"Okay, this idea of Luke's is a little crazy," Claudina said.
"That, Ms. Burkholtz, is a major understatement."
"Not as crazy as getting married straight outta high school, popping out three rugrats in five years, then divorcing the sorry ass who's never sent them a birthday card, much less a child support check. It's within range, though."
Claudina folded her hands on the table. In a low honey drawl better suited for late-night radio than the police variety, she said, "But if it was me, and I thought for a second that marrying the man I loved in the park mightmightmake a difference on election day, I'd do it."
Hannah's fork clattered on the plate. She sat back, astounded at what her friend was implying. "So you're saying, if I don't turn my wedding into a publicity stunt and David loses, it's my fault."
"Impossible to quantify," Luke said, "but yes, that's what I'm saying."
"Well, I'm not," Claudina huffed. "God help us if it happens, but David could lose either way. The way I figure it, you two have fiddle-farted around for months, so why not get it over with and maybe swing the election at the same time?"
Hannah laughed in spite of herself. "Jeez, that's so romantic."
"It will be. Claudina and I will take care of everything. Music, flowers, candles, cakethe works." Luke grinned. "Except the dress. That, we'll leave to you."
"You know my kids adore Sheriff David," Claudina added. "Polly and Lana are dying to be flower girls and Jeremy can be the ring bearer."
Luke chimed in, "David told me he'd take care of the tux, the minister and the limousine. What else do we need?" He hesitated, then answered his own question. "The marriage license." A reminder was duly registered in his BlackBerry. "Ten minutes at the county clerk's office. There's a three-day waiting period, so I'll put you down for no later than the Tuesday before."
Claudina's mop of curls quivered with excitement. "You can get dressed at my house. The girls will love it. We'll have to tie Jeremy to the sofa to keep him clean, but I'll let him pick out the video. Heck-fire, I'll buy him a spankin' new one."
They chattered about monogrammed napkins and birdseed bags. Hannah gripped the chair's armrests, panting as though a pillow was smashed against her face.
Luke had definitely discussed this with David. The tux-to-limo remark clinched it. He'd teased Hannah about grooms having it easytwo phone calls and a fitting and they were good to go. Which meant he'd sicced Luke on her for one of two reasons: To let her say no, in a manner even an obsessed campaign manager could perceive as final. Or to see if she might just say yes.
Given that David hadn't mentioned it at all, even as a joke, could be construed as a double-dog dare. And who, other than David, would assume the crass, arguably sacrilegious, politically motivated, hootenanny aspect of it might have a certain appeal. The buy-a-dress-and-show-up thing, for instance.
Particularly since the gumshoes knew David had proposed, but not that Hannah had officially accepted. The instant they did, IdaClare, Rosemary Schnur and Marge Rosenbaum would launch into manic, fairy-tale wedding mode, the likes of which had not been seen since Prince Charles took his first bride.
Risking the lake of fire for living in sin was preferable to listening to the three godmothers debate virginal white versus never-married-but-only-sporadically-chaste shades of beige.
They'd be crushed if Luke and Claudina took charge; David might be crushed if Hannah told her two tablemates to go ruin somebody else's wedding.
Then again, she hadn't left the starting block when it came to planning the happiest day of her life. Whenever she browsed through the bridal magazine hidden in a desk drawer, she had to grab a paper sack and breathe into it until the dizziness subsided.
Twenty-five years of seat-of-the-pants, multimillion-dollar corporate decisions were a breeze compared to selecting the one, the only, the perfect freakin' wedding invitations. Starting with ink color. If, of course, you cheaped out and didn't go for complementary pastel duotones. Or metallic. Or antique, airbrushed metallic.
How could she possibly slough off thatalong with the ceremony's other eighty-four-thousand detailson anybody? No, the hell with how and who. Was she ready to take David Hendrickson for her lawfully wedded husband in three weeks?
Great-uncle Mort was fond of saying sometimes you've gotta take off the bridle, throw your hat in the air and let the panther scream. Mort Garvey wasn't a cowboy and wouldn't have known a panther from a saber-toothed tiger. But just because the old boy's wheel was short a few lug nuts didn't mean he was always wrong.
Hannah's brain spun inside her skull. If a paper sack had magically appeared, she wouldn't have known whether to breathe into it or throw up in it.
Luke murmured behind his hand, "She hasn't said no. Thinking about it's as good as a yes."
Claudina whispered back, "You don't date much, do you?"
Hannah picked up her fork. The cold stainless steel felt wonderfully solid. The pie, she polished off in one unladylike bite. She dabbed her lips with the napkin, then laid it on the table. "It was great seeing you both. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work."
Startled, Luke shouted, "But what" He gulped and lowered his voice. "But what about the wedding?"
Claudina stuffed a cauliflower floret in his mouth. "Don't call you," she said to Hannah. "You'll call me."
Hannah grinned. "Bingo."
Outside, the afternoon heat and mugginess had thinned pedestrian traffic. Awnings cast shady rectangles on the boardwalk, but seemed to trap the air, like striped canvas lids. Flowers in window boxes and stone tubs along the cobbled street looked as wilted as Hannah felt when she entered Valhalla Springs' postal substation.
The alcove housing the post office boxes resembled a bank's safety deposit vault with an arched oak trellis and a gate, instead of a door. Hannah keyed box number two; box one belonged to IdaClare Clancy.
Banded inside a large clasp envelope was the typical assortment of bills, handbills, winning sweepstakes notifications addressed to occupant and information requests from retirees seeking an alternative to Florida, the southwest and the Gulf coast.
Valhalla Springs couldn't compete with an endless summer. Hannah batted the hair off her neck, wondering why anyone would want a permanent July. Here, you had four seasonssometimes a touch of two in as many daysplus a Victorian village atmosphere, peace, quiet and a genuine sense of community.
She dropped the mail packet into her shoulder bag to sort through later. On average, one in ten inquiries netted a personal tour. One percent of those added new tenants to the population.
"To see Valhalla Springs," she said wistfully, "is to never want to leave."
Thankfully, Luke and Claudina had. A scooter and a Miata were parked where his Beemer had straddled two spaces. Fearing that Luke might attempt a second offensive at the cottage, Hannah thought she'd do some casual window-shopping at Carla Forsythe's boutique.
Most of the shops, stores and eateries along Main Street had larger counterparts in Sanity. Carla's clothing store in town had a selection of wedding gowns, but aside from special requests and holiday wear, her annex catered to less formal ladies' attire.
Not that Hannah was in the market for anything long, lacy and white, by God. At least not in the next three weeks, as opposed to someday in the foreseeable future. After David was reelected. After a new operations manager was hired. After David's house was move-in ready. After his rottweiler, Rambo, bonded with Malcolm, instead of picturing him fried, fricasseed, roasted, stewed and barbecued.
After all those afters, then they'd get married and live happily ever after.
Hannah groaned and started down the boardwalk to where her Blazer was parked, yielding to the deliveryman pushing a loaded handcart into the mercantile. Momentary inertia let thoughts she'd tried to outwalk catch up with her. She glanced over her shoulder at the boutique, then at her truck.
Eeny, meeny, miny On mo, she shrugged, smiled and headed back the way she came. "Just b
rowsing," she'd say. And if Carla brought out the photo catalog with both stores' full inventory? Well, what was the harm in looking? A little virtual retail therapy, as it were.
* * *
When yet another bond issue to build a new sheriff's department met with defeat, the county commissioners leased a narrow storefront on the west side of the square for the detective division's headquarters.
The commission's generosity didn't include replacing the long-vacant storefront's fake walnut paneling, matted shag carpeting, water-stained suspended ceiling tiles and ancient fluorescent lighting. On the day of the detective unit's official ribbon-cutting, Marlin Andrik took one look atand sniff ofhis new domain and dubbed it the Outhouse.
A kindness, David thought, squirming in the molded plastic lawn chair on the visitor's side of Marlin's desk. It would be a small miracle if the seat defied physics and gravity long enough for Marlin to finish his progress report on the Beauford homicide.
David had left the scene around noon and gone home. Six hours later, he'd wakened with no memory of the drive, shucking down to his underwear and falling into bed. Blackouts were known to scare drunks into sobriety. All David could do was hope his luck held, thank God he hadn't had to drive clear to Valhalla Springs for some shut-eye, and vow for the umpteenth time to cut back on voluntary double shifts.
A long, hot shower and a home-grilled cheeseburger had him feeling almost human againeager for anything besides half-listening to radio chatter on the scanner behind him and staring at the nascent bald spot on the top of Marlin's head.
"The fingerprints lifted from Bev's vehicle," David said, as though the conversational thread hadn't dangled for upward of five boring minutes. "You don't expect them to amount to much?"
Marlin looked from the photos on his desk to their corresponding documentation. "They're few, which helps. If Bev hadn't taken it through the car wash, we'd have eight thousand latents to run."
He tapped several close-up shots of Bev's sedan. "It's the far-between that doesn't have me juiced. The rear passenger door, trunk lid, back of the interior mirror " Pulling off his reading glasses, he chewed on a mangled earpiece. "All different fingerprints. All in places that don't correspond to a perp along for the ride home."
Drivers adjusted rearview mirrors, not passengers. There were no other indications that anyone aside from Bev had driven her car, since it was cleaned.
At the desk behind David, Josh Phelps was transmitting the latents to the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. AFIS's computerized database didn't read fingerprints, but numerically identified similarities. The more the markers, the higher the probability of a match. Phelps would then compare each of the system's mechanically selected candidates to the unknown one.
From Marlin's remarks, if AFIS did provide a hit, the follow-up was more likely to waste time than identify a suspect.
The phone rang, and Marlin snapped up the receiver. "Yo. Andrik." His eyes flicked to David. "Yes, Ms. Beauford. No, please don't apologize. I realize what a shock it was and appreciate you calling me back."
He listened a moment. Grimaced. "I know what I'm asking, but it really can't wait until morning." A pause, then, "Uh-huh. Yeah, we sure can. Thank you, Ms. Beauford. See you in a few."
He was on his feet before the receiver stopped wobbling in its cradle. "Interesting."
"Wild guess. That was Bev and Larry's daughter."
"Kimmie Sue Beauford, the never-was, never-gonna-be movie star." Marlin lifted his sport coat off the back of his chair. "She's meeting us at the house in fifteen minutes."
"I thought she lived in Los Angeles."
"She does. That's where I thought she was when I called to tell her about her mother." Marlin's jaw cocked as he tightened his tie. "Lo and behold, the contact number we had was a cell phone. Kimmie Sue was eating lunch in Joplin when she answered it."
"Joplin, Missouri?" David said, as though every state between here and the Pacific Ocean had at least one. "That's what, a hundred and twenty miles from Sanity?"
"Three hours travel time, give or take. About half interstate, half two-lane." Marlin lit a cigarette, in violation of city, county and state ordinance, but in keeping with the Thank You for Smoking sign on his desk. "She said Bev didn't know she was coming to town. Wanted it to be a surprise."
David leveraged himself out of the molded plastic vice clamped to his hips and thighs. "Helluva coincidence."
"Ain't it, though? That solo nuke-a-meal in Bev's grocery sack says she didn't expect company, but who drives cross-country to drop in on somebody?"
A detective adjusting a shoulder holster bears a striking resemblance to a woman adjusting a bra strapan observation David thought was better kept to himself.
"My mom and dad sprang an unannounced visit on me a few months ago," he said. He'd answered that early morning pounding at his front door with a towel wrapped around his waist, a major league hard-on and Hannah wet and waiting for him in the shower. "But they never had before, and I kind of doubt they ever will again."
Marlin's expectant look eventually deflated. He was itching for the middle of the story. He did, in fact, scratch his neck, but he wouldn't ask and David wouldn't tell. Hannah might somedaywhen it struck her as funny, not near the top of life's most mortifying moments.
David glanced at his watch. Seven-forty. "Where's Kimmie Sue been since you reached her on her cell phone?"
"The Wishing Well Motel. We were still processing the scene when she hit town." He chuffed. "Jesus, you feel like a ten-pound turd telling the next of kin to relax, gimme a jingle when that migraine backs off, then we'll go to Mom's and figure out what the dirtbag ripped off, before or after he killed her."
"You're back to a burglary gone bad?"
"I'm not in love with it," Marlin said, "but I haven't ruled it out."
A press of a button disengaged the Outhouse's electronic lock mechanism. Access from the outside required a magnetized key card. The hole-in-the-wall detective division was also wired with interior and exterior surveillance cameras, silent alarms and motion-sensitive lights.
A similar system was installed at the courthouse to restrict access after business hours. Necessary evils, David allowed, but a can of spray paint would surely improve the can't-miss donor plaques that bragged: Protected By Fort Knox Security; Jessup Knox, Owner and Certified Specialist.
What Knox specialized in, apart from pissing off the sheriff, was open to speculation.
David lost the curbside who's-driving argument before he pulled his keys out of his pocket. Marlin's beater, gunmetal-gray Chevy smelled like an ashtray and decomposed French fries. By all appearances, a file cabinet had detonated inside, but it was the detective's mobile office and you just never knew when you might need a Brattleboro, Vermont, city directory.
While David settled into the passenger side, Marlin told him that Cletus Orr was witnessing the autopsy at the state lab in Columbia. Because Bev was a sheriff's widow, the assistant medical examiner had waived the standard first-come, first-served policy and moved her to the front of the line.
The ride to Greenaway Circle passed in silence, neither David nor Marlin being disposed toward small talk, or a verbal postmortem of a case laden with questions and precious few facts.
A block from the cul-de-sac's entrance, Marlin banged the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. "Damn it. We should have brought both cars."
David couldn't imagine why, was reluctant to find out, and doubted he'd like the answer.
"Kimmie Sue leaned on you pretty heavy after Larry's funeral," Marlin said. "If you had wheels, you could have asked her out for coffee after we finish at the house."
"And why would I do that?"
"Well, let's see, kemosabe. We've confirmed that Bev was strangled with her own scarf. Thirty-one percent of female homicide victims are killed by a family member, friend, loversomeone known to them. Bev's only child was conveniently two hundred miles from the scene. And when Kimmie Sue's dad died, it
was obvious she was interested in more than your clean hankie and an arm to hang on to."
David reserved judgment. Everyone handled death differentlysudden, or not. Kimmie Sue's clinginess and blatant flirting had made him extremely uncomfortable. Maybe losing the daddy she'd adored in the blink of an eye was no excuse, but David refused to condemn her, then or now.
"So," he said, "in your twisted mind, she's a suspect."
"It's automatic for next of kin. And she sees you as one of Papa's good old boys, not a trained, half-smart cop." Marlin looked sideways and smirked. "Five bucks, she'll ask you out tonight. Hell, she might even spring for dinner."
The unmarked's headlights swept a hard-shell Jeep with a California plate parked in front of 2208. "Then pay up." David pointed out the windshield. "It appears our next of kin didn't make the trip home all by herself."
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