These were the sorts of memories that remained of his mother. Not many sweet ones. Scars was far more accurate. He believed things might have been different had his father stuck around, had he not up and abandoned them before Harry was born, but his father had. And in a way, sometimes Harry actually understood and forgave the man he’d never met, because he knew his father must’ve known what type of woman he’d knocked up, and a child he didn’t yet know just wasn’t enough to keep him tied to a cretin like Ginny Bennett.
When she died five years ago and Harry gave the eulogy at the funeral, it took every ounce of strength to keep from laughing when he referred to her as a “loving mother and a wonderful person”. He hadn’t wanted to say those false kindnesses about her, but he was mayor by then, and it was what the people wanted and expected: the picture of a sweet boy and a loving mother. A boy with a normal childhood. No monsters in the closet. So that’s what he showed them. Harry Bennett was a man of the people, after all.
“Have you seen Lilly around the house?” Allison asked, taking another long pull off her cigarette. “I can’t find her anywhere. I don’t think I’ve seen her since Saturday morning.”
Harry smiled inside. He’d been waiting for this question. He knew it would come eventually. In fact, he’d looked forward to it. There was something about the thrill of lying that sated an emptiness inside him. He liked to see if he could be so good that even he would start to believe what he was saying. That, he knew, was how the best lies were told—when the liar convinced himself they were real. “I think I saw her yesterday out back. You check the basement and under the porch? Sometimes she goes in through the cellar window.”
“I checked the basement. All the usual places, too. Nothing.”
“Maybe she ran away. Cats do that sometimes.”
“Not when they’re pregnant.”
“Especially when they’re pregnant,” Harry said. “They go off and give birth in some dark corner where nothing will bother them. I’m sure she’ll turn up. Probably with the new litter in tow.”
“Maybe,” Allison said, unconvinced.
“You’ll see.” Harry turned around and looked at his wife. “She’ll be back. I’m sure of it.” He smiled, really trying to sell it. “Don’t go asking the neighbors just yet.”
There was a shared moment of silence, save for the buzzing of the cicadas, in which Allison seemed to be pondering her husband’s words. Harry waited, pretending to focus on the front yard, but really waiting to see if his performance had been convincing enough.
It had been. “I’m sure you’re right,” Allison said. She opened the screen door and came out, placing her cup of coffee on the railing. She pushed a few strands of hair off her forehead, folding her arms loosely. “Will you drop the Fourth of July invitations off at the post office this morning?”
“What?” Harry said, looking over at his wife, who was now sharing the same mindless gaze out over the yard. She looked mesmerized.
“It’s actually kind of nice if you let it be—the noise, I mean” she said softly, as if in that moment she was discovering the fact. She looked away slowly, toward Harry. “The invitations for the Fourth of July cookout, will you drop them off?”
“Can’t you?”
“I have a hair appointment at High Wave in West Elm.” Allison stubbed out her cigarette in the small glass ashtray beside her. She released the last of the smoke from her lungs through her nose. “It’s in the opposite direction. Besides, you’re going right by the post office. Just say yes—it feels so good to say yes, darling.” She walked up and caressed Harry’s cheek delicately, then patted it playfully. “That’s what Dad always used to say, anyway.”
Harry was only half paying attention. The moment Allison had mentioned High Wave, all he could think of were Eddie Corbett and Wynona Finn going at it in the back of the salon. He’d looked at those pictures a few times before he used them to blackmail Eddie. Besides the negatives he had in his safe, he’d kept a few of the good developed shots for himself. They were like a trophy, especially the ones with great shots of Nona’s tits. “Fine. Go get them and be quick. I have a full schedule today.”
“You’re the mayor. You have a full schedule everyday.” Allison rolled her eyes, turned, and headed for the door.
“I’m a busy man. What can I say?” he said with a proud grin.
“Say you’ll drop off the invitations, Harry.” The screen door shut behind Allison as she disappeared back into the house.
CHAPTER 11
Gaines walked into Deb’s Diner and grabbed a seat on one of the worn-out red vinyl stools at the counter. Most of them were cracked and torn, scaly, like the ancient earth of a dry lakebed. The ones that saw the most traffic were patched with red duct tape, which was also polished down to its mesh backing. Hard years of blue-collar denim hides sliding up to the same counter for their same morning coffees had taken its toll. And every morning, Joanna Renault, the thirty-five-year-old daughter of the eponymous Debbie Renault of Deb’s Diner, was the one there to greet these habitual creatures.
“How about a cinnamon donut and a cup of coffee, Jo?” Gaines said, and smiled.
Joanna looked up from the two cups of coffee she was already pouring. “Be right with you, Sheriff.”
She’d worked there since she was a young girl, taking over when her mother’s arthritis got bad. Now Deb only came in on the occasional Saturday or Sunday to run the register. And lately even those occasions had become fewer and fewer.
This morning, Joanna’s hair was tied back in a tight bun, which accentuated her high cheekbones and her narrow, almost feline, eyes.
“Thanks, Jo. And how many times I got to tell you to call me Calvin?” Gaines laughed. “‘Sheriff’ makes me feel so old and official.”
“Okay, well, coming up, then, Calvin,” she said playfully, then picked up the two cups of coffee, taking them to a waitress standing at the end of the counter. She poured one more cup and made her way toward Gaines. She put the steaming mug down in front of him and smiled. “I swear, I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who hates to be called by his title. Most men would love to be sheriff, I’d guess.”
“I’m not most men.” Gaines grinned, removing his hat and placing it on the stool next him. “And besides, I like my name. I’m afraid I’ll forget it if I don’t hear it every so often.”
Joanna laughed. “Is that so? Well maybe we should get you one of these.” She pointed to the nametag on her work shirt. It read JOANNA in sturdy black letters.
“Already got one,” Gaines said, and tapped his finger on the shimmering brass pinned to the breast of his shirt.
Joanna leaned forward, pretending to squint at the tag below his badge. Then teasingly she said, “No, that won’t do,” and smiled, shaking her head. “It only has your first initial and last name. We need to get you one that just says ‘Calvin’, and nothing else. That way you won’t forget it.”
“You might be on to something, you know?” he said. “You got any extras back there?”
Joanna put a hand on her waist, the other on the counter, drumming her fingers absently as if in thought. She shook her head. “Sorry, fresh out. You’ll have to check back tomorrow.”
“You just want to see me again, don’t you?” Gaines winked.
“You got me.” She lifted her hands as if to surrender. “Guilty as charged, Sheriff… I mean Calvin.”
Gaines smiled, rubbing the back of his head and feeling a little guilty. He knew it was natural to flirt, and maybe it was just his personality, but if he did it subconsciously, he reasoned it was only to recapture some seemingly lost part of his youth. He and Linn had been together since high school, and he loved her dearly. But she was the only woman he’d ever been with. Not that he saw this as a bad thing (his parents had done the same and they had lived a happy life), but sometimes he couldn’t help being drawn to the idea of another woman.
But an idea was all it ever was. He would never take anything any further than a few s
hared laughs or some lingering glances. Sometimes he just needed a reminder he was alive. While he knew this was foolish, and on some level selfish, he did it anyhow. He believed the guilt resided in the fact that he and his wife had a great marriage and an active love life, yet somehow it wasn’t quite enough. There was always the nagging question of what love might be like with someone else. He wondered if that curiosity was something that ever went away. How many women does a man have to be with before he isn’t afraid he’s missing out? One or a hundred? There probably wasn’t any set number. Maybe it only depended on the man. Maybe one was all he’d ever needed.
“How ’bout that donut?” he said.
“You got it. Cinnamon, right?”
“That’d be great. Warmed a little if you could, too.”
“Comin’ up,” she said, turning and heading toward the pastry case.
The moment she was gone, the distraction was lost. The guilty excitement Gaines had briefly felt was replaced with an intense feeling of dread. He suddenly remembered the uncomfortable conversation he was about to have that morning, the thing he’d been trying to forget about, the reason he’d been trying to lose himself in the flirtation with Joanna.
Harry Bennett. The name flashed in his mind, sending a flutter of panic through his gut like a surge of dirty electricity. He’d held off contacting the mayor the day before, hoping to find some reason to make it unnecessary, but he hadn’t turned up anything. Not that he’d really believed he would. Harry Bennett was the only lead they had in Kara’s case, and Gaines knew her parents would expect to hear something soon. In fact, he was surprised they hadn’t called the station already.
Looking down, Gaines once again noticed the rotten condition of the stools, how worn and tattered they were. For a moment, he hated those seats. He remembered ten years back when Deb had reupholstered them all. They had looked so brilliantly new, then. It hadn’t taken much to weather them in the years since—only the slow, everyday acts of life. Normal wear. And that, he supposed, was what was happening to him—the normal, consistent, wear and tear of getting along in years. He could feel it: the stiff joints, the sore back, the lack of energy, the slight paunch of his gut. He couldn’t deny that he was getting older, and those seats were like some strange reminder of the fact. At least, today they were.
Behind him someone opened the door, the overhead bell jingling. Gaines turned to see who’d come in. He was expecting a familiar face. Seven-thirty in the morning at Deb’s usually saw the same queue of people, day in and day out. But Gaines didn’t recognize this man. The stranger had the face of a trespasser, someone who didn’t belong. Gaines eyed him for a moment. The man wore an old army jacket with a peace sign taped to the back, and a faded Red Sox cap. He held a little black canvas bag. The man stood at the entrance for a moment, grabbing a paper off the stand and looking around. Then he made his way toward the back of the diner and sat in an empty corner booth.
“He’s a photographer,” Joanna said, and set Gaines’s donut in front of him.
Gaines turned back. “What’s that? Who is?”
Joanna smiled, flashing a don’t-underestimate-me look. “I saw you looking at that guy. He’s been coming in here for the last few days. Name’s Bill, I think—a photographer from New Hampshire. He’s staying at the motel.” Joanna wiped her hands on a dishtowel and pushed it back into her apron.
Gaines dipped the donut in his coffee and took a bite. “How you know all that?” he asked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
“Give me some credit, would ya?” Joanna laughed. “Ninety percent of this job is asking people questions. The better you know someone, the better the tip. Not so different from your job,” she said. “And I don’t need to carry a gun or shoot no one.”
“A photographer, huh?” Gaines said.
Joanna nodded, clearing a few dishes from the counter. “That’s right, nature stuff, I think. He said he was here for the cicadas.”
“I don’t know who’d want a picture of those things, they’re the ugliest bastards I’ve ever seen. A couple of ’em were sitting on my car this morning,” Gaines said.
“Yeah, they’re a little weird looking, but some people think they’re neat. Me personally, I think they’re peaceful in the evening. Maybe because the last time they showed up, I was a kid and it reminds me of that.”
Gaines grumbled in disagreement. He thought: How can anyone find peace in that racket? To him it sounded like a giant machine in the sky. He turned, taking another quick glance at the man with the peace sign on his jacket. “Doesn’t look like National Geographic material to me.”
“Oh stop it, Calvin. He seems like a nice guy. And besides, if it wasn’t for out-of-towners like him, people might never know this town even existed,” Joanna said, and bent down to grab a stack of napkins from behind the counter. When she did, a necklace popped out of her blouse and rested on her lapel as she straightened back up. It was a small circle of silver wire with beautiful blue and green stained glass soldered together and framed inside the border. Joanna didn’t seem to notice it had fallen out.
Gaines eyed it for a moment, watching the light dance on the colored glass. “That’s a neat piece you got there.” He pointed to it. “I’ve never noticed it before.”
Joanna looked puzzled for a moment, but then she looked down, realizing what Gaines meant. “Oh, this is one of my favorites,” she said, grabbing the glass medallion between her fingers. “I made it. Did you know that?”
“That’s impressive,” Gaines said. And really, it was, too. It was the type of thing he imagined his daughter would love. He’d never been the best gift-giver—Linn always beat him in that department—but this seemed like a real winner. “I had no idea you made your own jewelry. And here I thought the diner was your life.”
“God no. This place just pays the bills. I’m not exactly competing with Tiffany’s or anything. I only really sell to friends and family, but I do all right.”
“I’d love to buy one for Maddie if I could. Her birthday’s on Wednesday. For once I think I might get her something she’ll like.” Gaines laughed. “The sweater from last year never shed its tag. You got one you could sell me?”
“Not today,” Joanna said, frowning in thought. “But I could make you one. It takes me a few days, depending on my free time. You could even pick the colors you’d like.”
“That’d be great,” Gaines said. “I like those colors.” He pointed to Joanna’s once more. “Make one like that.”
“Well, I can make hers with the same colors, but each piece is unique, so it won’t be exactly like this.”
“Even better. A one-of-a-kind necklace. This is the year, I can feel it—the year I get her a better gift than Linn.” Gaines laughed and Joanna shook her head, amused. “You ever consider a booth at the festival? I’m sure people would love this kind of thing.”
“Yeah, I was hoping to do a whole bunch of stuff this winter so I could have enough to sell next year, but I said the same thing last year. Just isn’t ever enough time.”
“I’ve been looking for a career change. Maybe I could take over the diner and you can do your jewelry full-time. Split the profits.”
Joanna smiled. “Eat your donut, wise guy.” She walked away, continuing her patrol along the breakfast counter, wiping surfaces and clearing dirty dishes as she went.
On his way out, Gaines stopped to introduce himself to the man in the corner booth, Bill, the bug photographer from New Hampshire. He wanted to get his own read on the man. He probably was a nice guy, just like Joanna had said, but with what had happened with Kara Price, Gaines was on high alert and paying extra attention to everything. Nothing wrong with being polite to a tourist, he thought. And maybe that was all he was really doing—saying hello to a newcomer. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something off about the man, a gut instinct, perhaps. So he was worth a sniff.
When Gaines walked up, the man was screwing a lens onto what looked like a fairly expensive camera. Ga
ines felt a bit of relief at this validation of the man’s story. His internal watchdog backed off a little.
The black bag the man had carried in sat propped open on the table, and inside were a few rolls of film and another, smaller lens. The man put the camera down, looking up and smiling feebly when he noticed Gaines standing beside him. The jacket he’d been wearing was bunched into a ball, stuffed in the corner of the booth. On top of it was the Red Sox cap. The black t-shirt he wore was tight across the shoulders and chest, revealing small ridges of thin, lean muscle. His face was narrow and rough with stubble. Hair past due for a trim hung down onto his forehead in thick red greasy strands. The man looked young but not too young. Gaines’s estimate put him somewhere in his mid-thirties.
“Morning,” Gaines said, clasping his wrist casually with one hand and holding his hat with the other. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
“Morning, officer,” the man said, and took a sip of his coffee. “I suppose that’s because I’m not from around here. Just staying a few days over at the motel while I work.”
“It’s sheriff,” Gaines said and tapped his badge, smiling . “Or just ‘Calvin’ is fine. We’re not too formal around here.”
The man stuck out his hand. His fingernails were badly bitten back. “Bill… Bill Sexton,” he said. “From Woodstock.”
Gaines met Bill’s hand and shook. It was a firm grip. There was strength there. “New Hampshire?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“That’s right,” Bill said, and smiled. “Born and raised.”
The man’s stained front teeth suggested he was a smoker. Gaines scanned the table quickly, spotting a pack of Marlboros beside the ashtray on the table. There were already two spent butts stamped out, filters bent and flattened.
Gaines looked back at him. “Well, Bill from Woodstock, New Hampshire, welcome to our humble town,” he said. “And by ‘work’, I’m going to assume from the camera that you’re a photographer.”
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