We go to the other bar: the Red Lion. Apparently someone envisioned it as a quaint British pub, but that vision doesn’t extend beyond the name. The place looks like a set piece for a Western saloon. Wooden building. Wooden bar. Wooden chairs and tables.
At first, Diana’s friends seem to be exactly what Dalton said they were. They remind me of the kids Diana so desperately wanted to hang out with in high school.
In eleventh grade, the popular girls had invited Diana to eat lunch with them … an invitation that did not extend to me. I barely saw her for two weeks afterward. Then she showed up at my house crying, because it turned out all they wanted was to meet her cousin, who was an actor in a new TV show, and when she admitted she hadn’t seen him since a family reunion ten years earlier, they dumped her.
I’m barely in my seat before a guy says, “So, Powys. Rumor says it was murder. Can you confirm, Detective Butler?” He holds out his beer glass like a microphone, as if I’m at a press conference, with this smirk on his face that makes me think he really was a journalist in a former life. Or at least a blogger who thought he was one. A woman grabs the glass from him and says, “Don’t be a dick, Dick,” and the table erupts in snickers. She turns to me and extends a hand. “Petra. That’s Richard. He prefers Rich, but feel free to call him Dick if he acts like one.” Rich shoots her the finger, but it’s good-natured enough as he eases into his chair, saying, “We’re just curious. People have a right to know.”
“Sure,” Petra says. “You’re free to ask. Just don’t sneak behind Eric’s back and try weaseling answers out of his new detective. You have questions? Go straight to the man himself. Stand up to him and tell him all about your right to know.”
That gets a round of genuine laughter as people start ribbing Rich, daring him to do exactly that and then laying bets on exactly how many profanities the response will contain and how inventive the punishment for “bothering the sheriff” will be.
“He calls it ‘interfering with law enforcement,’” Petra says with a grin. “But really, it’s just pissing him off.”
Nods and smiles follow, and not a single grumble. I have to stare, certain I’m misunderstanding. I can understand Dalton needs to keep a tight lid on Rockton and, yes, may trump up charges against anyone who interferes with his job, but I cannot believe people don’t complain about that.
Petra catches my incredulous look and shrugs. “We know the drill. He can be a jerk, but he does his job. It’s not like we can afford a police public relations liaison to deal with questions. But if you ever want one, I’m your gal.”
The man beside her nods. “Dalton’s an asshole but a fair asshole. He’ll tell us what he can when he’s ready. He always does.”
“You mean he tells Will,” Petra says. “Who then tells everyone else.”
Another round of smiles and nods.
“Well,” I say, “for now I can say we haven’t made an official decision on Harold Powys. We’re focused on finding Jerome Hastings. The longer he’s out there, the less chance we have of a positive outcome.”
Rich raises his glass. “And we can all agree on that. Let me buy your first drink then, Detective, as an apology for living up to my name.”
Despite my misgivings, I enjoy the next half hour. Conversation is lively, if not exactly deep. And they have a sense of fun that’s infectious. They’re stuck in Rockton for a few years, and they aren’t providing essential services, so they can just cut loose and party, beholden to no one and nothing.
It’s just past ten thirty, and I’m talking to Petra. Turns out, she’s a comic-book artist, which she jokes makes her all but useless in Rockton. We’re deep in conversation about our favorite graphic novels when Diana perks up beside me. She straightens her shirt and tucks her hair back, and I think, Huh, who’s the guy?
I look up to see Anders coming our way. He’s grinning, and Diana is practically vibrating in her seat. And I smile, because now I know she wasn’t pushing me in his direction—she was testing whether my gaze had already turned that way. When he catches her smile and returns it, I’m glad. I slide out, motion for him to take my place, and then sit in the empty seat on Petra’s other side. Anders pulls up a chair and plunks it down next to me.
“Got a story for you,” he whispers as he sits. “Rockton policing life at its finest.”
There’s a moment of silence, and I realize everyone at the table noticed the interplay with Diana.
“You’ve met Diana, right?” I say, and as the words leave my mouth, I want to kick myself.
Diana looks as if she wants to drop through the floor. Anders just smiles at her and says, “Sure, we’ve met.” There’s a snicker from someone farther down the table, and as genuine as Anders’s smile seems, I detect a bit of distance in his eyes. That’s when I realize it’s no secret Diana has her eye on Anders. She’s let him—and everyone else—know … and he’s made it clear he isn’t interested.
Shit.
“Hey, Di,” I say, leaning forward, “you want to go for a walk?” I lift my shot glass. “I’ve hit my limit, and I could use the air.”
Yes, it’s an awkward excuse, but I’m desperate to fix this. She only gives me a cool look and says, “I just started my drink.”
Anders takes a long gulp of his beer. “Give me a minute, and I’ll walk with you.”
“No!” I say, a little too sharply, and Petra gives a sympathetic chuckle.
“We should both turn in soon,” Anders says. “Eric will give me proper shit if you so much as yawn tomorrow. I’ll walk you home and tell you that story.”
Diana glowers as if I’d asked Anders to play escort. I want to take her outside and set her straight. But that won’t change the fact that she’s hurt, and the more I try to fix it, the more humiliated she’ll be. So I go back to talking to Petra, who picks up where we left off. Anders joins us as he finishes his beer, and then we leave.
* * *
“You doing okay?” Anders asks when we’re outside.
“Sure.”
He glances over as we head into the street. “You seemed to be having a good time when I got there. Did I…” He clears his throat. “I mean, I realized afterward that I probably shouldn’t have just waltzed in and pulled up a chair and started talking like you’d been waiting for me.”
“You didn’t.”
He walks a few feet in silence, before checking my expression and nodding. “Okay. I just … It got a little awkward.”
“No, nothing like that. So what was the story you wanted to tell me?”
“Story?” It takes him a second, then he shakes his head. “Yeah, idiot, the reason you waltzed in there and barged into the conversation. Before I get talking—because God knows, once I start, I don’t stop—do you want to go straight home? Or walk a bit, so I can add to the grand welcoming tour the boss took you on yesterday.”
“Uh…”
“What? You didn’t get the tour? I did.” He points down the moonlit street. “Police station, general store, restaurants, lumberyard, and bar. No, wait, it was more like: Bar’s over there, and if I fucking catch you ever staggering out of there, dead-ass drunk, you’ll be drying out in the cell all night.”
I give a soft laugh, and he smiles over.
“Proper tour, then?” he says. He motions at the moon. “We’ve got enough light for it.”
“I would love a tour, but do I still get the story?”
“Of course. Can’t forget the story, since it was so damned important.”
We start walking and he says, “You missed your first chance at a grizzly sighting tonight. Right on the edge of town.”
“What?” I look at him. “Dalton said they don’t—”
“Usually come this close. Always note the usually, Casey. So someone reported seeing a bear rubbing against a tree, scratching its back and grunting. I grab the rifle and every militia guy I pass on my run across town. I’m creeping up on the spot with Kenny and a couple of the others at my back. And there’s the beast. It looks a little small—maybe six foot. Wide enough for a bear, though. Definitely rubbing up against that tree with plenty of grunting. Then I see it’s got four legs, four arms, and is wearing clothing. Well, some clothing.”
“Ah, the elusive beast with two backs.”
“Not nearly so elusive around here. Yep, so that was our bear. A couple who tried to sneak twenty feet into the woods for a little privacy … and found themselves with an audience who’ll be spreading the story for days. They’ll also be slapped with chopping duty for being outside the boundary.”
“Chopping duty?”
He glances over. “Man, Eric really didn’t tell you anything, did he? It’s the main form of punishment here. We can’t keep anyone in the cell for long, and we can’t impose harsh fines or they won’t be able to buy food. So we do what they did in Dawson City during the gold rush: sentence folks to chopping wood for the municipal buildings.”
“Smart.”
“Especially in winter, when we need a lotta wood. Now, if you look to your left, you’ll see the lumber shed and chopping circle just past those buildings, which are…”
We continue down the street and he carries on with the tour.
* * *
The next morning: more searching for Hastings. At noon, Dalton decides it’s time to scale back. The militia will stay on it, led by Anders. The sheriff will return to dealing with the local law enforcement issues that have piled up in the last forty-eight hours. I’ll get to work on the Powys case.
First, I talk to the doctor—Beth, as she insists—and get her full autopsy report. The next step would be to reinterview those connected to his disappearance—who saw him the night he took off, who might have played some role. But I have a different idea I want to pursue first.
I spend most of the afternoon reading through other homicides and disappearances. There aren’t many … if I don’t remind myself exactly how small this town is. When I do, that small stack makes Rockton the Bermuda Triangle of the North. Most of it, though, can be chalked up to the situation. We come here because we’ve either done bad shit or we’ve got serious baggage. The fact that almost everyone survives the stay and goes home again is actually remarkable. But that means every year one or two won’t be going back. Some wander off into the woods, either dying alone or making a home there. Others die by homicide or misadventure. Or they commit suicide.
That’s what Irene Prosser’s death is filed under. I read it three times to make sure I’m not missing anything. Then I wait for Sheriff Dalton to return. At five, he walks straight through, coffee already in hand. I follow him onto the deck.
“Busy,” he grunts.
“Irene Prosser.” I slap the file on the railing. “Suicide? She was found in a water cistern. With both wrists cut to the bone.”
“We don’t have bathtubs.”
“Excuse me?”
He speaks slower. “Most people who cut their wrists do it in a tub because it’s less painful, apparently.”
“Less painful? Her hands were practically cut off.”
“She left a note in her handwriting.”
“Presumably written before she nearly amputated her own hands?”
He shrugs and stares into the forest. I walk into his line of sight.
“You’re not stupid, Sheriff, and I don’t think you’re corrupt, so what the hell is going on here?”
“I ruled the death a murder.”
I ease back. “Okay.”
“Beth thinks the killer intended to hack off Irene’s hands, but the blade wasn’t sharp enough. The killer then realized it could look like a suicide and faked Irene’s handwriting. Any idiot can see it’s not suicide. The council disagreed. So I am not allowed to officially investigate.”
“Officially. Meaning you have investigated.”
“If I had, it would be on my own time and any notes would be kept in my home, because if the council found out, they’d give me their usual threat—to stick my ass on a plane down south. One way.”
I want to ask why that’s such a big deal. Then I remember what Anders said—that Dalton was born here and doesn’t intend to leave. I’m guessing that’s how the council keeps him in line. Threatens to kick him out, because he has no right to stay.
“Irene was Harry Powys’s ex-girlfriend,” I say. “She died two weeks before he went missing.”
Dalton takes a gulp of his coffee.
I continue. “You didn’t randomly decide you’d like a detective on staff. Like I said in the car on the way up here, you already needed one. This is why I’m here, and you just stood back and let me figure it out for myself.”
“No,” he says. “I had one woman dead, presumably homicide. Another woman went missing seven weeks ago. Then Powys disappeared. I’ve wanted a detective for a while. Your file just hit our desk at the right time.”
“Missing woman?”
“Abbygail Kemp.”
I choke back a growl of frustration. “Were you going to tell me about her? Or just wait until I figured it out? If you want to test my detection skills, amuse yourself by making me figure out which horse is yours.”
He turns cold gray eyes on me. “What you and I are doing right now, Butler? It’s not about proving you’re a detective. It’s about proving I can trust you. Because you came along at a helluva convenient time.”
I pause. “You think I’m, what, a plant? Spying on you?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. What’s the adage? It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you?” He puts down his coffee. “The council expects one thing from me, Detective: blind obedience. I don’t provide it, so they want me gone. The problem? There are still people around who financed this town in the early days. Permanent stakeholders. They want me here, and unless the council can prove I’m incompetent, I stay. So, yeah, I’m suspicious.”
“I’d like the file on Abbygail Kemp.”
“Inside. Second cabinet. Second drawer.”
“I also want your notes on everyone you think the council smuggled in.”
He looks up at me. “I don’t keep—”
“Bullshit. If you don’t want to show me, okay. We’ll just discuss them.”
“It won’t help.”
“Of course it—”
He gets to his feet. “Abbygail’s file is inside. For the rest? Start from scratch.” He heads for the door.
“I’m not asking for a hand up. I’m asking for the opinion of the person who knows this town better than—”
The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone on the porch.