Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
WILLIAM (NOW)
It takes me an hour to haul all the shit from the office into the alley. I make two piles. One for Habitat for Humanity, the other for the dumpster that was supposed to be here already. The dumpster pile is definitely bigger.
The crappy banquet table being used as a desk and the squeaky, uncomfortable office chair are the first to go.
How Ray never upgraded to basic office furniture is a mystery.
Yeah, it costs money but so does back surgery.
Most of the stuff on the shelf goes into the dumpster pile.
There is no logical reason to keep a broken mixer, outdated fax machine, or what I think is the remnants of an old hammock.
Oscar agreed to make a place to store the linens, so I carry those bundles to the empty kitchen and pile them on the prep table for him to deal with.
Ideally, we should close for a week so that I can get to the repairs and upgrades like fresh paint, new carpet, and updated acoustics that this place so badly needs.
Maybe after the holidays—the bar’s slowest time of year–I will.
But we have a solid show schedule until then, and I don’t want to do anything that would kill momentum.
In the meantime, I’ll fix what I can. Trim off whatever excess the business can do without, until I can build it back up again.
Laughing to myself, I break down the giant shelf unit and carry it to the donation pile.
I don’t know shit about doing any of those things.
Finally, I have the office stripped down to just the safe and the computer, which I set in the middle of the floor.
I’d like to replace it, but it’s one of the few things in here that’s not broken, so it’s on my someday list. Then I grab a bucket of warm water, a rag, and some cleaner, and return to the office to prep the walls for painting.
Not that I hope to scrape off three decades of grease, but it’s a start.
I’m just finishing scrubbing the final corner, my fingertips sore and sweat trickling down my back, when there’s a knock on the back door.
It’s Zach, dressed in his forest green deputy uniform.
“Come to hassle me about the clutter?” I tease, nodding at the piles set against the alley wall.
He smirks. “I’ll let it slide this once.”
I hold the door open and he walks in, peeking into the office with a whistle. “You’re not wasting any time.”
“It was way overdue,” I say.
He nods toward the empty restaurant. “Got a minute?”
“Uh, sure, let me just empty this.” I carry the bucket down the hall and head to the utility sink in the dishwashing station. After dumping out the black water, I give the bucket a rinse then toss my rag into the laundry hamper and wash my hands.
“Can I get you anything?” I call out.
“You got coffee?”
Do we serve coffee here? Even if we don’t, there’s bound to be a coffeepot somewhere, but I don’t even know where to look. The bar? Or back in the kitchen? “Uh, there’s soda, or iced tea?” I say because these things I’m sure I can find.
“Iced tea sounds great,” he replies.
I walk to the bar and push past the swinging half-door.
It can’t be that hard to figure out, right?
I’ve watched bartenders in action. I grab two pint glasses from the drying rack, then locate the ice machine and scoop our glasses full.
I check the fridge. There’s a pitcher of what I hope is chilled tea. I give it a sniff—bingo.
Feeling proud of myself, I carry our glasses to the two-top Zach has chosen. I settle across from him as he flips open his notebook to a blank page.
“So,” he says. “Sunday. Was there a sign someone else had been there?”
Zach giving the incident at Thunder Mountain extra attention means there’s more to it than a suicide attempt.
I flash through my memories. “There was only her truck in the driveway.” I had heard rumors about Morgan hosting occasional parties out there, but nothing that required Finn River Fire & Rescue’s intervention.
“How about once you were inside?”
“The place was…” I grimace. Zach saw it, so he’s not looking for a recap. “There were a bunch of coats on the hooks, but I didn’t exactly go looking for name tags.”
Zach nods, and jots something down.
“Did you ask that caretaker?” The reclusive old badger didn’t bother to make an appearance.
“I think he’s got a hole in the ground he drops into whenever I get near the place.” Zach sips his tea. “But I got an anonymous tip about the farrier possibly supplying more than just horseshoes. Pretty sure ole Gus is our source.”
I wince at what he’s not saying: that Morgan’s likely back to using. “Shit. Does Charlotte know?” She’s going to blame herself.
Zach’s shrug is a reminder that there are things he can’t share. “Did you come across any paraphernalia?”
“A bong on the kitchen table.” But soon after spotting it, I was racing up the stairs. From the moment we stepped into the bedroom, our priority shifted to saving Morgan’s life.
“What was she wearing?” Zach asks .
“A sleeveless shirt. Underwear.” Three years ago it would have felt wrong to say that out loud, like I’m some perv. But I’ve seen a lot of raw vulnerability in this job, even in such a short timeframe, and it barely registers. Not sure that’s a good thing.
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“She had a pretty big bruise on her thigh.”
“I saw the room after,” he says quietly.
I blow out a breath. Morgan’s room was a mess. Dirty clothes on the floor, one of the window shades ripped in half, the lamp tipped over, empty booze bottles. “Yeah.”
“Do you remember seeing her cell phone?”
I close my eyes for an instant, willing my brain to unlock those images, but it’s a blur.
“I can’t be sure.” That he’s asking means he didn’t find it at the scene.
According to dispatch, Morgan had been on the phone with the crisis line not ten minutes before we showed up.
If she had hung up to harm herself, it’s weird that the phone wouldn’t be nearby.
Unless the house has a landline? Though I don’t remember seeing one of those either.
Zach is busy scribbling, so I take a long drink of my iced tea, the cold tannins biting my teeth.
“Think she’s going to be okay?” I ask.
His eyes soften. “I don’t know.” He flips his notebook shut. “How’s Charlie handling everything?”
I run my thumb down my glass, clearing a stripe of condensation. I wish I could tell him that Charlotte’s confided in me, but she barely looks in my direction. At least this morning she let me send her off with coffee and donuts. “She wasn’t thrilled about me buying this place.”
“That’s hardly fair. You’re the hero in that story.”
I snort a laugh. “She’s not thinking I’m any kind of hero right now.”
“She’ll come around.”
Where is his optimism coming from ?
“Heads up,” he says with a serious nod. “Special Agent Luke Ballard is gonna reach out.”
“Ballard, why?” Luke Ballard is a criminal profiler for the FBI and one of Hutch’s best friends from the military. A few years ago, Ballard’s assistance helped bring down a serial killer operating in several states, including Idaho.
“Something he’s working, but I’ll let him give you the details.” Zach stands and drains his iced tea. I stand and we step into an automatic hug. It’s genuine and it grounds me just like it always does.
As we carry our empty glasses to the bar, I rack my brain for what this could mean. Every now and then, EMS gets called on by law enforcement in an investigation. Sometimes to testify in court. Other times to clarify something in our documentation.
“How’s Everett’s sheriff campaign going?” I ask him as we head for the back hallway. Sheriff Olson’s retirement has been the talk of the town all summer.
Zach’s lips tighten in a grimace. “Everett’s got the most experience and he’s endorsed by just about everyone who counts, but his opponent has deep pockets.”
“Where’s he getting his money?” The guy is a former marine and is currently a correctional officer sergeant at Rock Creek.
“Great question. It’s certainly not coming from his paycheck.”
“There’s a rumor he’s backed by that cult.”
I study my brother’s face for some kind of tell, but he’s too good.
“We still on for dinner Sunday?” he asks, not taking my bait.
“Planning on it.”
“Bring Charlie and Theo too,” he adds, arching his eyebrow.
I try to drink in that confidence that this wild plan I’ve cooked up will work. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He slips into the shadow of the alley. I watch him go for a moment longer before turning back to my project.
The work of prepping then rolling the clean, ivory paint up the walls gives my mind the space to process what I learned from Zach .
He’s investigating what happened at Thunder Mountain. But is it because of the farrier, or something else?
And that troublesome news about the race for sheriff.
There’s no one more qualified or trustworthy to run the Finn River Sheriff’s Department than Everett Rumsey.
Up north, the Clearwater County’s sheriff was basically hand-picked by the members of a quasi-religious cult that’s growing out of control.
Rowdy’s been talking about it because they hunt illegally and sometimes try to squat on public lands and he’s been forced to call in reinforcements to evict them.
That’s why Everett has to win. Someone has to stop that cult from infiltrating our community.
The kitchen crew filters in and their rock music blends with steady chopping and conversation as they preps for lunch.
It reminds me to call the accountant so I can get a better understanding of our food costs and profit margins.
I also need to run an ad for a night hostess, preferably someone who doesn’t vanish during their shift.
I’m just starting on the second wall when Oscar pokes his head into the office.
“Wow, looks good!” he says, grinning. Today, his chef’s pants are tie-dyed pink, purple, yellow, and turquoise, which matches his cap.
In his arms are about a dozen padded envelopes and a stack of other mail. “Where do you want these?”
“Just…set them there.” I nod to the center of the floor where the computer is covered by a drop cloth.
“Lemme know when you get hungry. We got fresh butternut squash raviolis on the special sheet today,” he says, pumping his eyebrows.
I press the roller up the wall. “Sounds tasty.”
“You know it.” He saunters off, whistling to himself.
I glare at the pile of demos Oscar brought me. Somehow, I need to keep the talent coming to The Limelight, and that talent could be in those demos. But listening to them is counterproductive to my well-being.
While rolling on more paint, I think through my options. If Morgan was better, this would be her responsibility. But I don’t know when she’ll be back, or if she even wants this job. Working in a bar isn’t the best environment for a recovering addict. Didn’t Ray understand that?
The person who could step into that role is barely speaking to me.
I slide out my phone and type out a short message.
I need help with these demos
Though I know it’s stupid to stare at the screen, I do it anyway. I’m not surprised when no reply comes.