Chapter 4
Wyatt
“I’ve got a slice of French silk pie with your name on it, Sheriff,” Jean James says as I slip onto a stool at the front counter of The Cow’s Moo.
“That sounds like exactly what I need right now,” I say as Jean fills a mug with hot coffee and slides it to me.
“I’ll fix you a plate.”
“Thanks, Jean.”
My gaze scans the diner, partially on police instinct, but mostly for signs of a certain feisty blonde. It doesn’t matter that I know Everleigh’s not working today. Everywhere I go, I automatically search for the woman who’s had a vice grip on my heart for months now.
I haven’t seen her since Macy whisked her away at the ranch yesterday, and dammit if it doesn’t feel as though literal years have lapsed since I discovered her in the nearly see-through tank top and black shorts that were definitely panties.
I had to stroke my cock twice last night to get an ounce of fucking sleep after that encounter.
Get your mind out of the gutter, Knight.
“I just made this pie this morning,” Jean says, sliding a plated slice of French silk pie and a fork to me.
“This looks amazing.”
As it’s too early for the main dinner crowd, the place is mostly empty aside from an unfamiliar young redheaded woman and little girl with matching hair in two long braids sitting in a corner booth.
Considering the sedan with the Pennsylvania license plate in the parking lot, I’d guess they’re just passing through—probably on a road trip to Disneyland or Glacier or some such place—and stopped at the promise of ice cream.
Two older women who frequent the local bingo nights sit at a table beside a window, quietly chatting and sipping coffee.
Delma Banks and Ester Thompson. I wonder if they might know something about what happened to Walter Smalley.
Paps only knew that he’d been taken to the hospital in the middle of the night and never came back.
Whatever happened, the grandson stepped in and made all the decisions from that point forward.
“Long day, Sheriff?” Jean asks, no doubt picking that up from my grim expression. The woman is scary perceptive. She clocked my feelings for her granddaughter days after I realized them myself. I tried to deny how I felt, but she wasn’t having it.
“Longer than I’d like,” I admit, digging a hand into the back of my neck to work out a kink.
“Oh?”
The last hour was spent behind my desk filling out paperwork and writing reports—my least favorite part of the job—while Thor snoozed at my feet.
The pup had more than his share of excitement during a bike safety event for kids under twelve earlier this afternoon, so I dropped him off at the house before a rescheduled newspaper interview about the new four-way stop at Second and Pine that has half the town in an uproar.
Then there was the not one, but two calls, out to the Hanks brothers’ property.
“Eldon Hanks apparently set off fireworks, scaring Chester’s chickens so badly they now refuse to leave the coop.”
“Oh no.”
“That was after Chester allegedly let a skunk loose on Eldon’s property that sprayed his old hound dog right in the face. If that’s true, that would mean Chester managed to acquire a skunk in the first place. How is anyone’s guess.”
“Those two live to make each other miserable,” Jean says, laughing.
“Agreed.”
“The worst thing their mother ever did was leave the old crotchety men almost equal parcels of land right next to one another in her will,” Jean adds.
“You can say that again,” I mutter, reaching for my coffee and draining half the mug.
After the day I’ve had, I’m dead on my feet.
I still need to head to Everleigh’s place to assemble the furniture I promised, but this pitstop couldn’t wait another day.
I’ve been trying to get to the diner all day.
It’s one of the best gossip hubs in Emerald Creek.
I’m hoping Jean or anyone else might have more information about what’s happened to Walter.
Although I’ve not heard about anyone looking for a missing alpaca wearing a blue unicorn hat, I fear it’s only a matter of time before a report comes in.
I need to find out what happened to Walter Smalley first.
Paps’ information was limited and partially based on hearsay.
And so far, despite my asking around town the past twenty-four hours, I’m not having much luck getting a straight answer from anyone.
Seems as though Walter kept to himself these past couple of years, so when he disappeared, no one really knew about it.
One day he was home, the next, there was a for sale sign in the yard.
My fork hovers above the pie, but before I can get my question out, Jean asks, “What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”
“Walter Smalley,” I say, lifting the coffee mug to take a slow, thorough sip.
“Ah, sweet fella, Walter. Poor man hasn’t been the same since he lost his wife a couple of years ago you know. So unfair that she beat cancer only to be taken out by a drunk driver, isn’t it?”
I nod, remembering the horrific accident scene I was unfortunate enough to come upon before the ambulance and rescue crew. Guess there are parts of this job I dislike more than paperwork. I push away the unwanted memory, focusing on my current mission.
“Do you know what happened to Walter?” I ask. “Sounds like he vanished in the middle of the night.”
I vaguely remember Walter’s wife Eliza involved in practically every local function.
The town raised thousands to help with her medical costs and even threw her a huge party that required closing off two blocks of Main Street once she beat cancer to celebrate.
Her funeral was so strongly attended they had to hold it at the high school gymnasium to accommodate everyone who wanted to pay their respects.
But once that funeral was over, Walter and his alpacas became recluses.
“Heard he had a stroke a few weeks ago.” Jean wipes down the counter beside me.
“Next thing anyone knew, he’s gone and his house was for sale.
I’m sure glad Everleigh snatched it up before those greedy city investors could sniff it out.
But with the price she got it for, the seller was clearly motivated to sell. ”
“You think Walter just had enough and wanted to leave Emerald Creek?”
“I don’t think Walter sold his home by choice, if he was even the one who sold it at all.”
I searched for recent death records during a small break in chaos yesterday afternoon, but Walter Smalley’s name was not among them. Which means he had to have gone somewhere else. “Paps said something about a grandson?”
“That ungrateful brat put Walter in a home,” Ester pipes up from her table.
I turn on my stool to face her.
“And the only reason I’m calling him a brat is because there’re tiny ears.
” She nods to the little girl in the corner booth.
The mother, I assume, looks up and mouths a silent thank you.
She looks exhausted, as though she hasn’t slept in days, maybe weeks.
But before I can focus too much on her, Ester adds, “He sold Walter’s alpacas, too. ”
“Alpacas?” I ask, noting the s.
“I heard Birdie was spotted in town,” Delma adds, her eyes pleading. “Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true,” Gary Tomlin chimes in as he steps into the diner. “Saw her myself. She ran past my kitchen window just after dawn yesterday. Can’t mistake her either. Not with that blue hat.”
“Where’re the other two?” Ester asks, looking at me as though I have the answer. Considering I was unaware until moments ago that Walter had a small herd of alpacas, I don’t. “Penelope and Karen?”
“Who knows?” Gary says, lifting his ball cap and scrubbing a hand through what little hair remains. “I bet that greedy—”
“Gary,” Ester says, her tone a warning as she nods toward the corner booth.
Gary clears his throat and tries again. “I bet he sold them to the highest bidder. I’m glad Birdie escaped.”
“But where is she now?” Delma asks, the woman near tears. “I hope she didn’t get hit by a car—”
“Birdie is safe,” I interject.
“Oh good!” Delma says, clutching her chest.
Safe for now. But I keep that part to myself.
To my knowledge, the place Birdie escaped from hasn’t reported her missing.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not racing some invisible clock to find answers before they want her back.
I know in my gut Birdie is safest at the Stone Ranch.
But unless I get some answers fast, her fate might be out of my hands.
“According to Annabelle Wells, Walter’s at Shady Pines,” Jean says, topping off my half empty coffee mug. Annabelle, a longtime server at The Rusty Nail, knows almost as much about what goes on in this town as Jean does.
“Shady Pines?” Delma repeats, the dread heavy in both her tone and expression.
“He would put Walter in a home that’s hardly better than a prison,” Ester mutters, shaking her head in obvious disapproval. “You know they’ve been shut down twice in the last ten years? It’s a miracle they’re even open. That grandson is a piece of work if you ask me.”
“Sheriff, if that sorry excuse for a grandson comes around, can you arrest him?” Delma asks, her tone a combination of malicious and hopeful. As though I might actually have some authority to arrest someone for just being a shitty human being. If only.
“And what would he be charged with?” Gary chimes in, playing devil’s advocate.
“Elder abuse,” Ester offers.
The redheaded woman laughs in the corner, just once, but it’s enough to draw all attention to her.
“Sorry,” she says with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Please, ignore me.”
“I don’t believe we know you, sweetie,” Ester says, turning up the charm. “Are you new to town?”
“We’re just passing through,” she says, offering another smile that doesn’t reach her tired, red-rimmed eyes.
“Headed out West?” Delma guesses.
“California!” the little girl pipes up, her expression brightening as she looks up from the picture she’s coloring.
“You’ve been driving a long time, haven’t you?” Gary asks.
The redhead clams up, suddenly uncomfortable.
My first instinct suggests she’s on the run.
I study her a bit closer, uncertain whether it’s the lighting playing tricks or if she’s covered a bruise beneath her left eye with thick makeup.
Could just be dark circles under her eyes if they’ve been driving for days.
“Guys, let the ladies enjoy their ice cream in peace?” I interject.
The little girl giggles, no doubt at being called a lady. I’d peg her for six or seven, but her pigtails could be making her look younger than she really is.
“Sorry, I just noticed your license plate,” Gary says, waving in apology to the woman as he finally slips onto a stool beside me at the front counter.
“We’ve been driving forever,” the little girl says dramatically. “Are you sure this isn’t California?”
“Janie,” the woman hisses.
“What? You said you were tired, Mommy.” The little girl—Janie—kicks her dangling feet against the booth as she takes another bite of a tornado ice cream concoction they’re sharing.
It’s the one with frosted animal cookies that Everleigh always asks me to get when there’s an ice cream emergency.
I consider swinging back by the diner to grab a couple tornadoes to go for her and my sister to apologize for my tardiness.
Because after I make a pitstop to The Rusty Nail, I will definitely be late.
“If you need a place to rest, there’s a lovely bed and breakfast just a couple blocks up the road,” Jean offers to the woman. “Owner’s a friend of mine.”
“Thanks. We’ll be back on the road as soon as we finish, though.”
Sensing the woman is uncomfortable from all the attention, I return the conversation back to Walter. “Where’s Shady Pines?”
“In Springdale,” Ester says, her body shuddering. She looks at Delma. “We really should pay him a visit soon. Maybe break him out.” Ester looks at me. “You didn’t hear that, Sherrif.”
I lift my hands in surrender.
Springdale. Fuck, that’s more than an hour away. My schedule is packed this week, but I might have to call in a favor to get an extra day off. More than ever, I feel it’s imperative that I talk to the source. It might be Birdie’s best hope.
“You should take Everleigh with you to visit Walter,” Jeans suggests, her voice low enough that Gary—still gabbing with the women at the table behind him about nursing home escapes—doesn’t hear.
There’s a twinkle in her eyes. One I’ve grown used to seeing when her granddaughter comes up in conversation.
Though Jean has never interfered, I know she’s hopeful.
Me too, Jean. Me too.