Chapter 7
Maisy’s is a legit high-end, roast-their-own-beans, espresso-driven coffee shop that offers oat milk lattes and pea protein shakes and scones that would hold their own in Ireland.
Maisy does not own it. Maisy does not work there.
Maisy is a standard poodle, black and white, who can usually be found lying on the deck out back making sure no squirrels or rabbits come looking for handouts.
Zoey and Clay sit inside because it’s June and when there’s good weather in Minnesota, every sane person sits outside. The alfresco season is short and treasured in the most northern state in the continental forty-eight. Inside, the coffee shop is empty—a good place for a private conversation.
“You want a list of criminal activity in town?” says Zoey. “Why are you interested? Do criminals make good soccer players? And how come I haven’t met you before today? It’s a small town. You’ve avoided me since you moved here.”
“I haven’t avoided you,” says Clay. “I’ve just had no need to talk to the chief of police until today.”
“I think you’ve avoided me because I replaced your dad as chief,” says Zoey.
“Not true,” says Clay. “I have no investment in my father being chief other than it kept him busy and out of my hair.”
“You do have nice hair,” says Zoey. “Do you get it cut at Hank’s? I don’t see Hank knowing what to do with long hair.”
“I don’t go anywhere near Hank’s,” says Clay.
Zoey sighs and nods, then puts a concerned look on her face. “Do you want to know why the city council fired him?”
“My dad?”
“Yes.”
“He says it was to add diversity to the department. But knowing my dad, my guess is it’s more complicated than that.”
“Judd didn’t do anything wrong,” says Zoey. “There are no complaints registered against him. Not about harassment or getting a little rough or pulling over cars driven by Black and Brown people. No misogyny. Nothing.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. My dad’s a lot of things. But he’s not a racist. Or misogynistic. So the city council just wanted new blood?”
“Maybe a little of that,” says Zoey. “They explained to me that Officers Kimmich and Wahlquist had some outdated policing practices and attitudes. Those two do have complaints against them. The council asked your dad to re-educate them, but I guess Judd was too loyal to his subordinates. And too good of a friend. After a while, the council got frustrated with Judd not straightening out Kimmich and Wahlquist and replaced him.”
“Why didn’t they just replace Kimmich and Wahlquist?” says Clay.
“That’s a good question. Maybe someone somewhere is indebted to those two. Haven’t been here long enough to know all the dynamics.”
“Small-town politics,” says Clay.
“Can’t pretend it doesn’t exist,” says Zoey.
“So they bucked tradition and brought in a woman,” says Clay with a gentle smile.
“A half-Native woman,” says Zoey.
“And are you straightening them out?” says Clay. “Officers Kimmich and Wahlquist? Making modern men out of them? Emotionally intelligent? Racially and sexual orientation and gender sensitive?”
“I’m doing my best,” says Zoey. “Of course they get to call me chief. A bit of a Native slur, but I am the chief. Nothing I can do about that.” Zoey leans forward in her chair as if she’s about to divulge a secret. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“You can ask,” says Clay.
“When you go to the men’s room, do you wash your hands before or after?”
“After,” says Clay.
“Why not before?” says Zoey.
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” says Clay.
“Everyone washes their hands after they use the restroom. I get it. Just in case something went amiss. But I also wash my hands before I use the restroom. Because the typical person showers in the morning, then puts on clean underwear. That way their private business is clean and remains clean inside a nice undergarment. But their hands have been out in the world since they showered. Touching all sorts of nasty things. Handrails and money and doorknobs. Other people’s hands.
You name it. Everything out in the world is dirty and covered in germs, so doesn’t it make sense to wash your hands before pulling down your clean underwear? ”
Clay looks at Zoey for a good ten seconds and then says, “The reason I’m here is—”
“I don’t have OCD,” says Zoey.
“It’s okay if you do. There’s no stigma in having OCD. Most successful people in this world have it in one form or another.”
“But I don’t,” says Zoey. “It’s just common sense to wash your hands before you go to the bathroom since there are orifices in one’s nether regions.
Easy access for germs. So yeah. Also, if you walk into a men’s restroom and your shoelaces are untied, you should rip them out of your shoes and burn them. ”
Clay isn’t quite sure what to make of Chief Zoey Jensen. She’s smart. But she doesn’t seem to be putting those smarts toward anything useful. He’s about to say something when she cuts him off.
“I know why you want to talk to me. Wahlquist told me your uncle Teddy is missing.”
“He is,” says Clay. “Any idea where he might be?”
“Nope,” says Zoey. “The entire department is looking for him. You think he’s involved in something criminal?”
Clay shrugs. “Never know with Teddy. He could have gone up to the cities to see friends. He could have decided to fish Viroqua, Wisconsin. It’s one of his favorite areas.
And he just forgot to tell anyone. Including his wife.
Which is not like Teddy. Or”—Clay throws a piece of blueberry scone into his mouth and continues—“he might be up to something he shouldn’t be. ”
“I know he took off without his car or cell phone,” says Zoey. “That’s a bit odd.”
“Yes,” says Clay. “It is.”
“Have you checked his recent calls and texts?”
“The phone’s locked. Deb says she thought she knew the passcode but Teddy must have changed it.
We have nothing. That’s why I’m asking you about criminal activity in town.
My father has spoken to the others in the department, but for some reason he’s reticent about speaking to you.
I don’t want to leave anything to chance. ”
Chief Zoey Jensen thinks about that and says, “I don’t know why Judd would be reticent to talk to me.
He trained me for three months. We have a communicative, respectful relationship.
Your dad really did put his town first. Riverwood is a better community than most around here because of him.
I’m really sorry he feels reluctant to communicate with me.
” Zoey’s posture shifts and she adds, “How come you soccer players have such good hair anyway? Why don’t other athletes have hair like soccer players? ”
Clay smiles. “Football players wear helmets, so why bother? Same with hockey players. Same with baseball players, only it’s a cap or a helmet. And basketball players play indoors, so they get too sweaty.”
“Does it hurt when you head the ball?” says Zoey.
Clay laughs. “Not if you do it right.”
“You’re a man of the world, Clay Hawkins. This is an interesting conversation. Not the run-of-the-mill small-town talk about weather and fishing and local gossip.”
“How is talk about heading a soccer ball the start of an interesting conversation?” Clay sips his latte and awaits Zoey’s answer.
“That’s what we’ll find out through a little back-and-forth. A tit for tat, if you will. Some talky-talk shadow boxing. A little verbal Rochambeau.”
“No one’s ever called you demure, have they?”
Zoey laughs. Scone shrapnel flies from her mouth and she laughs harder. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” says Clay. “A little scone in the eye never hurt anyone.” Clay blinks hard, then adds, “I’m asking for information that may help me and my father find Teddy.”
“Hmm,” says Zoey. “You’re implying that I’m not looking for Teddy.
But you’re wrong. I am. My entire department is looking.
I’ve also brought up Teddy with every person I’ve spoken to in the last twenty-four hours.
So here’s a question. Do you want to be friends?
You and me? I’m kind of new to town. You were gone forever so it’s like you’re new to town.
Everyone is so set in their routines. They have their friends.
They’re not looking for someone new. What do you think? ”
Clay considers Zoey’s proposition. His biggest reservation about moving back to Riverwood after being away for twenty-four years was his romantic prospects.
Zoey had just said I think we should be friends but Clay wonders if she means more than friends.
He does not make this assumption lightly.
Or immodestly. Nor out of arrogance or obtuseness.
The potential pairing of Zoey and himself seems obvious.
They are both single. They are the same age.
They have both lived in other places for the majority of their lives.
They have both survived relationships with Judd Hawkins.
Zoey has deep brown eyes and long hair to match. Clay has heard she rowed crew in college, and she’s maintained her athletic build. She stands the same height as Clay—five foot ten—and runs five miles every day, always ending with a sprint up to the top of Riverview Bluff.
“Did I ask a hard question?” says Zoey. “You seem to be having trouble answering it.”
“Not hard,” says Clay. “But also not exactly reassuring when it comes to my uncle. Teddy is my big concern. And you’re talking about your social life.”
“Our social life,” says Zoey. “Listen, Clay. I do my job. I’m good at it. What I don’t do is tell people I’m good at my job. Except just then. Because the people out there telling you they’re good at their job are bad at their job or politicians or professional liars or all three.”
Clay happens to agree with this. He ran into the same phenomenon as a professional athlete.
Especially at the coaching level. So many incompetent coaches talk themselves into a job.
That’s their real skill. Buttering up the owners.
But it was often the aloof coaches, the quirky thinkers and doers, who motivated their players to greatness not with a sales pitch but by instilling in them a belief that they could win.
As individuals and as a team. The great coaches show their players, ownership, and fans a winning system.
They don’t sell them a winning a system.
“Friends?” says Clay. “I see no reason why we can’t be friends.”
“Well, good.” Zoey extends her hand over the table. “Friends.”
Clay shakes it.
“I have a question, friend,” says Zoey. “Your dad’s been off the job less than a year. Why don’t you ask him about local criminal activity?”
“A couple of reasons,” says Clay. “I don’t want to look for Teddy with my dad.
He doesn’t exactly see things clearly when it comes to his brother.
And he doesn’t exactly see things clearly when it comes to me.
It’s a bad combination. Also, you have the most recent information.
You have active cases, I assume. Or at least suspicions and hunches about what’s going on out there in your jurisdiction.
So I figured why not go to the best source of current information? ”
Zoey’s about to respond when her cell rings. She takes the call. “This is Chief Jensen.”
Clay can hear Sue’s garbled voice on the other end.
“Tell Wahlquist to drive out and have a look.”
More garbled Sue.
“Is Kimmich out on a call…? Okay, I’ll head that way soon. Tell them I’ll be there in twenty.” Zoey ends the call.
“Busy day?” says Clay.
“The usual,” says Zoey. “But it’d be less busy if that fancy boarding school of yours had its own security. We’ve been up there twice already this summer. Stretching my department kind of thin.”
“What’s going on at Dorset-Cornwall? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Theft. Computers out of the library. Building supplies from that new wing you’re adding. A bunch of apparatus from the chem lab.”
“I’ll suggest we hire private security at the next staff meeting,” says Clay.
“Look at that. I’m helping you, you’re helping me. I love a transactional relationship. Hey, here’s a question: Are you a shower or a bath guy?”
“Shower,” says Clay. “Taking a bath is just sitting in your own dirt.”
“Yes!” says Zoey, looking genuinely impressed. “That’s exactly right! I knew I’d like you. I just knew it. What’s your cell number? I’ll send you my contact info.”