A Curious Affair (6 page)

I glanced at my watch. The sheriff wouldn’t be on duty yet since he had worked the night shift. That meant I would have to follow other potential leads.

It took nearly ten minutes to get out past the high school, which had been constructed before the advent of the automobile and the need for streets wide enough for two cars to pass abreast. I trickled out of the old town with the other desperate winter shut-ins who were running low on toilet paper and orange juice and wanted to restock at the grocery store before the next storm hit. I had my window cracked open and could smell the delightful odor of greasy sausage and eggs. I don’t do fast food; I find it to be the culinary equivalent of elevator music. But that didn’t stop me from enjoying the smell as I passed the Tin Roof drive-in.

Have you ever noticed that small towns—and cities, too—are organisms? Some, like Irish Camp, are single-celled; some are more complicated. Some are robust
and some are delicate. But we have in common one thing: a need to live, even thrive, in our given environment, which we generally prefer remains unchanged.

Our little hamlet is not pretty, though the downtown area strives for quaint. What we really are is sinewy and hardened, and we know how to survive. That means a certain amount of compromise. Modern life and its conveniences haven’t completely passed us by—we aren’t that lucky. We have our monster trucks and, at the very base of the mountain, there are a few chain-stores and more fast-food places. They are there for the tourists who go into withdrawal if kept from cheap hamburgers and tacos for more than twenty-four hours. The locals—one of which I now considered myself to be—wince every time we pass these places. I would actually drive miles out of my way to avoid them and the reminders they brought of previous life in the city.

Unless I needed a new ink cartridge for my printer, that is. Then I would conduct commerce with the great Satan. Or if I was headed up the hill on the only road into Sublime—population twenty-seven—because there was only one road up that part of the mountain. I hadn’t been up there much since Cal died, and I traveled there slowly on that day, doing no more than a cowardly forty miles per hour, both because the roads might still have ice on them and because I was venturing into a place where Cal’s shade might linger.

As I have mentioned before, our part of the world is populated with some strange signs. This bit of forgotten interstate’s no different. My favorite: this section of road is maintained by the literary hitchhikers guild. Of course, I’ve never seen any hitchhikers along here, literary or otherwise—a sheer rock wall on one side of the narrow two-lane road and a steep cliff on the other discourages all but the most suicidal of
people—but I must say that the thoroughfare is always very tidy. Perhaps they use a blower slung out of a car window.

There were two other businesses with odd signs prominently displayed in Sublime:
DON’S SNOW PLOWS AND
8
FLAVORS OF ICE CREAM
!!!!
CLEAN RESTROOMS!!! AND CAN TANK R US SEPTIC AND SEWER—LAUNDRY, CAR WASH, BAIT AND TACKLE
. I was planning on going to both if necessary, since I was looking for an old gold mine that Crystal had shown me last summer, but hadn’t a clue where to start searching. The old vein was supposedly played out, and it sounded like it was good for nothing but hiding illegal stills, even more illegal pot patches and possibly a meth lab or two. But Irv had liked to hike up there, in fair weather and foul, and I was running out of things to investigate in town.

I pulled into the Can Tank R Us graveled lot, now carpeted with pine needles and other wind-borne debris, and walked up to the glass door. The hand-painted sign read: shut at 5. Underneath in smaller letters it said: open at 10. It was well after ten, but I wasn’t surprised to find this par tic u lar house of commerce empty. These sorts of signs weren’t hard and fast guarantees of business hours, but rather optimistic statements of intent. Winter mornings tended to be drowsy times, especially after Christmas. There simply wasn’t any benefit to hurrying into the dark and cold when there weren’t any customers. I sympathized. The sun would not rise and warm this shady spot until at least noon, and most days the sky would remain an unleavened gray. That was super if you ran a ski resort, but not if you had a non-snow-related business like renting gold pans to tourists who wouldn’t arrive until school let out in June. I’d had a bit of trouble adjusting to this lackadaisical way of mountain commerce at first, but eventually learned to adapt to life in a place where the only popular
measure of time was geological—and that only if gold and silver were involved.

Shrugging in ac cep tance, I walked next door, resigned to seeing one of Cal’s old friends and hoping for fresh-brewed coffee, though prepared to eat ice cream if I had no other choice. Somehow, I wasn’t entirely surprised to reach the end of the short wooden walkway and see the nose of the sheriff’s Jeep peeping out from the side of the building. Great minds—or inquisitive ones—really did think alike. Or maybe he just didn’t care for Prune Typhoons either, and had remembered that our French bakery is closed on Sundays and Mondays even when Nolan isn’t holding rallies right outside the door.

This sign was turned to in instead of out, so I let myself inside, wincing at the jangle of cow bells above the warped door. Not even trying to pretend that I had actually come to town to hire a snowplow, or for any of the eight exciting flavors of ice cream, I sat down at the four-seat counter next to Tyler Murphy and said good morning.

The proprietor, Don Crandall, wore Old Spice, a smell that always reminded me of my grandfather. I inhaled, closing my eyes and allowing myself a moment of nostalgia. It almost compensated for the vague smell of burning coffee that was always in the air.

“Hi, Don,” I said at last, eyes still closed. He was used to my sniffing when he was around. I think he found it flattering.

“Hi, Jillian. We haven’t seen you for a month of Sundays.” It had been longer than that, but I didn’t correct him.

“Let me guess. You’ve had a sudden craving for spumoni,” Tyler said. He blew on his coffee, sending an acrid cloud in my direction. This stuff might have been fresh at sunrise, but was long past it now. And Don wouldn’t brew another pot until this one was
gone—waste not, want not. Cal had never minded the taste of singed brew, but it wasn’t my favorite.

“No, the rocky road. One scoop in a dish, please,” I answered, opening my eyes and smiling at Don Crandall. Screw the bad coffee; it wasn’t any good here, and thinking of Grandpa made me want his favorite ice cream.

“Better choice,” Tyler admitted. “So, shall I save you some time and tell you what’s up with our little conundrum? By the way, you sound much better this morning.”

“Thanks, it’s the sun. So, let me guess—you came up here on a whim, maybe to keep an eye on evildoers who are passing through on the way to go skiing,” I answered, glancing at Don as he set about digging out the very solid ice cream, which was layered with ice crystals. I hoped the marshmallow wouldn’t be too unyielding. I like to squish it against the roof of my mouth, sorting out the nuts from the sweet. I’d started doing that when I began losing my baby teeth to the sticky stuff. I have shallow roots on my teeth and it takes very little to knock them out. As a child, I didn’t mind the gap-toothed look, but the tooth fairy only paid up when you had an actual tooth to barter. I had probably been cheated out of maybe a buck twenty-five by unlucky swallowing. That was five weeks’ allowance, or one Little House on the Prairie book. Those hard childhood lessons stuck with you, especially when you were now responsible for your own dental bills.

“A whim? Yes, I guess you could say that, though I do try to visit every town in the county at least twice a week.”

Uh-huh, a whim of solid steel. Have I mentioned that I can be stubborn? I hadn’t mentioned it to Tyler either, but he was a smart cop and I knew he had my number. As I had his. As the old taunt goes: It takes one to know one. We were both mules.

“As long as we’re feeling whimsical, let’s have some show-and-tell,” I suggested.

“Fair enough. Don, would you get me a scoop of strawberry cheesecake while you’re at it?”

“Sure, Tyler,” Don answered, puzzled but pleased. There hadn’t been much call for ice cream during the long, long winter. He added conscientiously: “It might have a bit of freezer burn, though. I haven’t restocked lately.”

“That’s okay. I take my ice cream any way I can get it.”

Don smiled gratefully. His business—like so many up here—was barely alive, and he couldn’t afford to restock the ice cream in the winter, but that wouldn’t stop some people from complaining. The sheriff was catching on quickly, though, and was capable of compassion. I thought it might turn out that I would like him after all.

If only he liked me, too. I wouldn’t mind having Tyler twisted around my finger. That would be a useful place for him. However, I suspected that while not unbending, he wasn’t flexible enough—or blind enough—to make himself into a pretzel this morning simply because I wanted him to.

Jillian, is that you?

I stiffened involuntarily. A slight scratching came at the door behind the counter. Don and Carol lived above the shop and this was how they reached their living quarters. They had a cat.

“Go away, Clips. You know you can’t come in here,” Don called. Clips, short for Paperclips and Rubber-bands. Clips had been a true gymnast among kittens. None of the drapes had survived his youth. “That darn cat never learns, and I swear he adores Jillian. He rubs on her like she’s catnip.”

Yeah, go away, Clips. We don’t want the sheriff thinking I
have cats in my belfry
, I thought at the restless feline.

After a second the scratching stopped and we heard
the soft thundering of paws running up a wooden stair. I tried not to react visibly to the reprieve.

“Shall I start? I happened to be in The Mule this morning,” I said casually to the sheriff. Then, fearing that the cold ice cream might again lock up my jaw before we were done talking, I added: “Don, could you get me a coffee, too?” I wouldn’t drink it, just hold the steaming cup under my chin and keep the joints thawed enough for conversation.

“Did you now? How unusual.” Tyler’s voice was mild. His gaze was warm, too, not at all sheriff-like. He was inviting me in, willing me to feel safe and confiding. We were just two friends sharing some winter morning ice cream. I wanted to believe that but remained wary.

“Yes, indeed. And I had a short chat with Molly Gerran—that’s Irv’s old girlfriend.” I was being discreet, not mentioning I’d had this discussion with Molly in front of Don.

“Uh-huh.” Tyler sipped from his cup, not even flinching as the scorched brew passed his lips. He was a strong man. I thought he was also an interested one.

“She says that Irv has a nephew. His first name is Gordon or Jordon and he lives in Lodi or maybe Fresno.” I smiled a little. “I was sure you’d want to know.”

“Why, thank you. That will help a great deal.” He didn’t bother hiding the irony. It wasn’t mean-spirited, though, so I didn’t get defensive when he added: “I didn’t know you had an in with that crowd.”

“I don’t. Irv is the only common denominator.”

Don put my dish of ice cream and a brimming coffee cup on the counter. He seemed inclined to linger and visit with me, but Tyler’s clear gaze reminded him of some shipment that needed unpacking in the back room. I was grateful. I didn’t want to talk with one of Cal’s old buddies about how I was doing these days. Their ongoing concern with my isolation revived my
feelings of helplessness, and reminded me of the days when Cal and I had had to wrestle with our own impotence and pity. Yes, pity. Mine, for his facing a horrible death, and he for me because I would have to go on living without him. That we’d never expressed any of this aloud did not mean it was not there.

“Will there be an autopsy?” I asked in a low voice that made allowances for thin walls. I took a tentative bite of my ice cream. It was indeed a bit freezer burned, but I was suddenly hungry enough to enjoy it anyway. When had I last eaten? I couldn’t quite recall.

“Yes.” Tyler was looking at me straight on now. “It’s standard in cases like this. At least it is where I come from. Nolan does not agree. He actually had me on the phone before seven this morning.”

“That’s too bad. It’s really best to be sure about things.” I added without looking up: “Makes it easier for the family.”

“Yes, I’m sure answers will comfort Gordon. Or Jordan. And anyone else who might be concerned about being killed in their cabins if anyone shares your beliefs about the cause of death.” Tyler put his coffee down. He asked straightly: “You weren’t thinking of going hiking in the woods today, were you?”

“I might. The sun is a rare sight and I haven’t gotten out much lately.” And the sunshine was disappearing quickly. Another hour and it could be raining like The End of Days again. I figured that it was now or never.

Tyler looked at his watch and frowned. “I don’t suppose you’d like some company on this walk? I haven’t seen that much of the countryside.”

That hadn’t been my plan, having a guest while I searched for Irv’s gold mine, but I thought about it while I smashed the last of the marshmallow on the roof of my mouth. On the one hand, I had the feeling that Tyler was suspicious of my intentions because of my
friendship with Irving, and maybe he just wanted to make sure that I didn’t tamper with any smokable evidence I might find. Or steal it outright. He probably thought that I would be inclined to clean out Irv’s pot field before law enforcement found it, to protect Irv’s or his friends’ not-so-good names. Or just to have some free dope. And he might be right about me, at least about my not telling anyone about what I found. I probably wouldn’t call in the law if I found a pot farm, since I’m not a hypocrite and I didn’t see anything wrong with occasional recreational drug use, and also understand that some people simply can’t endure life without some help—chemo patients being chief among them. If you have insurance or live in a city with liberal drug laws, you get your pain relief from your doctor or a cannabis club. If you don’t, then you see someone like Irv, or whoever would take over this philanthropic endeavor now that he was gone—and God bless them.