The Potluck Club (20 page)

My eyes popped open, and I stared at the red digits on my radio alarm clock. It was 9:00 in the morning. In a huff, I turned my back on the time, tangling my legs in the covers. For Pete’s sake, I’d only been in bed since 4:00 a.m. It was too early for the dream.

I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. There was no fighting it now. Once the dream interrupted my rest, it was over. I might as well get up.

My misery was interrupted by a pang of hunger. Of course! I was out of bread last night and went to bed without my ham sandwich. No wonder I was awake. I was starved. Maybe I’d shower, then hit Higher Grounds Café for a good cup of joe and one of their famous Denver omelets. Sal, the woman who ran the place, had once given me her recipe, and I was capable of making one myself, if I had such an inclination. Not!

Besides, it would be good to see some of the regulars that gathered there every morning, though to tell the truth, I kept most of them at arm’s length.

The bell above the door of the café jingled to announce my arrival from the autumn morning. Now, a person who had eight hours of sleep under her belt might enjoy how the sun backlit the last of the golden aspen leaves against a sky so blue that only the surrounding mountain peaks could interrupt its horizons. I, however, was not that person.

As I walked in, the
Gold Rush News
reporter, Clay Whitefield, looked up from nursing his cup of coffee and nodded above his copy of
The Denver Post
. Clay was half Cherokee Indian and half Irish, which explained his dark freckled skin and auburn hair. He was outfitted in his gray boiled-wool jacket, still zipped to the top, over a pair of khakis. He was in his mid-thirties, with a slightly receding hairline and a pouch of a belly. He lived alone in a one-room apartment overlooking Main Street.

“Deputy Donna, catch any wild bands of criminals last night?” he quipped, squinting against the ray of sun that followed behind me. I tipped my Rockies baseball hat. “’Fraid not.”

He looked up at me over his reading glasses. “Oh, great. I’ll have to scratch my cover story. Got anything else for me?”

I climbed onto the stool at the counter, playing along. “Like what?”

“Jewel thieves would be nice. I’d plaster their mugs on the front page followed by Nobel-Prize-winning copy.”

“Sorry, but no. Though . . .” I thought of David Harris and wondered if he had found his missing mother.

“Though what?” Clay asked with hope.

I grabbed a copy of the laminated breakfast menu, though I knew my options by heart. “Though nothing, unless you want to write about how Fred Westbrook lost the big one in Gold Rush Creek again.”

Clay snorted a laugh. “Sorry, already wrote and printed that one too many times.”

I looked up at Sally Madison, who was already waiting to take my order. Sal had probably landed in Summit View in the sixties, wearing bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed T-shirt that had somehow morphed into a red waitress uniform complete with her name embroidered on her breast pocket. I could almost imagine her forty pounds lighter with flowing blond hair. She could still be that flower child if it weren’t for the hairnet, wrinkles, and crisp white apron. Sal lived out behind the café in the Higher Grounds Trailer Park, not far from Wade’s charming aluminum home. Of course, the thing that distinguished Sal’s trailer from Wade’s was the psychedelic vintage peace symbols hanging about her windows. There was, however, another feature that distinguished Wade’s trailer from hers, and that was his Coors beer can collection littering the front yard.

“Good morning,” Sal said a bit too cheerfully.

I ignored the greeting and grunted. “The usual.”

“Denver omelet?”

“And extra strong coffee, if you’ve got any dregs,” I answered.

“Coming right up,” she announced before handing the scribbled order to Larry, the short-order cook. He shot me a glare, still steamed over his gas pump ticket. It made me almost hope he didn’t poison me. Though my murder might tie up a lot of loose ends and give Clay his cover story.

Sal sloshed a cupful of black coffee in front of me, and I took my first swig. It was nasty. Just the way I liked it.

What was left of my peaceful morning was broken by the rustle of someone sliding into the seat next to me.

“Deputy Vesey?”

I leaned over my mug but cocked my head to the side. “Well, if it isn’t David Harris. I wondered if you were still around.”

“Yeah, I took all my saved-up vacation to spend some serious time mountain biking and looking for my birth mom. Though, I can’t say I found any leads. Time to get back to work. I catch a plane back to L.A. this afternoon.”

This time I really got a good look at the man, a rather Julio Iglesias look-alike. Okay, make that Julio’s son, Enrique. How had this little detail escaped my attention before?

“What do you do out there? Star in the movies?”

David’s eyes sparked. “Nope, though my mom’s Harmony Harris, a star in her own right back in the sixties. I’m just a paramedic.”

“Your mom’s a movie star? I thought you said she was missing?” “Harmony was my adoptive mom. I just buried her a few months ago. Cancer.”

I nodded. “A loss prompting you to look for your ‘real’ mother,” I stated in my matter-of-fact voice.

David’s brown eyes met mine as a shy smile spread into a genuine grin, making my heart flutter, a reaction that I found extraordinarily annoying.

“Something like that.” He leaned one elbow on the counter and turned to face me. “Deputy, I couldn’t help but overhear you say something about Jewel? Were you talking about my birth mother?”

The intensity of his brown-eyed gaze startled me. How could I have missed his smoldering eyes? Maybe it was because he hadn’t looked so attractive when he was sick and with slush on his face. At least, not like now. Here he was shaven, his black curls combed back in a most attractive fashion, and wearing a camel leather jacket over a red button-down shirt with blue jeans. I gave him the once-over, for here sat a man who could break a girl’s heart. That realization made me determine that he wasn’t about to get near mine.

“No, it’s been a rather slow crime month. We were just cracking a joke about imaginary jewel thieves stirring up some excitement. Sorry, but I haven’t turned up anything about your mother.”

David pulled out a card and wrote his name and number on the back. “Well, I’ve got to get back home. But if you should run across any information about my mother, would you please give me a call?”

“Sure. By the way, how was your stay with Wade?”

“I wanted to ask you about that. Is that guy your boyfriend?”

To my chagrin, I could feel a blush creeping across my cheeks. “Now, why is that your business?”

“I don’t mean to pry. But . . .”

I swiveled my stool to face him and folded my arms. “But what?”

David shrugged. “It’s just that I saw your picture there.”

My voice actually squeaked. “My picture?”

“Yeah, of you and Wade. Looked like it was taken back in high school. You were all fancy, in pink chiffon. Wade had his arm around you and looked like a guy in love.”

I swiveled back to my coffee and took a sip. “Oh, that.”

“You were high school sweethearts then?”

Sal plopped my steaming Denver omelet in front of me. “We were, but that was a long time ago.”

“Then you’re not together?”

“No, not that it’s your business.”

“I’m sorry to pry, but that still doesn’t explain . . .” He caught my sideward glare and stopped.

I put my fork down and turned back to face him. “What? Explain what?”

David cleared his throat. “The Wall of Deputy Donna.”

“What wall?”

“He’s got a wall of newspaper clippings about you. You know, from the local paper, like when you first came to town, when you captured the bear that climbed into the mayor’s tree, stuff like that. It made for really interesting reading.”

I stabbed a bite of omelet with my fork. “No kidding? Well, that’s news to me. Wade and I broke up thirteen years ago.”

“Oh. Well. When I come back to town, I may look you up. After reading all those stories, I almost feel like I know you.” He smiled when he said that, a smile that this time made my heart almost stop.

I wanted to say, “Forget it and good riddance” but instead, I croaked, “Sure.”

I watched as David left, catching the smirk on Clay Whitefield’s face.

“Donna, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“That man is not my boyfriend,” I said as I turned back in a huff to face my cooling omelet.

The bell above the door jingled again, and in walked Wade Gage.

Wade folded his tall frame on the stool that David had just vacated.

“Donna! Long time no see. Wasn’t that your boyfriend who just left?”

I could hear Clay snicker behind me.

“No,” I said casually. “But why do you ask?”

“Well, when I allowed that guy to drive me home the other night, at your insistence, I might add, I had no idea he was going to use my entire stash of toilet paper.”

“So he really was sick from Rosey’s enchiladas?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said with a disgusted sigh.

So help me, that was funny, and, try as I might, I couldn’t help but giggle. Wade did a double take. “I’m glad you’re amused. Toilet paper don’t grow on trees, you know.”

I tried to take a sip of my cold coffee, but somehow I managed to breathe it up my nose. I grabbed my napkin as I snorted coffee all over my favorite white tee and jeans.

Wade stared at me. “Donna? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry, Wade. That just struck me as funny.”

Wade gave me one of his most charming grins. “Can’t say that it’s not a pleasure to see you smile.”

I stopped then and looked at him hard. I took another bite of my omelet before asking, “So, Wade. What’s this about the Wall of Donna?”

Wade was just taking his first sip of coffee when he choked.

I narrowed my eyes. “Whatever is wrong, Wade? Something I said?”

Wade wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That friend of yours told you about that?”

“He wanted to know if you were my boyfriend.”

“What’d you say?”

I leaned back and glared. “No! Come on, Wade, we’ve been over for thirteen years.”

Wade stared at me for a moment. “You’re right, Donna. I’m nothing but a drunk, and you’re nothing but a bitter woman with a permanent case of PMS.”

Wade stood and flipped a few bucks on the counter.

I turned to watch his retreat, which came complete with the revving of his truck engine before he peeled out of the parking lot. I caught Clay staring at me. “You know, Donna, if I started a gossip column, your antics alone would pick up my circulation.”

I too flipped several dollars on the counter and turned to go. “I’m glad you find my life so amusing. But remember, before you print a word of it, apparently I’m a lady with a permanent case of PMS.” I took a step toward the door, then turned back to look at him. “And I carry a loaded gun.”

Clay feigned shock. “Why, Deputy, is that a threat?”

I looked out from beneath the brim of my baseball hat. “Just concerned for your safety is all.”

With that, I walked back into the brilliant sunshine and climbed into my Bronco. I turned and looked at my onboard official deputy laptop that hung from a pedestal in the middle of the seat and caught today’s date. I noted it would be Vonnie’s birthday soon. I knew I’d better think of something special for her this year. Besides Dad, she’s one of the only people on this green earth I can really count on.

Though I was off duty, I turned on my radio scanner. Dispatch was just calling one in. “Car One, please respond to a disturbance at Summit View High School. We have a report of an altercation in the parking lot, allegedly between two of the teachers.”

I shook my head. Charlene and Jack, no doubt.
I’d better head
over there, at least for Goldie’s sake.
I pulled my Bronco onto Main Street. This was turning out to be a morning I was glad to be awake for.

23

That girl doesn’t
embarrass easy . . .

A more interesting morning in Summit View there had not been in a long, long time.

The Wall of Donna. Well, it certainly piqued Clay’s interest, letting him know he needed to venture out to ol’ Wade’s from time to time. And the Harris fellow . . . Well, who was he? Sure, Clay knew he was the adopted son of Harmony Harris, a woman he’d been fairly infatuated with back in his younger days. And this guy David had the fortune of growing up under her roof. Have mercy.

“Now he’s looking for his real mother, is he?”
Clay noted in his book while sitting at one of the few traffic lights in town. He scratched out the word
real
and wrote in
birth
. What’s more, he was looking for her in Summit View. And he’d somehow gotten Donna involved.

“What does she have to do with this? Or him, for that matter?” Clay spoke out loud. And had that been a sign of fluster he’d seen on her face?

The light turned green. Clay dropped the notebook to the seat beside him, slipped his pen over his ear, and pressed on the accelerator. Moving forward toward the Higher Grounds Café, he struggled to think, to reason the whole thing out.

He slammed his palms against the steering wheel. “Man, if I could just reason some of this out, understand these women . . .”

He looked out the passenger window and caught sight of the sheriff’s office.

If Donna is somehow involved, then someone from the Potluck Club
is . . . David Harris’s birth mom?

A smile crept over his face. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere after all.