Murder Comes by Mail (8 page)

“That’s the way to play the game.” Hank held up the articles and let them flap in the breeze. “That’s all this other is too. Just a game. Play along a few days. Talk to the reporters, smile for the cameras, and endure it when the average Joe tells you how great you are. By next week everybody will have forgotten. That’s why they call it being hero for a day. A week at the outside.”

Paul was definitely in earshot now, and Hank switched seamlessly to the virtues of Cindy’s shortcake, making sure to say shortcake every other word.

Paul gave him a look. “You’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t learn to control that appetite, Leland.”

“Ah, life is full of forbidden pleasures for sure, Paul.”

Paul looked at him suspiciously, as if he suspected some kind of double meaning in his words, but Hank looked as innocent as a four-year-old kid bringing a wilted bouquet of dandelions to his mother. Paul turned to Michael. “Well, Keane, I hear you were in the right place at the right time again.” He tried to quit frowning, but the thin line of his lips didn’t lose their downward tilt.

Paul Osgood had to force himself to give Michael the time of day. He disliked Michael, partly because Michael had once been a policeman in the big city before coming back to Hidden Springs to grab headlines that should have been Paul’s, but mostly because Michael was tall. Paul was short. It was the tragedy of his existence. He believed if he were only a few inches taller, he would have been accepted at the police academy to train as a state policeman. Then he wouldn’t be stuck working for the chief of police, who happened to also be his father-in-law. He was tired of writing parking tickets the judge tore up if folks complained.

Buck Garrett claimed it would take a lot more than an extra inch for Little Osgood to make the state police, but if the man wanted to believe it was a lack of height instead of brains, then maybe that was for the best.

Michael had finally talked to Buck early that morning. Buck had information about the recovered stolen vehicle. He hadn’t even heard about the jumper. He rarely read the newspapers, but he promised to go by T.R.’s station out near the interstate to get the VIN number and run a check on the man’s car.

Michael tried to call Alex a couple of times too, but had to settle with leaving a message on her voice mail. He never knew what to say on voice mail and ended up saying something idiotic like, “Hi, heard you called. Sorry I missed you. Hope you’re winning.” What he really wanted to say was, “Hidden Springs isn’t so bad. Sheridan and Sheridan would look good on a shingle outside your uncle’s office. Hidden Springs needs you. I need you.”

She’d laugh at that. All of it, from the prospect of her ever giving up the big-city life to write wills for a bunch of country bumpkins, to him saying he needed her. But it’s what he wanted to say nevertheless, and someday if he ever got up the nerve, he might even say it.

Now he forced himself to tune back in to the conversation Paul Osgood and Hank were having with more than the agreeable nod he was giving to Paul whenever he paused and looked his way. Paul was going on and on about the need to coordinate their services to the community. It was his latest attempt at reorganizing Hidden Springs to suit him better.

“You think maybe we should have a joint city-county government?” Hank baited him. He even pulled out his little notebook and stub of a pencil.

“Now I’m not sure you should quote me on this one just yet, Hank, but there might come a day when the city and county governments could better serve the town of Hidden Springs and Keane County by merging.”

“And who would be in charge of such a combined police force? That might be a hard call to make.”

“That’s a no-brainer.” Paul stretched up a little taller. “The police chief is always the head of those merged law enforcement agencies.”

Hank looked thoughtful as he stuck the lead of his pencil against his tongue for a moment. “That might be a big job for Chief Sibley to take on so near retirement age and all.”

“Well, of course, a younger man would need to be in charge,” Paul said.

“Did you have anybody in mind?” Hank poised his pencil over his little notebook.

Michael decided he’d best take his leave before Sheriff Potter caught him fraternizing with the enemy. “I’ll leave the two of you to work out the details.”

As Michael walked down the street toward the courthouse, he almost felt sorry for Paul. Almost. But Paul was a hard person to feel much sympathy for, and the man should know by now to watch what he said to the editor of the
Hidden Springs Gazette
. If he didn’t, he would after the next edition.

Betty Jean was sorting through the mail when he got back to the office. She said Lester was out patrolling around the school to get people used to slowing down before school started in August. Sheriff Potter was checking things out along the lake today, which meant he’d gone fishing.

“The hero rush over?” Michael asked.

“Pretty much, thank goodness.” Betty Jean looked up to point to a message on his desk. “You did get a call from that doctor. What was his name?”

“Dr. Colson?”

“That sounds right.” Betty Jean slit open another envelope with her letter opener. “Said to tell you the jumper had faked out security and jumped ship.”

“You mean he broke out of their psychiatric ward? I thought those places were the same as jails.”

“Prisoners break out of jails all the time,” Betty Jean said. “I suspect it would be easier out of a hospital. They could just get an orderly’s uniform and be gone. They do it on TV programs all the time.”

“Has the guy called about his car?”

“Not here. Could be he hitched a ride to T.R.’s. I mean, Hidden Springs doesn’t have that many places that tow cars. He could figure it out.”

“We have the keys.”

“So he has an extra key in his billfold or maybe in one of those little magnetic boxes stuck under his fender or something. Lots of people do that. And he doesn’t want to get stuck with the towing bill.” Betty Jean looked across at Michael. “What is it that you’re worried about? If he decides to pitch himself off some other bridge, I doubt we’d even hear about it.”

“I don’t know, Betty Jean. But haven’t you ever had a bad feeling? A feeling that something’s not quite right, but you’re not sure exactly what. That something you’ve done is going to come back to haunt you.”

“You saved his life, Michael. That doesn’t make you responsible for him the rest of yours.”

“But what if he was a child molester?”

“A child molester? Where did that come from?”

“That’s what that Dr. Colson said when I went up there yesterday. I told him what the man said. How he told me I’d be sorry I didn’t let him jump, and the doctor said maybe I’d saved a child molester. What kind of hero would that make me?”

Betty Jean screwed up her mouth and considered her answer for a moment. Finally she said, “One who is going to have worry lines from borrowing trouble.”

9

The week passed. No more reporters called. New stories, new heroes grabbed the headlines. Nobody cared that the jumper had walked out of the hospital and disappeared. Nobody in Hidden Springs knew he existed a week ago, so there was no reason to put him on their worry list now.

Buck ran a check on the man’s old car. The jumper bought it from a used car dealer in the south of the state a couple of years ago. Jackson’s listed address was a post office box in a little town down that way. No lien showed on the title. The trail was even shorter on Jack Jackson, which Buck figured meant the man had grabbed a new name to escape bill collectors or to duck child support payments.

When Michael caught up with Buck early on Saturday morning at T.R.’s Station out by the interstate, they pulled parallel, window to window, to swap news while they drank T.R.’s thick coffee out of Styrofoam cups.

“T.R. must have got the axle grease and coffee mixed up this morning.” Buck took another sip of the stuff and winced when he swallowed.

“You could probably get some fresh brew over at the Stop and Go.” Michael looked across the road at the shiny green-and-yellow station that had gone up last spring. The bright lights on the roof over the pumps stayed on sunshine or dark.

“The sight of that place turns my stomach.” Buck’s voice lowered to a near growl. “America’s becoming a string of brand-name stores every stop. One big homogenized highway. Virginia, California, no difference. If T.R. and Billy Samuels decide to stay home and go fishing, this place will look like a thousand other exits, all golden arches and speedy-fill convenience. It’s enough to make a man move to Alaska.”

“They have golden arches up there too.” Michael sipped his coffee. It was every bit as bad as Buck said.

“Don’t spoil my dream of the wilderness, kid, but you’re probably right. Bear burgers on the drive-through menu.” Buck took another swallow of his coffee before dumping the rest out his window and crumpling his cup. “Small-town America is taking a nose dive.” He pitched the cup onto his floorboard.

“Oh, I don’t know. Hidden Springs is hanging in there about as small town as you can get.” Michael gave up on his coffee too and put it in his cup holder. “With the help of Aunt Lindy.”

“That’s the pure truth. As long as Malinda Keane is breathing air, nobody’s going to rubber-stamp Hidden Springs.” Buck shot a look over at Michael before staring back at T.R.’s pumps again. “Plus a few heroics from her nephew to keep the blood pumping.”

“Don’t you start on me, Buck.”

Buck laughed without looking back at Michael. “T.R. wants to know what to do with the car. Says he can’t just let it set there forever. At least not unless he knows somebody’s going to pay the storage fee.”

“I told him to give the guy another couple of days to show up.”

“He won’t show up. You’ve done given him a fresh start, son. He’s probably already applied for three new credit cards with some name he dug out of a trash bin out behind an apartment building up in Eagleton. He’s gone, vamoosed, never to be heard from again.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Buck’s eyes settled on Michael. “What is it about this guy that bothers you?”

“I’m not sure.” Michael turned to stare out his windshield a minute before he answered. He worked his fingers up and down on his steering wheel. “The look in his eyes, maybe.”

“The man was within a desperate inch of meeting his Maker. That can take the lid off.”

“Yeah, I know.” Michael sighed and looked back over at Buck. “Betty Jean says I’m worrying this like a dog licking at a sore.”

Buck made a face. “Our Betty Jean does have a way with words, but could be she’s right. If you’re going to be worrying something, worry about something that matters, like figuring out how we can get a decent cup of coffee without going over to the enemy.” Buck glanced over at the Stop and Go as he put his car in gear. “I guess I’d better go find some tourists to slow down.”

“Since when have you been on patrol?”

“We’re running this big push this week. ‘Slow down and live.’” Buck boomed out the last four words. “It won’t slow them down, but it will up the take for the month. Anyway, I volunteered some overtime. Billie Jo’s off to Baskin U. next month.”

“Nice college.”

“That’s what Susan says, but the tuition’s nice too. Nice and high. They take your kid, brainwash her into thinking everything you ever told her was hogwash, and bill you some gosh-awful amount like they’re doing you a favor. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

With that, Buck drove off to chase down cars with Baskin U. bumper stickers and Michael headed over to put in his weekend hours keeping the Keane mansion and grounds up to Aunt Lindy’s standards. While the house wasn’t really mansion size, it was old, so something was always in need of repair or paint.

Today Aunt Lindy had pulled out the shovels and hoes for their semiannual fight against the honeysuckle vines and wild rose briars that kept creeping into the back garden. As Michael hacked at the vines, he thought maybe he should have gone to Baskin U. and learned how to leave home.

He had left home for a few years, but Hidden Springs had called him back. He liked knowing everyone he met on the street, and he liked the fact that in a small town like Hidden Springs he had a real chance to do what all good lawmen wanted to do, and that was keep the peace in spite of what Hank had said about catching the bad guys. In the city he’d been a street cop, the one who tried to staunch the bleeding. The bandage was never big enough. For every bad guy taken off the street, three more popped up in his place. Sort of like dandelions.

Alex told him he was hiding out from the world, and fooling himself besides. Bad people were in every town, every walk of life, every situation. His problem, according to Alex, was he didn’t have the courage to step out into the unknown and accept the challenge of life. He asked her once if she didn’t think people lived in Hidden Springs, but she had an answer for that too. They just existed, put in their days, and clocked out at the end of their lives without leaving a trace of shadow behind.

That proved Alex didn’t know much about small towns. Small towns were full of shadows. As Michael grubbed up the roots of a wild rose bush that had taken up residence in the back corner of the garden, he felt Keane shadows all around him. His grandfather had no doubt fought weed intruders in this very spot. His ancestors’ shadows lay heavy over the town as well, from Jasper Keane, who founded the little town almost two hundred years ago, to Aunt Lindy, who devoted her life to keeping Hidden Springs on the map.

Michael could move to China and not get out from under those shadows, and the fact was he didn’t want to. His roots spread out and clung to the ground here at Hidden Springs every bit as tenaciously as the wild rose he was yanking up bit by bit, all the while knowing that next summer he’d be out here grubbing up the same bush all over again. Some roots couldn’t be killed.

Alex didn’t have small-town roots. When she was a kid, she spent a few weeks every summer here with her uncle Reece, but roots take longer than that. She never put down roots anywhere else either. Her father, a high school basketball coach, moved on to bigger challenges every couple of years, until he finally settled into a coaching job at a small college on the outskirts of Atlanta. By then, Alex was in law school. To her, the idea of roots choked out ambition and made a person settle for mediocrity. She didn’t think of Hidden Springs as being the slow lane, more like the exit ramp to a rest stop. A nice place to stop for a break now and again, but not somewhere to settle.