Chapter 8 #2
Thankfully, rather than bagging and tagging every single metal stake, Scott said Chevy could bag one from each geographic location as representative evidence.
It’s not like there will be fingerprints.
The arsonist may not have needed to touch any part of the sign to set them ablaze, and even if they did, the fire would have pretty much destroyed most physical proof.
The most helpful evidence will come from camera footage or any eyewitnesses.
Grant and Chevy have been canvassing door-to-door while the boys and I pick up the signs.
I’d say heavy lifting, but it’s pretty light.
Just tedious, considering the fact that whatever person or persons did this was extremely thorough.
There isn’t a single untouched Wolf Waters sign in town.
“Where are you going to store all these?” James asks with a frown.
Chevy peeks into the bed of Pat’s truck. It’s the last one we filled, and it’s up to the brim. “We do have an evidence room,” Chevy says, but his expression is doubtful. “That will have to do. At least until we don’t need them anymore.”
“Then maybe I can have them?” Pat asks. “Because I’m getting a vision …”
James groans. “Of course you are. Only because I said something.”
“This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with an idea I had. Jo would probably love to learn how to weld.”
“I’m not sure welding is something a six-year-old should be doing,” I say.
“She can learn by watching,” Pat says, crossing his arms. “You know I’d never put her in harm’s way. If she wants to learn to weld, she can do so when she’s a proper age.”
“And where are you going to learn to weld?” James asks, crossing his arms. We’re about ten seconds from a brother standoff. “I’ll bet you don’t so much as put two pieces together.”
“I’ll take that bet,” Pat says. “And I’ll raise you a yard sculpture.”
“You really think you’re going to do this?” James says with a laugh.
“Yes. An official bet.”
I almost jump in and tell them to knock it off, but now that they’ve moved into bet mode, it’s already too late.
“What are the terms?” asks James.
“By Christmas, I’ll have a sculpture welded and up on display at the house.” Pat’s confidence, especially in areas where he should have none, is a phenomenon that should be studied.
“Sure,” James says. “Sure you will. And the wager?”
Pat thinks for a moment. “Winner’s choice.”
Of all the bets my sons make, what my sons call winner’s choice is the worst. It literally means that the winner gets to choose something—within reason, though I’m not sure whose reason it relies on—for the other person to do.
It’s the Graham version of a double-dog dare, and I can’t remember the last time it’s been invoked.
“I accept,” James says, and Pat grins.
“Great. I already know what I’ll choose when I win. How about you, Jamie?”
The smile James gives Pat is mildly terrifying. “No clue. But I’ll have until Christmas to plan it.”
Grant appears then, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. His eyes dart between my sons and the clear tension there. The younger deputy always seems a little starstruck around us all. I noticed he doesn’t even attempt to meet my gaze.
“I’ve, uh, gone through everyone on that side of the street.
” Clearing his throat, Grant lifts his cowboy hat and runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair.
“No video. Or, at least, they say there’s no video.
” He pauses. “Notably, the houses with no video also all had Billy Waters signs in their yards.”
Chevy sighs. “Sounds about right. It’s not enough that we have a political divide in our country, but we’ve got ourselves a good old family divide too.”
So far as I know, the mayoral race doesn’t align with the two major political parties. I’m not even sure they run on a Republican or Democratic platform but more on the local issues, not national ones.
This race, however, is going to be contentious even without having to toe an official party line.
Where Wolf is something of a wild card and pulls from what I’d say is the heart of the town, Billy Waters Jr. represents the old guard of Sheet Cake.
Or, at least, the old money old guard. The Waters are loud and they’re powerful, using their money to throw weight around to get what they want.
There are several families with cousins and kids and all are pretty much awful.
I avoid them whenever possible because, like Indiana Jones, I despise snakes.
Billy’s a seventh-generation lawyer with a long history of politicians stemming from the Waters family.
All but Wolf.
I always did see Wolf as the only tolerable Waters, but as I’ve gotten to know a little more about his personal history, my respect has grown.
I still have a lot of questions—like, why would he run a countrified bar when he has an engineering degree from A&M and does he really have a bunker?
—but even with those, I’m still Team Wolf.
I wouldn’t vote for Billy if he were the only one running for mayor.
He’s been horrible as the interim, though he still has vocal support from his staunch supporters.
If there hadn’t been another candidate, I’d probably have thought of throwing my hat in the ring myself.
I’m sure glad Wolf did so I didn’t feel the need to step in.
For the good of the town, of course. I have no political aspirations.
It would also likely be considered a conflict of interest especially given the fact that the last mayor is the one who sold me Sheet Cake before skipping town with the money, leaving it mayorless for the last year.
The only reason things haven’t fallen apart around here can likely be attributed to the Ladies Literary and Libation Society, though I’m sure the city council might beg to differ.
As far as I’m concerned, all they did was drag their feet on this whole mayoral replacement thing.
They should have had an interim set up within a few weeks instead of leaving the position vacant and finally appointing Billy as acting mayor months later.
Grant shifts on his feet. “You don’t think Billy did this, do you?”
“Naw,” Chevy says. “He only gets his hands dirty in other ways. Setting fires isn’t a tool in his arsenal—no pun intended.
I don’t even think he’d go so far as to fund something like this.
Now, would he accidentally encourage this kind of behavior?
Absolutely. But as a lawyer, nothing he’d say could be construed as culpability. ”
“You’re using mighty big words there, Sheriff,” Pat says.
Chevy tips his hat. “What can I say? I’m a logophile. Now, we need to get these things back to the station, and I need to go have a conversation with Wolf. Do y’all mind driving back and helping unload?”
James and Patrick are amenable to this, but I’m surprised when Chevy tells Grant to go with them and log everything into evidence and then asks me to come with him to talk to Wolf.
“Me? Why?”
“You’re as good as his campaign manager,” Chevy says. “And I think he considers you like a friend or mentor. I thought it might soften the blow. That is, if you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind.”
Actually, that’s not entirely true. I don’t mind being with Chevy when he talks to Wolf, but ever since we saw Rose, I’ve been eager to get back to my loft and see her again.
I’ve spent two days not talking to her in an effort to not be too obvious or come on too strong.
The moment I saw her today, I regretted not reaching out sooner.
Avoidance is not the answer. It’s also not mature. If I’m going to actually consider a relationship again after so many years, I can’t behave like I did last time I was dating.
Though it does feel a little like I’ve matured in every possible way except in the relationship department.
How does this even work anymore? My understanding of dating was cryogenically frozen and has just now been pulled out of the deep freeze and tossed into a totally new decade with zero context or experience.
I guess I could ask my kids but … no. I’m absolutely not going to ask my children how dating works now. Even the thought is humiliating.
I’m sure I’m overthinking. If I like Rose, I should just be real and honest about it. Ask her to dinner. Or to coffee. Spend some time together and then see where that goes. That isn’t so hard?
But now, it’s almost dark, and I know she gets up early to bake. I’m almost falling over with exhaustion after two nights of no sleep.
Tomorrow, I promise myself. I’ll talk to Rose tomorrow.
The thought gives me a little bit of extra energy.
“Let’s go and get this over with,” I tell Chevy once my sons drive off, following Grant toward the station in town. “And then I need to go see about buying myself some earplugs so I can get some sleep.”