Chapter 3
Gritty eyed the next morning, Clayton was packing his small army-green canvas duffle bag when the police called.
They had a lead, they said, as someone, several someones actually, had called the station asking about the reward money for the Bowie knife and the beaded sheath.
Could Clayton stick around while they investigated the leads?
Clayton agreed he would, at least for a few hours, as it was worth the delay in case they actually found the articles.
When he hung up and took a look at his phone, he noticed four messages left for him ass-early while he'd been sleeping.
He swiped his thumb to view the transcribed message, which, as usual, was slightly garbled and not very informative.
Still, several words stood out in the text: found, Bowie knife, beaded sheath, reward.
Her message went on to state that she and Luke would pay the reward, and that Clayton wasn't to argue with her about that.
Her voice sounded a little sad, as if she'd had that last glass of merlot and decided to take matters into her own hands, only after that, she'd started to feel that Clayton would be mad, and wouldn't come home for Christmas after all and she needed to explain it all.
He needed to call her. Never mind that it was still early.
His passionate, vibrant sister would already be up working on her Christmas preparations.
Luke was probably helping her, as he seemed to be that kind of guy, and Shawn would be dancing at their heels, hoping for pancakes with chocolate chips in them for breakfast.
Clayton scrubbed at his eyes, and sat on the bed, cell phone in hands, just as he had the night before.
He needed coffee as soon as he could get his hands on it, but if he was going to hang around for some guy to come for the reward, he also needed to get to a bank machine, as people who returned stolen items only if there was reward money usually preferred cash.
Sarah answered after only half a ring.
"Clayton?" she asked.
"They're calling already," said Clayton, knowing she would understand his desire for not dancing around the bush. "Did you really think this would help?"
"I did," she said. "How many calls have you gotten thus far?"
"They're lining up for it like wolves," he said, shaking his head. "But it's okay, it's okay. The cops got some calls as well, and they want me to hang around while they check it out. I figure I'll be here till noon, and then I'll leave. Is that okay?"
"Yes, I'm sorry," said Sarah, and in the background Clayton could hear the ding of the timer on the stove, and wondered if it was sweet rolls or pumpkin bread that was just about done in time for breakfast. "It seemed like such a good idea after a glass of wine, you know.
But this morning I'm realizing that not everybody is going to be honest about it. "
"I'll vet them, don't you worry," said Clayton. "Every single one. And who knows, maybe there's some guy or gal who has found the knife and the sheath and only wants to give them back."
"That'd be in the spirit of Christmas for sure," said Sarah.
"For sure," said Clayton in echo. "All right, well, I'm going to get coffee—"
"Be sure and eat something, too," said Sarah quickly.
"I will," said Clayton. "See you tonight, sis."
"See you, little brother," said Sarah. Clayton could hear the warmth in her voice, and almost see the little smile, as if she'd just kissed him on the cheek, laughing as he blushed.
It had been way too long since they'd seen each other, and while there was going to be a delay in his driving, he'd see her soon. See all of them soon.
"Later, gator," he said.
"Later, gator," she said in response.
Clayton pressed his thumb to the phone to hang up before they got even more soppy with each other, though he was smiling just the same. Soppy was what he wanted, and what he'd been missing, though he'd not realized how much till now.
He puttered about the room, finishing his packing, taking his duffle bag out to the car. He checked his pocket for his phone, bundled up in his thin down jacket, and went to the front desk to check out.
It had been a pleasure using a real key on a large plastic tab while locking and unlocking his hotel door, and he made a point to tell the young female clerk this as he returned the key and signed the final charge slip.
To her, the real key probably reminded her she was in the middle of nowhere, and far away from bright lights and magnetic key cards that took all the magic out of staying in a hotel, so her unimpressed expression only made him smile.
"Thank you for the stay," he said to her, then got in his car and drove to the diner for another excellent breakfast of biscuits and gravy.
He lingered there, drinking slightly bitter coffee out of a thick, white china mug, and treated himself to a post-breakfast treat of toasted English muffin with extra butter and jam.
The diner was warm and only half full, so it was pleasant to linger, and nobody looked like they wanted to kick him out.
After a bit, he called the three guys who'd left messages about the reward. And, one by one, he realized they were shysters.
The first guy had a number listed with an area code from San Diego, and while he could have moved to nearby Montana, as he stated, he hadn't the first clue about the time it would take to drive from Billings to Dickinson.
"I can be there in ten minutes," the guy said. "Will you have the reward?"
Clayton hung up and blocked the number.
The second guy was more persuasive, but when Clayton asked him about the receipt that Clayton had tucked inside the sheath, he flat out lied.
"That must have fallen out, man," said the guy. Which was impossible, as the receipt had a bit of sticky tape on it that had snagged on the handle of the Bowie knife.
Clayton hung up on him, too, and blocked the number as well.
The third guy was a little bit more persuasive, with a tale of woe about needing the reward money to buy presents for his five children during the holidays.
But beyond using the words listed in the ad on Craigslist, he hadn't the faintest idea what an Indian beaded leather knife sheath actually was.
Clayton let him ramble for a minute, then hung up on him, and blocked that number, too.
Around noon, just as Clayton was finishing up his third cup of coffee, the cops came by the diner. In a town as small and connected as Dickinson, it didn't surprise Clayton overly much that they knew where to find him.
He stood, laid a twenty and a five on the table next to the green-lined bill that didn't even include a charge for the English muffin, and watched the cops come in.
Several people waved at them, and the cook behind the counter lined up two white china mugs and began pouring the bitter coffee for them.
"That ad your sister placed isn't doing much good, Mr. Nash," said the first cop, the same one from the night before who'd been so useless. "We're getting crank calls and getting no leads."
"Now you say that," said Clayton. "So I've wasted my time waiting for news."
"Sorry about that," said the second cop, though he seemed utterly uninterested in the issue at hand and more interested in the blue plate lunch specials that were being placed at the long counter lined by leather-topped stools.
"I'm on my way to my sister's, then," said Clayton.
He stepped around them, not waiting for expressions of sympathy or consolation. He had a ten-hour drive in front of him and he needed to get a move on.