Chapter 4
Hank’s exam room smelled like rubbing alcohol and lemon furniture polish, a combination which Reno actually found pleasant.
Instead of buying or leasing both a house and office space in Cobbler Cove, Hank had opted to buy a big old Edwardian house a block off Main Street in the center of town and turn the front room downstairs into his doctor’s office. The big foyer acted as his waiting room.
Although Hank had converted the parlor into a combination examining room and office, he’d left all the original wood trim intact, along with a pair of beautiful Queen Anne chairs in front of the big bay window.
The wall of built-in bookshelves and glass-fronted cabinets were where Hank stored medical doodads: gauze pads, syringes, bottles of alcohol, and the like.
Reno knew, because he was family and had free run of the house, that Hank had also installed a locked refrigerator in the walk-in-pantry off the kitchen where he stored prescription medications and controlled substances.
Reno also knew the linen closet between the parlor and the dining room was where Hank stored a portable x-ray machine and an ultrasound machine.
Reno sat on the exam table with his bad leg stretched out on the table. Hank examined the knee, working his fingers along the joint line with professorial focus.
“Still getting swelling at night?” Hank asked.
“It’s better than last week, but yeah.”
“How’s the pain on a scale of one to ten?”
“I’d give it a three most of the time.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“A six when I forget I have a bum leg and do something without thinking, and an eight when I’m really stupid.”
“Forget your leg is hurt a lot, do you?” Hank asked dryly.
“Been tryin’ to.”
“And how’s that going?” Hank asked even more dryly.
“It hasn’t magically healed up if that’s what you’re asking.”
His brother’s mouth twitched, but he managed not to smirk. Without warning he pressed his thumb down firmly on a spot just above the kneecap, and Reno yelped.
“That’s better than I expected,” Hank commented.
“Speak for yourself,” Reno retorted. “That hurt.”
“It’s supposed to. A nerve runs through there, and the swelling inside your knee is impinging on it.
That spot won’t stop being tender until all the swelling in your knee is gone.
And for Pete’s sake, don’t sit around all day pressing on it to see if it still hurts.
It’s no good for the nerve or for the swelling, and it’s not going to get better for at least a few more weeks. Understood?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave it alone.”
“I’m serious. I’m speaking as your doctor, not your brother.”
Hank headed for his desk and the laptop sitting on it. He typed a few notes in Reno’s file, then said, “I heard Grace over at Buns ’N’ Roses got a twelve-dollar tip on a cinnamon roll Tuesday.”
Reno blinked, surprised. “Now where did you hear that?”
“Where else? At the diner.”
Reno just rolled his eyes.
Hank picked up a wide elastic bandage from the desk and wound it efficiently around Reno’s knee. “I heard you went back to the bakery Wednesday and Thursday, too.”
“The cinnamon buns are good. And I had some information for Grace about a security camera.”
“Twenty-five-cent question. Two-dollar answer.”
“You’re keeping pretty close track of my receipts, there, Bro.”
Hank shrugged. “How’s Grace doing? I haven’t seen her for a few weeks.”
Reno picked up the brace from the floor and strapped it on his leg. He knew better than to ignore the question altogether, or Hank would start speculating on why Reno was suddenly so reluctant to talk about a woman.
It was Reno’s turn to shrug. “She’s fine. Nice lady.”
“She is.”
“I met her daughter. Spitting image of her mama.”
“Lily’s a cutie, all right. Reminds me of the cherubs painters like Raphael and Rubens painted.”
“If you say so,” Reno replied dubiously.
“I thought you got a decent education at that fancy Ivy League school. Didn’t they teach you anything about art and the old masters?”
“I’m a cowboy lawyer from Texas, which means I know two things: cattle and criminals,” Reno retorted, exaggerating his drawl.
Hank said, “Grace lost her husband in the Shoemacher fire, you know.”
“I’m aware. Sad thing, that fire.”
Reno was silent. Hank was silent.
“Got any plans after your knee heals?” Hank finally asked.
Reno sighed. “I know you and Dillon are dying to find out what I’m gonna do next, and I get it. You’re both unapologetic busybodies. But I don’t know what comes next, yet. So give it a rest, will you?”
“It’s older brother prerogative to be nosy,” Hank declared.
“Tell you what. When I figure out what I’m doing with my life, you’ll be the first to know. Until then, how about you don’t bring it up again?”
Hank scowled as he watched Reno stand up and test the knee and its wrapping. “You coming over this afternoon to help with the upstairs bathroom?”
“I’ll be here.”
“My last appointment will be over by three. I’ll get to work right after that.” Hank added, “Dinner’s on me.”
“So . . . cold pizza and warm beer?”
“You got it. The supper of champions.”
“And of free labor strong armed from your friends and family.”
“You’re walking on your knee more than you should,” Hank announced abruptly.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m a doctor. It’s my job to know.” A pause. “Also, I know you. And a more impatient man I’ve never met.”
“Hah! I’m the soul of patience when it suits me.”
“Yeah, well, we both know having a bum leg doesn’t suit you in the least.”
Hank was not wrong.
Hank continued, “Promise me you’ll go straight home and prop your knee up for a few hours.”
Reno huffed. “Fine. I promise.”
“Good. Now scram. My next patient’s waiting in the hall.”
Reno sat with his brothers at Hank’s kitchen table with a bunch of tile samples spread across it.
Hank picked up a plain white one. “Is this one boring enough for a judge?”
Reno replied, “Depends on why you need to bore the judge.”
“I’ve got a custody hearing in Bozeman in three weeks. I’m supposed to establish a stable lifestyle so Madison can come live with me.” Hank sounded frazzled, which was a rare thing for him.
Reno said kindly, “You’ve thought of everything. It’ll go fine.”
“I’m trying. Maybe I’m trying too hard.” Hank picked up another tile, this one beige. “Dillon, would a teen girl like it?”
Dillon examined the tile skeptically. “How would I know? I’m not a teen girl.”
“You’re about to have a daughter.”
“Doesn’t mean I know her taste in bathroom tile.”
Hank scowled. “Not helpful.”
Reno piped up. “Of the four samples you’ve shown us, this one is the second most boring.”
“Why are we voting on second place?” Hank demanded.
“Thorough governance.”
Hank looked at Dillon in desperation. “Help me out, Man.”
Dillon looked over the tile samples carefully and announced, “First one. Stop talking about tile.”
Hank set the winning tile aside and reached for the grout samples. “Either of you know anything about picking grout?”
“My billable rate at a litigation firm in a city where you couldn’t afford to live was eight hundred and sixty dollars an hour. You’re not paying me enough to give grout advice.”
“Zero is what your grout advice is worth,” Hank retorted.
“Zero is what you’re paying me. Different math.”
“You ever going back to law?” Dillon interjected.
“Nope. Never.”
Dillon grinned. “Never’s a long time, Me Friend.”
“I mean it,” Reno declared.
And so it went. They teased and harassed one another good humoredly as they laid underflooring and put a waterproof membrane over it in preparation for laying the boring white floor tile Hank would buy tomorrow in hopes of convincing a judge to give him custody of his fourteen-year-old daughter.
Saturday morning dawned clear and cool in the Stillwater Valley, the sky turning every pastel shade of lavender, pink, peach, and yellow before the sun burst over the horizon.
Reno took the oversized blueberry muffin Grace had sent him home with him out to the porch and sat down to enjoy it.
Grace O’Donnell could out bake even his grandmother, and that was saying something.
He’d come home from the bakery at five, after Mary arrived to help Grace pack up the McAllister cake for transport to the wedding later today. Two nights in a row he’d sat in his truck in the alley behind Buns ’N’ Roses watching nothing happen, which was the best possible outcome.
Walter came out through the doggie door, walked down the driveway in his dignified manner, picked up the weekly newspaper in his mouth, and carried it back to Reno.
“Thanks, Walt.”
The dog’s tail thumped.
The paper was a bit soggy but still perfectly legible. Reno unfolded it, saw the headline, and stopped cold.
SHOEMACHER FIRE INVESTIGATION REOPENED. Below it, in smaller type: Sheriff’s Office Working with State Fire Marshal on Re-Examination of 2021 Blaze.
Last he’d spoken with Cooper the investigation, which had been ongoing for several months, was being kept under tight wraps. What had changed? Reno scanned the article quickly.
The article reminded its readers, as if any reader in Cobbler Cove needed reminding, of the main horse barn at the Shoemacher Racing Stable going up in flames on a hot August day with a crew of eight firefighters trapped inside.
The original investigation, conducted by a state fire investigator named Lex Jansick, had ruled the cause accidental and attributed ignition to an electrical fault.
The insurance company had paid up. The case was closed. The widows had buried their husbands.
Now, according to the Cobbler Cove Crier, the Sheriff’s office was working with the State Fire Marshal’s office and what the article called additional law enforcement partners to re-examine the original findings.
Anyone who’d been near the property the day of the fire or who had knowledge of the barn’s construction and maintenance was being interviewed.
The article listed a few neighbors and former ranch hands, who’d supposedly been interviewed in the last few weeks.
The sheriff’s office had no comment regarding what prompted the new investigation. But the article noted that Cooper Lawton, recently brought on as the department’s lead investigator, was said to be in Arizona at present where Lex Jansick was reported to have retired several years back.
He thought about the sadness that clung to Grace now and then when she thought no one was looking and the longing way she looked at Lily sometimes, as if she was wishing Lily’s father was alive.
Depending on what Cooper learned in Arizona, the hole in Grace O’Donnell’s life might be a very different shape than she’d been told all this time.
How would she react if she found out, after having already grieved him, that her husband had been murdered?
How would all the widows react? Would they have to grieve their husbands all over again?
What would happen to his friends and his own brother who loved those women?
Would their new relationships survive the shock?
Reno was suddenly a great deal less sleepy than he had been a few minutes ago.
He really needed to sleep, though. He’d offered to look after Lily for a few hours this afternoon while Grace drove the McAllister wedding cake over to Apple Pie Creek and assembled it at the reception venue.
Grace’s babysitter was still sick with the flu and all of the WoWS were busy today and couldn’t pinch hit for Grace.
He’d overheard Grace ask Mary if she was busy this weekend, and the older woman saying was spending it in Bozeman.
That was when he’d stepped in to ask Grace if he could help her with whatever she needed.
As he went inside and lay down in bed, he wasn’t sure which worried him more: Grace being devastated all over again if it turned out her husband’s death had been intentional or having to spend three hours with a four-year-old.
By himself. In charge. Responsible for her being alive and unharmed at the end of that time.