The Summerland (9 page)

The squadroom was singularly uninspiring, and the lack of any police action whatsoever reinforced her impression that Mariposa was ordinarily a very quiet, almost dull town. She’d seen one teenager booked on reckless driving charges and a full-scale paper plane dogfight between two deputies who didn’t think anyone was looking. The robust, matronly secretary seemed to be the only one who kept busy, and her constant stream of visitors and telephone calls defined her as the person who really ran the office, badge or no. At the end of those two hours, Arden probably knew more about the state of affairs in Mariposa than the local paper.

It was amusing simply because the woman never even opened her mouth except to say hello. In the tradition of a good barkeep or psychiatrist, she just listened. Arden could tell, with her trained reporter’s eye that each bit of information was filed away for later use.

After awhile, even Gail’s indisputable rule of the town became old hat. Pushing away the aimless thoughts churning through her head, distracting her from what was really bothering her, Arden faced the stressor she’d been trying so hard to avoid. Her patience level had never been particularly high, and the only thing holding it in check right now was her steadfast insistence in maintaining a professional image. After all, she was an officer in the United States Air Force, and she took pride in that appointment. She would do nothing impulsive to fracture that honor.

She had to laugh a little at herself. She was and always had been one of those goofy patriots, hence her enlistment in the military. She’d never lost that urge to holler in joy as the last strains of the National Anthem played, and she still got a tear in her eye whenever she heard Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.” She was hopelessly old-fashioned.

Just sitting there doing nothing was making her butt sore, so she decided to take a short walk to stretch her legs and kill some time. The roiling heat outside the double glass doors hit her like a blast furnace. Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed her office, asking for her supervisor, Major Allen. She apprised him of the situation, letting him know she would be taking the two weeks of emergency leave they had discussed, then asked for one favor. Five minutes later she was assured her private laptop would be secured from her home and Fed Ex’d to her by noon tomorrow. With that matter taken care of she rounded the corner just in time to see the Sheriff and his protégé climb into a Sheriff’s Department Blazer. Shit. There was no way she could catch them.

Stymied by a lack of options and goaded by a growling stomach, she decided her best course of action would be to get some food, preferably the hot, greasy comfort food which could only be found in the town’s most disreputable diner. Fortunately, the kind of establishment she had in mind was directly across the street from her bed and breakfast.

* * * *

The food in the Sugar Pine was hot, greasy, and deliciously fattening. She hadn’t eaten gravy on
everything
since her childhood in Oklahoma. The décor was exactly what you would expect in a diner. Faded black and white linoleum, plastic covered booths and chairs in that odd speckly-gold color that was popular in the 70s, and off-white walls. A montage of Yosemite posters covered one wall, a nod to the few tourists who found their way into this neighborhood haven. Even the grill cook was stereotypical, a large balding man in a white tee shirt who bellowed out orders in a voice capable of scouring pans.

As she tore into what the locals endearingly called a ‘garbage’ omelet, she listened to the conversations going on at the counter, where several of the town’s old timers were getting their daily helping of gossip along with a cup of truly excellent coffee. Sipping the unexpected ambrosia, she heard every topic from the upcoming county elections to the unseasonably hot weather discussed. But center to each conversation in the room was the subject of murder. Included was the Wiccan coven’s almost certain involvement in the gruesome deaths.

Arden listened, putting each tidbit into it’s own place, it’s own category in her whirling mind. She drummed her fingers on the table, searching back through her memory, looking for the information she knew was there. Yeah, Fort Hood a couple years ago, in the late 90s, she thought. She remembered that a pretty big stink had hit the base when the local paper had shown a picture of a high-ranking officer participating in a Wiccan ceremony. Hmmm. She needed to go back to the library and have another look at
The Dispatch
. And maybe get a little Internet access before her computer arrived in the morning, if for no other reason than to sever the connection her mind was beginning to make between Samantha and the five dead girls.

The next time she saw the Sheriff she wanted to be armed, both literally and figuratively, with the ammunition to get answers.

* * * *

And so the day slid into afternoon, then finally early evening. Doug Brewster was hip deep in missing person’s reports, Josie Galloway was trying to figure out if someone within her trusted circle could possibly be a murderer, and Frank Drebin was on the telephone, grounding himself in the loving voice of his wife.

After spending the last two hours at the library, Arden decided that the best possible way to work off both lunch and her burgeoning stress level was to take a nice, cathartic run. The owner of the bed and breakfast was kind enough to tell her of the running track at the top of the hill behind the high school, only a few blocks away. Arden couldn’t help but grin at the look of complete bafflement on the proprietor’s face when she’d asked about a safe place to go running. She couldn’t decide if it was because she’d actually decided to exercise, or if it was because everyone seemed so safe in this town. Or at least they had until recently.

Lacing up her Nike’s, she stretched and set out at an easy lope. As she climbed the hill behind the high school, the little town dropped dramatically behind her in the golden evening light. It was quite picturesque, she thought, pacing herself against the steep incline. The little county courthouse was quaint and ‘the oldest West of the Mississippi,’ or so the paper claimed.

Even though the sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon, the heat was still thick, almost a living being. By the time Arden reached the top of the hill she was already drenched in sweat. Stopping to take a breath, she surveyed the terrace built into the side of the mountain. The track was enormous, fully encompassing two soccer fields and had to be at least half a mile around. At the far end of the track another intrepid runner was pacing the circuitous route. Not feeling particularly hospitable, Arden decided to strike out now, drifting immediately to that serene place that outdoor runners, joggers, and walkers inhabit as soon as they take that first stride. Her mind cleared almost magically as she set her attention to putting one foot in front of the other, setting her pace. As she stretched out her long legs, her eyes ate up the scenery, touching on the golden hillsides rising even higher than her present location. They were dotted with magnificent oaks and some sort of scraggly, anemic looking pine tree.

As she ran, the rhythm of the march filled her mind, making her jog a simple, soothing thing. She didn’t think about her sister’s disappearance, or her car, or the fact that her perverted mind kept returning to the way the Sheriff filled out his Wrangler’s. She ran for the sheer joy of running. As she completed her fifth lap, she noticed her fellow runner sitting on the bleachers, taking a breather. Even though he surely couldn’t see her, she dipped her head in the unconscious salute shared by runners throughout the world. Deciding that this lap would be her last, she turned it on, burning off the last of the hash browns and biscuits with gravy, sprinting down the final 100 yards of track, then slowing down to a fast walk for a one-lap cool-down. This lap was for thinking.

Why was she so sure that Samantha had something to do with these murders? Shit, she couldn’t even find Samantha, let alone confirm or deny that she was missing. Throwing her arms in big circles, she continued her brisk walk. There was just something, she conceded. It felt right. She really couldn’t see Samantha missing the chance to hit up her little sister for more than the loan, or theft, of her car unless something was wrong. Like being on the run.

Of all the people in the world, Samantha seemed to be the only one who could ruin her with a word or a look. She liked to think that their long separation had changed that, but seriously doubted it. Since their parent’s untimely death, Sam had been her only family, her sole touchstone to a childhood framed by golden memory. She’d been looking to recapture that sense of love and wonder for a long time, hence her disastrous relationship and marriage to Tom. How in the hell could she have dated, much less married, a man named Tom Jones?

With a wry smile pursing her lips, she headed to the bleachers to stretch thoroughly before beginning the walk back to town. While dusk had yet to fall, shadows were beginning to collect underneath the massive oaks, leaving huge pools of purple beneath them. The aluminum bleachers looked so high school, but then again, she thought aloud, they probably were.

“
You’re right. This is where the high school plays soccer and has its track meets.” Bill Ashton materialized out of the burgeoning gloom. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, Captain Jones.”

Jesus, he even managed to look sheepish, thought Arden, as she surveyed her fellow runner. “No problem Sheriff, and you might as well call me Arden. It looks like we’re going to be bumping into each other here and there. It’s nice to see I’m not the only crazed runner in town.”

She rocked back on her heels, savoring his appearance. The endorphins released by good, clean exercise shot through her system, compelling her to take a long look at him, from the sweat drying on his brow to the deliciously tight Nike shorts encasing those amazing buns. A small curl of tawny chest hair escaped the confines of his tank top, matching the light dusting on his powerful forearms and thighs. Her eyes roved upward, skimming over his expressive features, taking in the faint flush of exertion that highlighted his strong cheekbones and slightly crooked nose. She had actually begun to mentally run her fingers through his thick tawny hair when she realized she was on the edge of staring. Disgusted with herself and her runaway hormones, she concentrated instead on the character lines framing his unusual blue eyes and the words coming out of his mouth.

“
OK, Arden.” Her name rolled out of his mouth, almost as if he tasted it
.
Looking pleased, he continued. “So, who turned you on to the local-yokel track scene? Oh wait, let me guess, Mindy Turner. Did she think you were totally insane to want to run in this heat?” At her nod, he laughed, and the laugh did miraculous things to his already handsome face, giving it a life and vitality his sober Sheriff’s countenance of this morning had only hinted at.

“
Y’know, her husband Mack was one of the hottest prospects in the state for cross-country running when we were in high school, but he got together with Mindy and that seemed to be all he ever wanted. Never even left this town.” Bill shook his head in amazement.

“
And what about you, Sheriff? Did you manage to get out?” The question just popped out, Arden wasn’t even sure why. Perhaps it was the easy familiarity and underlying attraction that had sprung up between them, almost of its own volition. It seemed like they had known each other far longer than ten hours. It was almost as if they’d been friends separated for a long time and were taking a moment to catch up. Close friends. Leaning against the bleachers, she began her stretching regimen.

He was gracious enough to answer. Smiling, he said, “Yeah, I was lucky enough to get a scholarship. San Jose State football. I was a varsity-lettered running back for four years. I got picked up for college, but never for pro. But then again, who goes pro from San Jose State?” The last line was delivered with a grin.

So I’m supposed to form coherent sentences while this long, tall, lithe woman stretches out in front of me. That was all Bill could seem to filter in or out of his mind as his mouth spewed hopeless college banalities. Arden was everything he’d let himself imagine she would be when his mind took a break from its frequent diet of murder, murder, and more murder. She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail, one of his secret pleasures on a woman. And my, my, look at the body she’d been hiding under those respectable clothes. It was hard to hide anything when you were wearing spandex and little else. Yanking his mind back from his perusal of Arden’s toned body he grinned and asked, “So, what’s a nice Air Force girl like you doing in a podunk town like this?”

She replied, all seriousness aside. “Well, I guess I’m just here to see the sights, Sheriff.” She drawled, knowing her tone and words were frivolous, but right now she needed frivolous, just as she felt the need to flirt with this handsome stranger. “Is there anyplace in this town where you can actually eat something that doesn’t slam an artery shut, or is it all like the Sugar Pine?” She smiled.

Bill’s gut clenched at the transformation her face went through. Gone were the sharp lines and angles, the stress lines around eyes and mouth, and in their place, the beauty and wonder of a woman who knew exactly who and what she was and was completely at ease with that fact. It was a revelation of softness and feminine awareness unhidden by the professional mask he had seen this morning. It was the face of a woman who knew she was being looked at and was looking right back.

He wondered how often she let that side of herself show and had a feeling it wasn’t a common occurrence. He was surprised and a little embarrassed at the answer that seemed to come out of it’s own will. “As a matter of fact, we have a great little restaurant right down the street from you. I know I’ve worked up an appetite, running in this heat. Would you like to join me for a bite after we clean up?” Good Lord, when was the last time he’d asked a woman out? Granted, this wasn’t a real date, and to call it that was grossly inappropriate, but for some reason it felt like just that to him.