Face the Music: Beyond Jackson Falls Book 1 Page 8

  She’d been right about him, hadn’t she? Goddamn wuss.

  With a muffled curse, Mikey scraped his hair back from his forehead, took a hard breath, and began the long, limping slog toward home.

  * * *

  THE JACKSON FALLS Police Department consisted of the chief, four full-time officers who rotated shifts, and one dispatcher. The budget was too tight to keep the Department on duty 24/7, so after ten p.m., incoming calls were rerouted to the county sheriff’s office. Proud owner of two shiny new cruisers plus the fancy SUV that Chief Teddy drove, the JFPD was headquartered in the spiffy new Public Safety Building, constructed three years ago and financed primarily with money from a couple of anonymous donors. Mikey strongly suspected that if you dug deep enough, those donors would prove to be his dad and his Aunt Casey. But that was just a guess, and he wasn’t about to ask.

  As low man on the totem pole, Mikey Lindstrom got the shit jobs that Cousin Teddy considered beneath him. The trivial, the tedious, the messy: dealing with the drunk and disorderly, scraping up roadkill, investigating fender-benders and summer camp break-ins. They were all his, the kind of busywork calls that beleaguered every small-town police department. It wasn’t his cup of tea, but he really didn’t hate the job. The work wasn’t too taxing, and he’d spent enough time in the military to have developed a tolerance for scut work.

  His military experience had uniquely qualified him for the position. When Teddy hired him, there’d been vague grumblings, and the word “nepotism” had been tossed around in certain quarters. After all, Teddy was his mother’s first cousin. Some people had even been known to whisper the word “cripple” (although none of them dared to say it to Mikey’s face).

  But Teddy had squelched the trash talk by pointing out Mikey’s obvious qualifications, and reminding the locals that although he’d advertised the job in the Maine Sunday Telegram for three weeks running, Mikey had been their only applicant. Nobody wanted to move to this end-of-the-earth place, and no other current resident was qualified for the job. Mikey, he’d pointed out, was here already. His roots were here, his family was here, he knew how and when to shoot a gun, he’d easily passed the fitness test in spite of his disability, and he was an unemployed veteran. Other police departments, other amputees, had set a precedent, so it wasn’t unheard of for a man with a prosthesis to work as a police officer. This was a win-win situation, and Cousin Teddy, who’d never been known for his tact, had invited anybody who had a problem with it to step forward and speak their mind.

  Nobody had stepped forward. After a few weeks, the grumbling stopped, and people found something else to complain about. At least their new police officer was a local boy who understood local politics and local values. He’d grown up here, had gone to school here, had played football here. He knew everyone. And he had a father with deep pockets, which might come in handy at some point. Working-class Mainers were a pragmatic bunch. If it worked, you didn’t fix it, and for the most part, these people knew when to shut up.

  The First Baptist Church of Jackson Falls perched on a corner lot a half-mile from the town’s lone stop light. Mikey wheeled the cruiser into the gravel lot and came to a stop. Reverend Moody waited on the front steps of the church, dressed in khakis, Nike running shoes, and a lemon yellow polo shirt. He looked more like Arnold Palmer than a man of the cloth. Somehow, the outfit seemed vaguely un-Christian, but it wasn’t Mikey’s place to judge.

  They met halfway across the parking lot. “Reverend,” Mikey said.

  “Mikey. Good to see you!” Jonas Moody clasped his hand and pumped it with enthusiasm. Mikey had played football with the reverend’s son, Peter, and Moody was one of the few people in this town who didn’t treat him differently because he’d come back from Iraq minus a limb.

  “So you had some kind of a break-in?”

  “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  He followed Reverend Moody around the back, through the tall grass that grew right up to the foundation of the old building. “Here,” the reverend said, kneeling and parting fronds of green that hid an open cellar window. “This is where they got in. They smashed the window, then crawled through it.”

  The ground was too dry for footprints, the wood of the window too rough to hold fingerprints. Mikey took a couple photos of the broken window and the surrounding area, then followed Moody inside the church. “They broke into my office,” the reverend said, “and made quite a mess of my desk. They stole the offering. My fault entirely. It was sitting in a zipper bag in the top drawer of my desk, not even locked, because it never occurred to me that somebody might steal it. This is Jackson Falls. Those things don’t happen here. Thanks to my short-sightedness, we lost $150. They also destroyed the collection box.”

  “What’s a collection box?”

  “Most churches pass a collection plate around during the service. I don’t like that practice. It puts too much pressure on my parishioners. Not everybody can afford to give an offering every week. Some of them can never afford it. God doesn’t care, but their neighbors do, and some of them can get snotty about it. So I solved the problem by setting up a box near the door. Anybody who wants to give us an offering can slip it into the box at any point before, during, or after the service. It takes a little of the heat off.”

  Mikey knelt to examine what was left of the wooden box. “Looks like they took a crowbar to it.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  Downstairs, where the Sunday school rooms were located, the perpetrators had crumpled a stack of church flyers and scattered them around the room. They’d broken a few sticks of chalk and ground them into the floor, and had haphazardly scattered a dozen hymnals. Mikey stepped carefully over shattered glass, pausing to examine the wooden folding chair the miscreants had dragged over to the window, presumably to aid in their escape.

  “Kids,” he said. “Goddamn teenagers.” Belatedly remembering where he was and who he was with, he said, “Sorry, Reverend.”

  Moody dismissed his apology with a wave of his arm. “I know you probably won’t catch them, but I thought I should report it, in case there are any other break-ins.”

  “Actually, this isn’t the first one, not by a long shot. But all the others were private residences. Mostly summer camps. We’re keeping an eye on a few people, but until somebody takes a misstep, there’s not much we can do. This may or may not be related.”

  He took a few more pictures, dusted everything for fingerprints. “I’ll file a report,” he said, “but you should probably come down to the station and make a formal complaint. Do you have any lumber you can use to board up that window until you can get it fixed?”

  “I’ll just take it over to Randy Getchell and have him replace the glass. He can probably do it while I wait. If he can’t get to it today, I’ll find something to cover it with, to keep the raccoons out.”

  Back outside, a passing breeze tickled the hair at the nape of his neck. Mikey took his dark glasses from the pocket of his uniform and put them on. “Be careful cleaning up that broken glass,” he said.

  Moody held out a hand again and they shook. “You’re a good man, Michael Lindstrom.”

  He shoved the glasses up the bridge of his nose and squared his shoulders. “There are days when I wouldn’t agree with you on that.”

  Reverend Moody clapped him on the shoulder and walked him back to his cruiser. “You know,” he said, “I still think about that last game of your senior year. You caught that ball and you ran with it, the whole length of the field. You were lightning. Nobody could catch you. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. You set the world on fire that night. People still talk about it.”

  In this place, where high school football was its own religion, it didn’t seem odd that the pastor of the First Baptist Church should harbor that kind of memory. “That was a long time ago,” Mikey said, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other. It had been a lifetime ago. A different world, a different Mikey.

  Moody
’s eyes were kind. “A good man,” he repeated. “Don’t let anybody tell you anything different.”

  He called his dad at the high school to fill him in. Just in case anybody decided to talk, he wanted to make sure Jesse had his eyes and ears open. They both had a pretty good idea of who the likely suspects were. In a small town like Jackson Falls, everybody knew everybody, and troublemakers were well known. He had a couple of names in mind, but he couldn’t do a thing until somebody blabbed. Sooner or later, somebody would. Kids seemed to have trouble keeping quiet about this kind of thing.

  His radio squawked. “Can you run over to 1230 Duncan Road,” Greta said, “and do a welfare check on Margaret Ellison? She didn’t show up for church on Sunday, and her sister’s been calling her for two days, but she doesn’t answer the phone.”

  “Headed there now,” he said, and wheeled the cruiser around.

  Margaret Ellison had been his tenth-grade English teacher. If memory served, she’d been his dad’s teacher as well. She must be nearing eighty now, and lived alone in the small house she’d shared with her late husband.

  Her little blue Ford Focus sat in the driveway. Mikey parked behind it. A strip of white paint, dangling from the eave of the house, fluttered in the breeze. The lawn was a good eight inches high. Mikey got out and walked to the back door. He knocked and waited, but there was no answer. He knocked harder. A gray tiger cat came out from under the steps and wrapped itself around his ankles. “Hey, kitty,” he said, bending to rub its head. The cat head-bopped his hand, and he rubbed its face, its chin. “Where’s your mom?” he asked.

  The cat uttered a pitiful mew, then deserted him to rub against the door. Fickle creature. Mikey knocked again. “Mrs. Ellison?” he shouted. “Are you home?”

  The car in the driveway didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could be away for the day. Shopping with a friend. But it seemed odd that her sister hadn’t been able to reach her for two days. And if she’d gone anywhere overnight, she certainly wouldn’t have left her cat outside to fend for itself.

  Cautiously, he tried the door knob. The door opened, and the cat raced inside, went directly to its food dish and started chowing down. “Mrs. Ellison?” he called.

  There might have been some kind of response. Then again, maybe he was hearing things. Mikey stepped into the kitchen and took a look around. A sour odor prickled his nose, something he couldn’t place at first. He’d been to war; he was familiar with the smell of death, and this wasn’t it. Mikey stepped to the sink. Saw the coffee cup, milk curdled on top, and recognized it as the smell of sour milk.

  “Mrs. Ellison?” he repeated. “Margaret?”

  Again, that muffled sound. Eyes scanning everything, Mikey made his way farther into the house, through a cozy living room and down the hall. The bathroom was pristine and deserted, as was the first bedroom. The door to the second bedroom was closed. He rapped softly, said, “Margaret?” and opened it.

  Yellow roses dotted the wallpaper. The furniture was old and heavy. Mahogany, he thought. Antique. A jewelry box on the dresser beside the bed sat open, its contents scattered over the polished surface of the wood. On the hardwood floor, poking out from behind the massive bed, lay two feet clad in sensible, low-heeled shoes.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

  And a faint but very much alive voice said, “Michael Jesse Lindstrom, do I need to get a bar of soap and wash out your mouth?”

  * * *

  MARGARET ELLISON TURNED out to be a font of information who didn’t stop talking the entire time the paramedics were getting her ready to go. “I never lock my door. Nothing bad ever happens in Jackson Falls.” She peered at him through her glasses with a sour expression, as though he were fully responsible for all the ills that had befallen her. “I’d just returned from dinner with my sister, and when I came into the bedroom, I caught them red-handed, pawing through my jewelry box. One of them was holding my favorite necklace. He dropped it in his pocket, and then he shoved me, and I fell. The taller one spoke an expletive—” She sniffed. “—and they took off running. I’ve been lying here ever since. I know my sister’s been trying to reach me. I heard the fool phone ringing enough times. If she really thought something was wrong, wouldn’t you think she might have driven over here to check on me?”

  “Well, she did call us, Mrs. Ellison.”

  “A sister who really cared would have checked in person.”

  Maybe, he thought, she was worried she’d find you dead. Or alive, and still talking. Mikey cleared his throat. “Can you describe the perpetrators, ma’am?”

  “There were two of them. Young. One was taller than the other. They wore jeans. Old ones.” She sniffed at their choice of attire for committing a burglary. “I didn’t see their faces. They were wearing black ski masks. As well as leather gloves, so don’t be expecting to find fingerprints.”

  He bit back a smile. Clearly another CSI fan. “Did they say anything to you? Or to each other? Other than the aforementioned, um, expletive?” Over her head, he met the eyes of one of the paramedics, Tommy Williams. Tommy grinned. Mikey treated him to a scowl and said, “Did you recognize their voices?”

  “They were never students of mine. That much I can tell you. I’m good with voices. I recognized yours right away.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “You did.”

  “I suspect they attended high school after I retired. I got the impression they were quite young.”

  It wasn’t much to go on. “Any quick impressions? Tall, short? Fat, thin?”

  “Both quite thin. One of them was a good six inches taller than the other.” She paused for a breath. “That was my favorite necklace, Michael, and quite distinctive. A purple pansy on a silver chain. It was an antique that belonged to my mother. I suspect it’s the only one in existence. I’m sure my sister has a photo somewhere that she could provide you.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “I’ll have her contact you. I’d really like to have it back, if you can manage to locate it. I’m sure they’ll try to pawn it.”

  They probably already had, but he didn’t want to tell her that. If there was any way he could restore the necklace to its rightful owner, he intended to. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  “I’d expect nothing less from you, Michael. Come on, boys, what are you waiting for, Christmas?”

  Both paramedics stood at immediate attention. It was Mikey’s turn to grin. “Bye, guys,” he said. “Have fun.”

  And the paramedics wheeled her out.

  PAIGE

  LELAND EPSTEIN, ENTERTAINMENT attorney extraordinaire, had been taking care of her legal needs since she signed that first record contract. He was smart, savvy, and knowledgeable. “Understand,” he said at the other end of the phone, “that custody disputes aren’t my area of expertise.”

  “Understood.”

  “But I do know a little bit about them. Enough to know it’s certainly been done. You’d be surprised by how many divorce cases involve custody issues revolving around the family pet. And not just divorces, but other break-ups, like yours—” He paused, cleared his throat. “—where the couple cohabited but weren’t married.”

  “So I’m not out in left field with this line of thinking?”

  “Not at all. A precedent has definitely been set. But there are variables. It would primarily come down to the judge who hears the case. Historically, pets have been treated by the courts as possessions, no different than your living room couch or your refrigerator.”

  “They were mine prior to the relationship, Leland. I have paperwork that proves I bought both of those dogs before Ryan and I ever met.”

  “That would definitely be taken into consideration, and it would work in your favor. But it’s not, surprisingly, a guarantee that you’d win the case. You and Ryan lived together for three years. If a disagreement about ownership of the dogs couldn’t be resolved out of court and ended up in litigation, it’s possible that those dogs could
be considered community property and split between you in whatever arrangement the judge felt was equitable. Including, but not limited to, giving one to you and one to Ryan.”

  “They’re littermates! They’ve been together since birth. I don’t want them split up!”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Paige gnawed on her lip, considering his words. “So what do you think my chances would be?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Some judges these days are taking into consideration what’s best for the pet itself. You’re gone from home, what? Six months out of the year? Ryan’s home every night. He could easily make a compelling argument that he’s capable of providing the dogs with more consistency and more quality care than you can. He’s the one feeding them, walking them, taking them to the vet, while you’re on the road because of work commitments. If you get a touchy-feely judge who’s more concerned with Janis and Bo’s interests than he is with yours or Ryan’s, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a ruling in Ryan’s favor.”

  She let out a hard breath. “In other words, it’s a crap shoot.”

  “Yes. It’s a crap shoot. I’m sorry I can’t be more encouraging, but under the circumstances, it could go either way. Only you can decide if it’s worth the risk.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I can’t make that decision for you.”

  “Let me rephrase the question. If this happened to you, what would you do?”

  Leland hesitated. Then said, “If this happened to me, I’d try to come to some kind of settlement out of court.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

  “But it’s still up to you. Give it some time. Think it over, sleep on it before you decide. If you want me to file papers, I’m just a phone call away.”

  * * *

  AMY TARDIFF ARRIVED at the family gathering alone, toting a casserole and wearing a tight tee shirt that showed off a healthy rack and a pair of khaki shorts revealing tanned and shapely legs. From the pool, Beth called out, “Amy! Hi!” and waved madly. Amy returned her greeting, and was met all around with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for brides, babies, or Ed McMahon and his sweepstakes van.