Cold River (4 page)

“I’m Dr. Steenburg.”

“You planning on pancakes for breakfast?”

“What?” Unease prickled the skin on Mandy’s arms as she realized how vulnerable she’d become the minute she unlocked the door. What if this was some escaped lunatic who had managed to steal a policeman’s uniform and car?

Deputy McDonald pointed to the spatula in Mandy’s right hand. For the first time, she realized she hadn’t grabbed a butcher knife when she reached in the drawer.

“I’m the new superintendent of schools.” She hid her weapon behind her back. “Go on home, Deputy MacDonald. There was no place for me to stay tonight, so I’m bunking here. Grange Timberlain knows I’m here. Call him if you like.”

“The new superintendent, huh?” The deputy scowled, but said nothing more. He snapped off the spotlight, turned abruptly, and marched off the porch to his waiting cruiser. The whirling lights went out, and Mandy found herself standing in the open door, watching him drive out of the parking lot.

“Well, that was strange,” she said aloud as she turned to lock up. On her way back to the kitchen, she held the utensil up threateningly. “Don’t come any closer— I have a spatula!”

She giggled as she turned on the kitchen lights, but the laugh became a gasp when she used her left hand to pull open the drawer.

“Ow, ow, ow.” She clutched her wrist and remembered the fall that caused the pain. “It’s like an evening with Chevy Chase,” she said as she began opening and closing cupboard doors, careful to use only her right hand. “I wonder where they keep the first-aid kit.”

She went through every storage place in the kitchen before realizing the bathroom might be a more logical place to look. In that room she found plenty of cupboards, but they were stacked with copy paper and office supplies. There was no first-aid kit, but she did find a bottle of Tylenol in the medicine cabinet. She took two tablets and wondered how long it would take for the throbbing to ease.

“An Ace bandage would really help,” she said to herself. “Surely they have a first-aid kit.” She stepped into the reception area and looked around. Certain that the curving counter must hold lots of storage space below, she turned on the light and went to investigate. Behind the counter, she found forms, manuals, and district pamphlets on the upper shelf. Down on her knees, she opened the lower cupboards to discover Tarheel T-shirts, sweatshirts, and an afghan in progress. No first-aid kit.

“Rats.”

She pulled herself to her feet with her right hand and thought for a moment before opening the suitcase that sat on the floor. She unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a pair of panty hose, then wound them around her injured wrist. Next, she went to the kitchen, checked in the freezer, and was delighted to find a commercial ice pack.

Mandy carried the pack with her, and after making sure that all lights were out, she wrapped her feet in the fleece and pulled the topcoat over her as she lay down on the couch. The throbbing in her arm and the thoughts racing around in her head vied for top wakefulness honors, but the pain relief must have started kicking in, because she finally threw back the covers and dug around until she found a pencil and paper. With the ice pack atop her left hand, she wrote a list with her right:

1. Find out WHERE THE FIRST-AID KIT IS!

2. Talk to Mo about what papers left office in his briefcase and why.

3. Why doesn’t Mo want Grange to know about #2? Probe.

4. Establish rapport with Deputy MacDonald. Express thanks for his watchfulness over district property.

Mandy yawned. She checked her watch and discovered it was four o’clock. Feeling suddenly very tired, she set the list and pencil on her suitcase and went back to bed. She couldn’t seem to find a position that would keep the light out of her eyes and at the same time allow her to keep the ice pack on her wrist, so she gave up, let the ice drop to the floor, and turned on her side. The next thing she knew, a tinny
beep beep beep
sounded in her ear.

Mandy sat up. A simple night’s sleep was turning into an ordeal. She checked her watch to find out the time and discovered that it was five o’clock. The insistent noise that had wakened her was her cell phone. It was time to get up. She moaned and entertained the idea of sleeping for one more hour, but the thought of someone coming early to work and finding her disheveled and sleeping under a borrowed overcoat was enough to pry her out of her warm nest.

Stretching and yawning, Mandy winced as she extended her left arm too far. Then she hung the coat and the fleece in the closet and put the ice pack back in the freezer. Knowing there were no linens in the bathroom, she took two terry dish towels from the kitchen cupboard. She moved her suitcase to the bathroom, retrieved her suit from the closet, and set about making herself presentable.

By six o’clock she had not only showered, dressed, put on makeup, and cleaned the bathroom, but she had also had a breakfast of Ramen noodles she found in the kitchen cupboard. The only evidences of her night in the district office were the dark circles under her eyes and the two wet towels that sat on top of her suitcase in a corner of her office. That left her an hour before the office would open.

Mandy prowled around the premises for a few minutes, but, unwilling to invade other people’s territory, she did no more than peer through the glass door of each office. All seemed to be neat and orderly, with the exception of the one just down from hers, which was piled with boxes and books. She passed by and entered her own office.

The sun was obviously up, since the sky had turned from black to woolly gray. Standing at one of the windows, she leaned her forehead against the pane and felt the leaden weight of the gloom pulling her mood down with the unrelenting force of gravity. She sighed, but just then a bit of sparkling movement caught her eye. A daffodil, stirred by a breeze, was nodding its yellow head. Though dripping with moisture, others followed suit, agreeing with that first positive, radiant flower.
Yes, yes, yes. We carry our own sunshine within us.
The corners of Mandy’s mouth lifted, and she looked at her lime green sports car. It too seemed a bright spot in the gray day. She checked her watch. She had half an hour before people would be arriving. After grabbing her purse and her keys, she hurried downstairs and out the door, then locked it behind her. As she walked along the flower beds, she sang a snatch of a song she learned as a child,

“How do you do?” they say.

“How do you do today?”

In my pretty garden, the flowers are nodding.

By the time Mandy pulled out of the driveway, the daffodils had acted as an anti-gravity device, and her mood was considerably lighter.

At the highway, she turned left and drove the few blocks to where downtown Limestone hunkered off the highway to her right. Taking the first street that led in to town, she examined the odd assortment of buildings. Square, cinderblock shops butted against gangly, wooden-shingled buildings. Several were boarded up, and nowhere was there a look of prosperity. Even the red brick post office looked worn around the edges.

As she drove by, a man in a white postal Jeep with the steering wheel on the right pulled out in front of her. His longish hair curled like a honey-colored halo, and his face was sculptured and hollow cheeked. He seemed to be singing, and his head nodded in rhythm to a beat that she couldn’t hear.

Mandy could see a school on her left, sitting on a rise in the next block, but she didn’t go by it. Instead she followed the road she was on past a white clapboard church that had a steep roof, a bell tower, and a reader board announcing morning worship at ten every Sunday.

Beyond the church, the street ran alongside the rushing torrent of Lemon Creek, then crossed it on a graceful arch made of concrete. She pulled over to the side of the road and watched the water tumbling down the mountainside in a foaming cascade just beyond the bridge. The creek beside her ran swiftly, and as Mandy watched, an arching flash of silver glinted against the gray water. So fleeting was the glimpse that she blinked, and she examined the stretch of river again, hoping to see it repeated.

There it was! But in that instant, quicker than her brain could process, a huge bird swooped down, caught the fish as it jumped, and carried it away clutched in talons that looked like steel traps. As strong wings beat the air and the bird ascended with its prey, Mandy was conscious of a white head and a wicked-looking, hooked beak.

“A bald eagle,” she whispered. “Wow.”

She sat a while longer, hoping to see another eagle, but nothing happened. The water continued to cascade down in a roiling, whirling mass only to straighten out at the bottom and rush headlong. She pulled onto the roadway again. As she drove over the bridge, she glanced at her watch and realized she had been gone twenty minutes. Hoping she could find her way back to the district offices, she followed the street as it wound past four aging and abandoned concrete silos before intersecting with Highway 20 again. When she looked to her left and spied Shingle Mill Road, Mandy smiled in satisfaction. A quick jog across the highway and soon she was speeding through the green tunnel toward the daffodil-lighted end.

As she turned into the parking lot, Mandy counted five cars in the lot. Mentally pairing cars with known workers, she realized there was one extra and figured the sleek, new Escalade probably didn’t belong to someone who worked for the public schools.

Pulling into the space marked Superintendent, Mandy hoped her second entrance would be more welcome than her first.

THERE WAS NO
one in sight when Mandy walked in. She could hear voices from the kitchen and supposed everyone had gathered there for coffee. It was exactly seven o’clock.

“Hello.” A voice spoke behind her.

Startled, Mandy whirled. A stranger stood in the doorway. Handsome in an angular way, he was of medium height, with black hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and an aquiline nose. He was dressed casually in khakis and a long-sleeved shirt open at the neck, but both the pants and shirt were pressed to perfection. As he extended his hand, he smiled, and his teeth flashed against his olive complexion.

“I’m sorry to have startled you,” he said. “I’m Vince Lafitte. School board. Are you Dr. Steenburg? I’ve come to say welcome.”

She liked his handshake. It was firm and reassuring and the first real warmth she had felt in Limestone. She smiled back. “Thank you, Mr. Lafitte.”

“Vince.”

“Vince,” she repeated. “Would you come to my office?”

Without waiting for a reply, she led the way up the stairs. As she gained the landing and turned to walk around to her office, she glanced down and saw Grange Timberlain watching from below with a scowl on the working half of his face.

Her eyes slid away. “Good morning, Mr. Timberlain.” She forced a pleasant note into her voice.

“Good morning.” His tone was as dark as his look had been.

As she walked on, Mandy heard Vince say, “Grange,” in a neutral tone.

From below came the equally neutral answer. “Vince.”

Feeling Grange’s eyes as she walked along the landing, she was glad to reach her office. She opened the door and stood aside for Vince to enter, then stepped in and closed the door behind her.

“Won’t you sit down?” She sat in the burgundy chair, grateful for the solid expanse of the desk between her and this man, for he had a surprisingly cosmopolitan presence, and she suddenly felt a little shy.

“Lafitte,” she said, seizing upon the first conversational gambit that came to mind. “That’s an uncommon name.”

“But you recognized it. I saw it in your eyes.” He sat in one of the side chairs and leaned back.

“When I was in college, I wrote a paper on Jean Lafitte for an American History course.”

“Then you know he was not a pirate.” Vince’s teeth were white and even, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Not technically.” Mandy returned his smile. “He had letters of marque from an upstart South American country, giving him the right to plunder Spanish and English ships, but I’ve never heard the name Lafitte without the word
pirate
preceding it.”

“I think it is unfortunate. The man was a patriot who very possibly turned the tide at the Battle of New Orleans. He deserves better than to be known as a pirate.”

“You certainly are a partisan. Is he an ancestor of yours?”

Vince spread his hands. She noticed his nails were clean and trimmed. There was no ring on his left hand.

“My line gets lost in the bayous of East Texas in the mid 1800s,” he said. “We were in the right place at the right time. Could be that I connect with him somewhere. But tell me about yourself. How was your trip?”

“Other than a flat tire in Corvallis, it was great. I just followed the map.”

Vince looked out the window at her car. “How could you bring enough with you to last more than a day?”

She laughed. “You have to plan ahead if you drive a sports car. The trunk will hold an overnight bag, and I managed to fit a suitcase in the front seat. I’m expecting some packages today that I mailed before I left.”