“Mercy. Already hitting the campaign trail?”
“Yep. I have to make up some serious ground. I assume Sheriff Dawson has been out here?”
“Not as far as I know.”
There was my opening. “See, that’s why I’m making the effort to reach out to all voters, not just the ones within the city limits. Anyway, during my stop in Flat Bluffs, I ended up talking to Rocky about the night Jason Hawley died. Rocky said Jason was in the back room before the fight went down. Did you see who he was talking to?”
Mike scratched his chin. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I did see him talking to George Johnson and a couple of them construction guys. They didn’t look none too happy with him.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know. But George would tell ya. He didn’t like that oil guy neither.”
The screen door opened. A stout woman half Mike’s age emerged. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
I offered my hand. “Mercy Gunderson.”
“Nonie Jo Aker, Mike’s wife.”
She’d emphasized wife, as if I’d been planning to steal her man right off her front porch steps. Right. I’d easily kicked Mike’s ass, so his attractiveness dropped to the near zero range for me.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m running as a replacement candidate for Bill O’Neil in the upcoming sheriff’s election.”
Her critical, birdlike eyes darted over me. “What makes you think you can do a better job than Sheriff Dawson?”
“No need to be rude, Nonie Jo,” Mike warned.
I plastered on a perky smile. “Dawson and I have different ideas on running the county, so it’s not about being better, but offering the voters another choice.”
“He’s definitely better looking than you, so he’s got my vote.” Nonie Jo spun on her pink flip-flop and vanished into the house. Mike slunk in after her.
Campaigning had been well worth the effort. I’d gotten more info on the investigation in two hours than Dawson had in a week.
During the first official meeting with the campaign committee early the next morning, I’d asserted myself more than they’d expected. And I’d done it without a gun in my hand.
I said no to wearing my military uniform.
I said no to playing up the Indian angle.
I agreed to campaign door to door.
I agreed to Q &As at the senior center, the elementary school, and the high school.
I agreed to hold an informal coffee klatch at the Blackbird Diner after they nixed my idea of a whiskey throwdown at Clementine’s.
After an hour, the reality of what I’d agreed to do started to sink in. I stared out the library window to the neatly mowed grass spread out like a manicured golf green. I’d spent so many years in monochromatic landscapes that the verdant hue didn’t seem real. None of this seemed real. Beyond the vivid swath was a single row of tulips, crimson exclamation points set against the blacktop.
“You haven’t said much,” Geneva said.
“I’ve been listening. Trying to take it all in.”
“I sense you’re having second thoughts, but we wouldn’t have asked if we didn’t believe you’re up to the challenge.”
I nodded. Voicing my concerns wouldn’t matter. Geneva would offer reassurances, and if I didn’t act like her pep talk was working, she’d get bent out of shape and accuse me of being a pessimist. Which was true, but beside the point.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Ranch stuff,” I said vaguely, because I couldn’t share with her how I planned to spend my afternoon.
“See you tomorrow. If you need anything, call.”
I practiced my fake politician’s smile. “Will do.”
I tracked Jake down behind the old barn.
He leaned against a shovel handle, studying me curiously. “I wondered if you’d show up, bein’s your daily schedule has changed.”
Nice dig. I gazed across the pasture. Tufts of green poked through the spots that weren’t trampled into goop and covered in cow patties. Hoofprints were scattered every which way. A single path trailed from the stock tank and up over the hill. “What’s on the agenda today?”
“Gotta spread a little hay around for the cattle.” He hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and headed toward his truck.
“With all the rain there isn’t enough new grass to graze?”
“It helps, but it also makes mud,” Jake said, after we climbed in the cab. “Nursing mothers require a lot of feed to keep up their milk production, so we have to supplement.”
“How many bales do you usually feed them?”
“Four. I’ll probably dump five today so I don’t have to come back out here tonight. Do you have gloves?”
“At the cabin.”
“Ain’t doin’ you much good there.” Jake stripped off his gloves. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Since I rode shotgun I had to open gates. Jake seemed surprised I didn’t complain.
By noon the cattle were fed and we’d finished fieldwork.
“I need to check something at the Newsome house. You can just drop me off at the shelterbelt along the east side.”
Jake didn’t seem too keen on the idea, but he didn’t argue.
I rummaged in the box on the floor, pocketing a wrench, a pair of wire cutters, a pair of pliers, and a flashlight before I slipped from the truck.
Sneaking around the Newsome house looked suspicious, especially since I owned the property. But I didn’t want anyone to remember seeing me, so I hunkered down, keeping low to the ground until I reached the propane tank. This older model still had the outside gauge, and it read half full. The sticker indicated the tank inspection deadline had passed four months back.
Since the back door faced away from the road, I entered there. I hadn’t been in Iris’s house more than half a dozen times in my entire life, which was bizarre, considering she’d been our closest neighbor for four decades.
After buying the property, I’d toured the house with the auction company. Throughout the house I saw signs of a person who’d left briefly, expecting to return and finish household chores. Iris’s dishes were moldering in the kitchen sink. Mail and newspapers were strewn across the dining room table. A half cup of coffee had turned into a science experiment in the living room. In the entryway, the vacuum was plugged in. The auction company agreed to clean up and haul everything away in exchange for 70 percent of the auction proceeds. I considered it a bargain.
I’d believed that once the Newsomes’ personal belongings were purged from the space, it’d feel less menacing.
Not so. Now it seemed worse. The emptiness emphasized the finality of an entire family. A sudden, inexplicable chill traveled up my spine. I whirled around, expecting to see… what? A ghost?
Get ahold of yourself.
I inhaled an uji breath and let it out slowly. Better.
Upstairs, I made sure the register vents were open in the bedrooms and the hallway. Ditto for the main floor. The seal around the front door appeared solid.
I ventured into the basement, basically a root cellar without an outside escape hatch. The narrow stairs were steeply pitched. With limited depth perception, I kept my hand on the bumpy wall to stop myself from falling forward. As I hit the last step, a dank odor filled my nostrils. Hello, gag reflex. Definitely a dead critter down here.
Or maybe the propane connection had already been compromised. Propane companies added scent to the odorless gas so that customers could tell if there was a leak in the line. The scent varied from the smell of rotten eggs to the distinctive odor of skunk perfume to the stench of rotting meat. Since I couldn’t see, I couldn’t determine if I smelled dead mice.
My grip tightened on the flashlight. If propane was seeping inside the house from a faulty connection, even the tiniest spark of metal on metal could ignite the vapors. It was sheer dumb luck I hadn’t impatiently shoved the basement door open, causing the aluminum weather stripping to strike sparks against the carpet. Static electricity was as deadly as a match.