by Lyn Cote
"I still feel awful about all this, Rodd."
He felt the urge to draw her close but ignored it. She had her duty and he had his.
"You had to come. This isn't your fault." She looked so apologetic. He squeezed her shoulder. "It'll be fine. Don't worry. I have some other tricks up my sleeve." He forced a grin. He wanted to reassure her more but knew she would continue to feel responsible. She was that kind of woman..
Wendy nodded, then turned back to her patient.
Turning away reluctantly, Rodd walked past the big man in the kitchen and out into the night. Outside, he stood for a moment. The events of the bungled stakeout ran through his mind like a crazy YouTube video. Then he turned and began to push and pull the damaged door back into some semblance of its original shape to keep out the cold and little animals seeking a warm place to nest for the night.
He thought of how he should be examining the area just outside the door for evidence. But Ted, Wendy, and he had trampled the area because of the medical emergency. The only evidence this stakeout had turned up was that this time he'd actually glimpsed the suspect in dark anonymous snowmobile gear, which masked his identity from head to toe. All Rodd knew was that the thief was of average height, perhaps a bit under six feet. The thief had slipped in and out of the yard like a shadow, leaving nothing to follow up, nothing to link up. Rodd was left with only the sensation of slippery fabric sliding through his gloved hands. He gave a final savage push and the derelict door stood propped up but leaning.
He took a step, then paused. Trying to remember something that had happened in the excitement, he went back over the sights and sounds of the incident. He heard it again. A whack. He'd heard the snowmobile hit something—maybe a tree trunk? Had the burglar broken a headlight? Would there be some physical evidence at last?
Pulling a flashlight out of his pocket, he ran to the trees, following the machine's retreating track. Then he saw it. A fresh scar near the base of an old maple. Rodd examined the area painstakingly, hoping to find pieces of a shattered headlight.
Nothing. He'd already taken a cast of the snowmobile tread at the first burglary. Fresh irritation vibrated through him. The Weasel's snowmobile would probably have a fresh dent on its front end. But he couldn't arrest everyone in the county with a dented snowmobile. Still, he'd cord this section off and examine it by daylight.
Giving up for now, he walked over to Olie's son's truck and Wendy's Blazer. He switched off their headlights and motors. He almost removed the keys, but then he remembered where he was and left them dangling from the ignitions. This isn't Milwaukee all right. There when you set up a stakeout, it didn't turn into a clown act.
He waited for the ambulance to arrive. Wendy might still need him. The wind rattled the icicles on the garage. Rodd halted. He scanned the stark landscape. The glittering stars overhead gave just enough illumination so he could glimpse the spearlike tops of statuesque pines that surrounded him. He glanced higher.
The sight above him made him pause. Overhead, wispy veils of shimmering white and pale green light undulated like ghosts dancing a ballet Northern lights. The first he'd seen this year.
Silent moments passed as he drank in the ethereal beauty. It lifted him from the mundane facts of a botched stakeout. Lifted him from the frustration of coming so close, yet failing. Lifted him from himself. Your ways are higher than our ways, oh God.
When he finally heard the ambulance approaching, he moved toward his Jeep to get out the yellow tape to cord off the snowmobile path. First, he'd meet the EMTs and try to help them get Olie without destroying every possible bit of evidence on their way in and out.
This stakeout had been his best chance for a quick end to the burglaries. His plan had seemed flawless, and he would have carried it out successfully—if there had been no interference. God, just keep everybody out of my way next time. That's all I'll need.
Fletcher Cram stalked toward Rodd, where he sat at the counter in the Black Bear Cafe on Steadfast's Main Street. "So, Sheriff, heard you had quite a time last night?" Cram, an older man shaped like a telephone pole, was the local newspaper editor and the Weasel's first victim.
The newspaperman's disagreeable tone set Rodd's teeth on edge, but he couldn't blame the man for not being happy with him. It had been weeks since Cram's house had been burglarized, and Rodd hadn't been able to close the case or the subsequent ones, which Cram had titled "The Snowmobile Burglaries" in his weekly paper, The Steadfast Times. Rodd lowered his brown stoneware mug. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked, trying to buy time.
Was it his imagination, or had every other conversation in the cafe quieted? Wendy had called him at dawn and asked him to meet her here for breakfast. Why had she insisted on meeting him in such a public place?
Cram glared at Rodd, his bushy white brows squeezed together. "Got all the coffee I want back at the office. Saw your Jeep outside and came over to find out what the hullabaloo at Olie Olson's last night was about."
Still fatigued from lack of sleep, Rodd lifted his cup and took a long swallow. The rich, hot brew braced him to face last night's debacle in the morning light. Too many people had converged on Olson's property last night for it to go unnoticed.
"Well?" Cram leaned forward.
Rodd kept his mug at mouth level, hiding his chagrin behind it. "Olson had to go back to the clinic."
"Did Olie have another heart attack?" The tall, twenty-something, red-haired waitress paused behind the counter with a coffeepot in hand.
Relieved his misdirection had worked, Rodd nodded. If Cram had his way, everyone in the county would soon know that Rodd's stakeout had turned into a bad joke.
Ushering in a blast of frigid air, Wendy—looking surprisingly fresh after her long stressful night—entered and came up beside Cram.
Telegraphing his discomfort to her with a guarded look, Rodd rose and nodded to her, wishing Cram would disappear. Wendy didn't need all this stress first thing in the morning. He'd followed the ambulance to the clinic, but who knew how long she'd had to stay there with Olson? Rodd took a step closer to her.
"I was listening to the police band on my radio," Cram said. Insistently he added, "I want to know why you let that snowmobile thief get away."
All conversation around Rodd, Wendy, and Cram cut off.
Wendy's cheerful voice filled the listening silence. "Hi, Sheriff. Sorry I kept you waiting." With a quick brush of her small hand, she pushed back her parka hood.
Ignoring Wendy, Cram leaned closer to Rodd. "Well, Sheriff?"
Wendy slid between the two men, facing the editor.
Her blocking movement goaded Rodd. He didn't need her to run interference for him. "I—"
"Mr. Cram, how are you going to stay in business?" Wendy cocked her head to one side.
"What?" Cram looked down at her.
Silently, Rodd repeated the man's question.
Wendy grinned as she straightened the editor's rumpled shirt collar. "If the sheriff tells you everything about last night in front of everyone here, who will want to buy your paper to read about it?"
A few eavesdropping customers chuckled.
Rodd noticed the large, mannish-looking woman he'd seen at church staring at him from a rear booth where she sat alone. Who was she? And why were he and Wendy objects of her deep frown?
"I'm asking about this as a concerned citizen," Cram blustered. "These burglaries must be stopped."
"They will be." Rodd felt himself literally getting hot under his collar. He glanced at the last booth by the back door of the cafe. The couple in it rose and walked to the front to pay at the cash register. Great. He touched Wendy's arm and inclined his head toward the vacated booth.
"Why didn't you catch him last night then?" Cram hung on like a pit bull.
Wendy began leading Rodd away but spoke over her shoulder, "All right, Mr. Cram, if you insist on hearing everything here. How could Rodd—with Ted Olson tackling him right when he had the thief in sight?"
"Ted?"
the waitress exclaimed. "What was he doing out there?"
"Checking on his dad before he went home from work." Wendy paused, still looking back. She addressed the waitress by name. "Ginger, you know how Ted doesn't hear well. He didn't hear the sheriff declare himself, so Ted tackled him."
Rodd hated this. Wendy was forcing him to stand in the middle of the cafe, filled with locals and out-of-town hunters all dressed in blaze orange, listening to her explain why his plan had gone awry. And the old woman in the back watched him like a hungry hawk. Didn't Wendy realize talking like this about last night was the last thing he wanted to do at breakfast?
"So Ted's to blame?" Cram folded his arms and looked suspicious.
Rodd noted the big woman alone in the booth glare at Wendy. But Wendy didn't even glance her way. As he trailed after Wendy, honesty forced him to concede, "If I saw a stranger with a gun running toward my father's door in the middle of the night, I'd probably do the same thing." The newspaper editor was only doing his job. Rodd wished he could say the same about himself. If everyone had stayed where they were supposed to, he'd have had the thief in jail this morning!
"But how did you know the thief was out at Olson's?" Cram stood his ground by the counter.
A very good question, sir, but it's not one I'll be answering today. "Just proper investigative procedures." As Rodd helped Wendy take off her jacket, his knuckles brushed her shoulders—so slender. He recalled her rushing to Olson's aid—still on duty after midnight. A woman, so young, so slight to carry such heavy responsibilities. His irritation melted.
Wendy slid into the high-back bench. She surprised Rodd by saying—with a proprietary air as though she wanted to get rid of Cram so they could be alone, "Rodd, why don't you stop by after breakfast and give Mr. Cram all the details?"
Rodd kept his back to Cram so the editor wouldn't see his raised eyebrows. What was Wendy up to? He had nothing he wanted to tell Cram, period.
"Do that." Cram pulled his worn gray overcoat closed and let the cafe door bang behind him.
Rodd sat down across from Wendy. Before he could say anything to her, the young waitress came over and handed them paper menus. The waitress left with an odd expression on her face, like something was amusing. He'd also noticed curious glances and knowing smiles cast in their direction. But the atmosphere of tension that Cram had created lightened. The sound of general conversation resumed.
Rodd glanced at Wendy, her face lifted toward his. Her gaze searched his, and he stopped his hand from reaching across for hers. She'd smoothed matters over for the time being, but he could have done without this attention. How could he phrase that without offending her?
"You should relax," Wendy said in an undertone.
"What?" he murmured, puzzled by her suggestion.
"Relax. People are watching you."
The waitress returned to wipe the table and serve Wendy a cup of coffee. His discomfort was his own fault. He should have suggested they meet some place else, any place else.
When the waitress left, Rodd said only for Wendy to hear, "I don't want to talk to Cram. You don't understand—I wanted to keep a lid on this."
"That's why we're here. And that's why you should stop later and answer Mr. Cram's questions." Wendy looked him directly in the eye.
"What?" Rodd stared at her, her clear eyes capturing his attention, distracting him. "That doesn't—"
"Sheriff, there's no way we could keep the Olie Olson episode a secret. That's why I asked you to meet me here." She leaned forward, keeping her voice low. "Too many people were at Olson's, and Ted Olson couldn't keep quiet to save his life. It's much better to answer questions here in the open, right away. In a small town, the more you try to hide something, the more talk you get." Wendy lifted the mug to her lips.
Understanding dawned. Rodd had to give Wendy credit. He hadn't considered taking this direct approach to controlling the fallout from last night. Obviously, she knew her town and how to handle it. She'd pointed out again that rural law enforcement differed from Milwaukee's. His estimation of her as an ally increased again. He took a deep breath and caught a trace of her sweet fragrance. "I suppose you're right."
"So we've given out a few facts about last night—the same ones Cram can get from Ted and probably will. But we've concealed the thief's MO. That's what you wanted, isn't it? If you're going to try to catch the thief again, right?" Wendy looked at him with hope in her eyes.
"Right." He gazed back at her, enjoying the lift in his mood that she gave him. Her ivory skin glowed against the dark wood of the booth. Fine gold loops dangled from her ears. The collar of the brown sweater she wore accented the paleness of her neck. How would her translucent skin feel to the touch?
Wendy interrupted his thoughts. "I'm really sorry about last night—"
"You're sorry? You didn't do anything wrong." Rodd couldn't think how she could deem herself to blame.
She shook her head. "I knew Olie didn't want to be at the care center overnight. I should have warned you that he is unpredictable—"
"Stop." How could she hold herself responsible? "I'm the one who should have checked to see that he stayed at the clinic. But the idea that Olie might go home never occurred to me."
Ginger returned to jot down their order on her green pad and to ask if Wendy and she were still on for the movies Saturday night— unless Wendy got a better offer. As Ginger spoke, a strange expression came over her face and she winked at Wendy. Rodd couldn't figure out why Ginger was behaving so strangely. Did she know something about last night? Then a glance showed him that Wendy was blushing. Was she embarrassed because of the waitress's marked attention to them?
"Heard from your mom, Wendy?" Ginger asked. "Does she still like Florida?"
"She's fine. No problems," Wendy answered quickly.
To Rodd, Wendy's reply sounded as though she were covering something up. What was going on with her mother?
Ginger looked like she wanted to say more, but left them instead.
When they were alone again, Wendy traced the rim of the mug with her forefinger. "So where do we go from here?"
Watching her slender hand, he wished he had an answer to her innocent question. And he had to impress on Wendy that while he needed her cooperation, solving the crimes was a job for a professional. "I'd appreciate your cooperation," he said guardedly. She lifted her cup, her slender wrists looking too delicate for the heavy mug.
"What can I do to help you, Sheriff?" she asked with a tilt of her head.
Her earnest tone touched him. He observed her take a sip, then focused on her question. "You can call me again the next time you take another patient to spend the night at the care center. We can't assume the burglar won't still be watching you." But I'm going to have to come up with a surefire way to draw the burglar out. He'd have to find an easy target and set another trap.
Concern showed in her expressive eyes. "Is that all? The targets are my patients—"
"I need your information, but you are busy enough as it is," Rodd interrupted. A thought came to him. The disaster last night showed him that he really needed something more to catch the Weasel—next time. He studied Wendy. Maybe he should—
"Hey! Sheriff!" Zak, in a bright blue snowsuit, burst into the cafe and ran straight back to their booth. "I seen your Jeep outside!"
"Hi." Smiling, Penny followed her son in. "I'm here to put up another flyer about the Senior Bazaar at the VFW next month. Ginger called me and said the one I put here had fallen down—"
"It got stepped on," Zak finished for her.
Rodd grinned. "I didn't know little guys like you were big on bazaars."
"They make peanut brittle. That's my favorite." Zak climbed up next to Rodd. "We need help too. You're strong, Sheriff. You can help!"
Rodd half rose and motioned for Penny to sit with them. "What kind of help do you need?"
Penny shook her head but smiled. "Since you asked, we need a few people to set up the tables and chairs."
"And
sample peanut brittle?" Wendy teased. "That sounds like a job for a man."
She made him grin. "With or without peanut brittle," Rodd told Zak, "I'll be glad to help."
"Great!" Zak threw his arms around the sheriff's neck and gave him a quick hug.
Rodd smiled. What a great little guy.
Wendy asked softly, "How have you been feeling, Penny?"
"Fine. I'm just fine." Penny brushed the question aside.
Rodd wondered why Wendy was concerned about Penny. Was her health in question?
Ginger set a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Rodd, plopped a heavy cereal bowl and small pitcher of milk in front of Wendy, and handed her a small box of Raisin Bran. "Sheriff, I bet you didn't know that our Wendy always helps with the Senior Bazaar...."
