked golden when it came into contact with sunshine. I couldn’t help but smile.
I turned to the sheriff. “Insert a thank you here.”
“Thank you for the kind offer,” the sheriff said. “Anything to get that chump out of my way.”
“Uh-huh.” Patrick winked at me and pushed his way to the center of the crime scene.
“Murray, go and see what’s keeping Doc Henry,” the sheriff instructed. “We need to get this man off of the street as soon as possible. Detective Keene, I’ll give you the very sensitive task of rounding up all of the guns used in the shootout and making sure they’re properly labeled.”
“That I can do, sir.” Cydney took one last look at me before walking off again.
“Essie—”
“Go home,” I finished. “Honestly, Sheriff, you’ve become pretty predictable.”
My snide comment made him grin ever so slightly.
“I suppose it’s foolish of me to tell you to stay out of police business,” he continued. “Listen, I’m grateful for all of your help with the Weston house, the Henson case, and that crazy debacle at the ski resort, but I think it’s time you and I minded our own business from now on.”
“This is about Ralph, isn’t it?” I crossed my arms. A mountain breeze swirled through Canyon Street and moved a loose lock of hair out of place. I hadn’t talked to the sheriff since he’d confided in me a very touchy secret about his son.
“What about my brother? Has he contacted you?” The sheriff went rigid before quickly regaining his usual demeanor. He did that often when the topic of family came up, especially when anyone mentioned his younger brother, Ralph. Ralph had left Bison Creek as a young man and hadn’t looked back until recently when he’d wandered into town and camped out in the old silver mines.
I never knew why until Ralph told me the reason he’d left Bison Creek.
He’d fathered a love child with a woman named Hannah Weston.
Murray’s uncle was actually his biological father.
“Your secret is safe with me, Sheriff. Spending more time with you and your son won’t loosen my mouth. That’s not how I operate.” I’d managed to hide my secret crush on Patrick through all of high school. Of course, those had been different circumstances.
“It’s not that.” The sheriff clenched his jaw as he observed his officers clearing the streets and finally getting the crowds of tourists under control. Patrick and the mayor were nowhere in sight. “I know you won’t breathe a word to Murray about any of this.”
“So, what is it?”
“Do me a favor, Essie. If my brother comes around you at all, don’t listen to a word he says.” The sheriff waved at the town doctor, who also moonlighted as the county coroner. Doc Henry was the only medical professional for miles with enough experience.
The sheriff left my side and rushed to the doctor’s aid. As soon as the crime scene was secure, I glanced down Canyon Street
at the Painted Deer Bookshop and my little apartment that sat above it. It was the perfect location because it was within walking distance of the Pinecliffe Mountain Resort and close to all of the local shops. My car was forever on the fritz, and I almost had enough saved to buy a new one before winter.
Cydney tapped on my shoulder just as I turned away to go home.
“Before I forget,” I said first, “Taryn says hi.”
The mention of my co-worker, who also happened to be the chokecherry of Cydney’s eye, forced him to pause and collect his thoughts. He took a deep breath, much like the sheriff had, and stepped into a more relaxed stance.
“Really,” he replied. “What else did she say?”
“Was there something you wanted to say to me, Cyd?”
“Detective Keene,” he corrected me, his voice on autopilot.
“Was there something you wanted to say to me, Detective Keene?” I repeated.
“Yes.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “It looks like I could use your help after all.”
I approached his request with caution. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want me involved in the investigation. When does he ever?
“I’m listening.”
“Turns out that bartender who was shot got into a fight with one of the locals last night,” he explained. “I thought you might want to look into that.”
“Why?” I gulped. I knew why. There was only one reason Cydney Keene would have felt the need to push aside the rulebook and give me a heads-up. Cydney wasn’t a stranger to complicated family matters. As much as he’d tried to hide it, the mayor was his mother’s cousin.
“Because it was Wade, your new brother-in-law.”
Chapter 3
Someone was watching me.
I got goose bumps as I eyed the staircase leading up to my tiny Canyon Street apartment where my black and white cocker spaniel, Miso, was waiting for scratches and an evening walk. A pair of inquisitive eyes stared at me from behind the glass, and I stopped. Mrs. Tankle, my landlady and the owner of the Painted Deer Bookshop, waved at me to join her inside.
This is an hour I might never get back.
The Painted Deer Bookshop was the coziest store on the entire street. Not only were there books jam-packed into every crevice, but Mrs. Tankle used her shop as an extension of her house. She ate most of her meals in the reading nook. She held book club meetings during business hours. She even let her two cats roam around as they pleased.
A rush of cold air hit my face as I walked inside and found her arranging books in the bargain bin. I picked one up and immediately dropped it as a large cat with a light gray coat jumped out in front of me. I placed a hand on my chest while Mrs. Tankle stroked the mane of her new feline.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” she said. “He’s my new Russian Blue. I call him Pumpkin. He won’t respond to anything else.”
“What happened to Bing?” My mind filled with memories of my landlady’s previous cat, who’d had kittens behind the register. Half her litter still roamed Canyon Street at night, and the sounds of catfights kept me up last summer.
“She’s around here somewhere.” Mrs. Tankle touched the sides of her hair and cleared her throat.
“New hairdo?” I smiled, knowing that her new look was part of the reason she’d pulled me into her shop. The other part had to be the gunfight. Although there was always a chance that Mrs. Tankle already knew more about the case than I did. She was an expert eavesdropper with frequent customers.
“I got a perm,” she responded. “I feel like I’m fifty again.” She pursed her lips, her rounded middle touching the bargain bin as she leaned back and let the rays of sunshine streaming in through the window light up her sandy curls. “See, dear? No more grays.”
“I love it.” I knelt down and picked up the book I’d grabbed from the bargain bin. My eyes went wide. “How to Seduce a Man and. . .” Saying the rest out loud felt awkward. Mrs. Tankle was the sort of woman who lived for juicy details and that included my love life.
“A bit of research gone horribly wrong.” Mrs. Tankle shook her head and moved toward the back of the shop. I followed her, picking up one of her display quilts on my way. She’d left it on a stack of hardbacks marked Bestsellers.
“Is this for your romance novel? You told me the love scenes weren’t a problem. And then you made me read them. Several times.”
“I read a romance last week that got my heart pumping,” she casually replied. “My writing isn’t spicy enough.” She grabbed a teacup full of tap water she’d left sitting on the windowsill. I couldn’t work out if it was hers or Pumpkin’s. “Can you believe Mabel told me to stick to quilting?” Mrs. Tankle rolled her eyes. “And I thought her nasty comment about my gingersnaps was bad. I’m sure she’d have a different opinion if I was writing about orchids and Appaloosas, the old crone.”
I set the quilt down on the arm of the sofa she’d situated in her reading nook. The quilt's shades of green reminded me of the mountains during the summer. And the emerald shade of Pumpkin’s glaring eyes that followed me everywhere I went. I preferred Bing. I never knew if she was in the shop or out for a stroll. I don’t think Mrs. Tankle ever knew either.
“You should do what makes you happy,” I said. “If writing makes you happy then do it. Life is too short.”
“You see, that’s exactly what Teddy said yesterday.” She smiled and took a sip from her teacup. It’s hers.
“I thought Teddy came around on Wednesdays.” I raised my eyebrows. Not everyone in town humored Mrs. Tankle when she spoke about her deceased husband, Teddy. It had been over twenty years since his passing and Mrs. Tankle talked about him as if he’d stepped out to grab toothpaste and toilet paper at the corner market.
“Oh, honey, he’s a grumpy old fart. He does what he wants.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here. I saw this recipe in a magazine, and I thought you might want to try it.”
I carefully unfolded the paper and squinted. Her cursive handwriting wasn’t the most legible.
“Sugar-free peanut butter brownie bites,” I read out loud. “Is there a specific reason why you want me to make these?”
“No.” Mrs. Tankle sighed. “I just thought you might want to sometime. I know Tuesday nights at the resort can be slow.”
“So, you don’t have a book club meeting that night?” I observed the way she glanced up at the ceiling and then focused on the way Pumpkin had spread himself out on the furniture like he owned the place.
“Perhaps.” She shrugged.
“Okay, I’ll stop by,” I said. “But only if you promise not to ask me anything weird about Patrick and me.” Memories of her last book club meeting were on replay in my mind. “And stop bringing up that time you walked in on Wade and Joy in my apartment. That was a long time ago, and if you don’t remember, you fainted. In fact, I thought you’d died.”
“I don’t bring that up,” she lied. “Why would I? That story is highly inappropriate.” She sipped from her teacup some more.
“One more thing,” I added. “I usually bring a veggie tray, remember? I don’t want to be held responsible for sending someone into a diabetic coma.”
Mrs. Tankle wrinkled her nose. “Well, some of the ladies are getting a little bored with carrot sticks and cauliflower.”
“Last month I brought steamed artichokes and lemon garlic dipping sauce.”
“Yeah.” Mrs. Tankle cleared her throat. “I won’t name names, but artichokes give Zelda and Barbara really bad gas. Your appetizers kept them up all night with rumbly tummies.”
“Sugar-free brownie things it is then.” I pocketed the recipe. I had tried and failed many times at helping Mrs. Tankle kick her sugar addiction. My attempts to bring her healthier snack foods never worked. I was considering adding shredded zucchini to the brownie batter just to help her get in a monthly serving of greens.
Unfortunately, she was my landlady and respecting her wishes made my life easier.
“I’m glad you’re not offended, dear.” She placed a hand on my shoulder and nudged Pumpkin out of the way so she could sit down. “Now that we’ve got that all cleared up, why don’t you tell me what all of the fuss is about on Canyon Street.”
“There was an accident during the shootout,” I said, brushing Pumpkin’s tail out of the way. I carefully sat on a sliver of cushion. “I don’t know what happened, but someone was shot.”
“Who?” She froze in place, her eyes as wide as an awestruck deer.
“A bartender at the Grizzly. His name is Dalton.” I paused and studied her reaction. I doubted she’d known Dalton personally but if anyone knew the latest gossip around town about him, it was Mrs. Tankle.
“Oh, I see.” She nodded slowly. “He’s one of those boys who drink their spirits out on the street. One of them howled at the moon last week. Scared me half to death.”
“What were you doing at the shop so late at night?” I asked, hoping that the answer didn’t involve me, Patrick, or my love life.
“Writing,” she admitted. “I do my best work at night. In fact, I’m almost done with my latest chapter. I’ll bring it upstairs when it’s finished, okay?”
“I’m not a literary genius, but I’m always happy to help.” I glanced down at Pumpkin. He was glaring at me.
“I’ll bet one of those lunatics didn’t load his gun properly,” she added while shaking her head. “This was bound to happen. I was surprised when I heard that the sheriff hadn’t canceled the shootout this year. There were hundreds of signatures on that petition I signed.”
“Well, at least saloon girls were yanked from the act, right?”
Mrs. Tankle set her teacup back on the windowsill and looked up at the ceiling. My apartment was right above us, and the sound of tiny paws moved from one end of the room to the other. I clenched my hands into fists. That sound meant that Miso had somehow unlocked the door to his crate. Again.
Mrs. Tankle closed her eyes. She wasn’t a dog lover. I’d learned that the moment Joy had adopted Miso and then given him to me. I stood up, hoping I wouldn’t find slashed pillows or pieces of sneakers when I opened my front door.
