My stomach lurched. “Whoa. A debate? No one said anything about me having to debate him.”
“Part of the election process. The format is simple. You state your platform, he states his, and there’s a dance afterward.”
Overwhelmed by the responsibilities, I pushed away from the conference table and walked to the coffeepot. I was in way over my head.
I’d hoped running for sheriff would give me more insight into my father. But these meetings drove home the point that I didn’t know Sheriff Gunderson as well as I’d believed. His employees-hell, even Dawson-had known him better than me. The campaign workers planned to play on my heritage-bogus as it was. The only thing Wyatt Gunderson and I shared was the same last name. And I’d reluctantly approved the campaign slogan: “Gunderson, the name in law enforcement you can trust.”
How would the voters feel if they found out you’d torched your own building and lied about it? Or that you’d covered up a murder and lied about it?
Yeah, I was one trustworthy motherfucker.
“Mercy?”
I faced Geneva and watched everyone file out of the room. “Sorry. My head was spinning.”
“I imagine, especially after what happened last night. Has Klapperich contacted you with any additional news about what caused the fire at the Newsome house?”
“No.”
Geneva’s bright blue eyes pierced me. “Why aren’t you more upset?”
I shrugged. “I’d rather the damn thing blew up when no one lived there. And don’t think I haven’t heard whispers of the Gunderson curse surfacing again.”
“Well, it’s too bad you didn’t have insurance on it.”
“Live and learn.” I scooped the stack of papers rivaling Stephen King’s latest novel from her hands and jammed it into my messenger bag. I met Geneva’s skeptical gaze. “I’ll read it. I promise.”
“No more the-dog-ate-my-homework excuses, okay?”
“It’s better than the truth that I spilled whiskey on it.”
After I ditched my bag in my truck, I stood on Main Street debating my next move. Then I noticed George Johnson’s construction van sitting in front of Pete’s Pawnshop.
Pete Parnell should’ve named his store Useless Crap No One Wants, because it wasn’t as much a pawnshop as a place for Pete to shitpile the junk he scavenged from auctions. Or to take advantage of people low on cash by letting them hock everything from heirloom star quilts to wedding rings.
The place had a musty machine smell that hadn’t improved since my childhood. My dad loved a bargain, and I’d spent what seemed like hours listening to Dad and Pete haggle. But beneath the familiar scent was another. New construction. The tangy pine of freshly cut lumber, the chalky smell of Sheetrock mud, and the sourness of paint primer.
Holy hell, the entire left side of the room was walled off.
“Looks good, don’t it?”
I glanced at Pete, twirling on his bar stool behind the glass display cases. He wore too-small striped engineer overalls with a red hankie hanging out of the front pocket. His seen-better-days ball cap was emblazoned with PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN across the front. Pete was bald as a pool ball beneath that hat-or so I’d been told. I’d never seen him without a cap of some sort covering his head.
“What are you building, Pete?” I dodged plastic milk crates overflowing with mysterious machine parts and stacks of old National Geographic.
“A coffee shop.”
That stopped me. “In here?” Eww. Who wanted dust and metal flakes in their coffee?
“Yep. Re-Pete’s wife Sabrina has been going on and on about how popular them fancy coffee places are. We thought we’d get a jump on putting the first one in Eagle Ridge.”
Pete’s son, Re-Pete, had actually been born Pete Parnell Junior, but everyone-mostly his father-thought calling him Re-Pete would be the height of hilarity. I didn’t envy Re-Pete the nickname during our school years, and certainly not now.
“’Course, I promised Sabrina I’d spiff up the pawnshop a bit.”
He’d have to spiff it up a lot before I’d patronize the place.
“Did you get a taste for them fancy coffees when you was traveling the world, Mercy?”
“Anything is better than the sludge the army served.”
“I hear ya. So you’re running for your daddy’s old job?”
“Yep. Can I count on your vote?”
Pete folded his arms over his beer belly. “Seein’s I ain’t got a beef with the way Dawson’s been doin’ things…”
At least it wasn’t a hell no. Tired of small talk, I said, “I’m looking for George. He around?”
“In the back. Be careful of the wet paint.”
George gripped a paint roller in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Soon as he saw me, he cut his conversation short. “Well, if it isn’t the woman who can stop a bar fight and run for sheriff.”
“I can whistle while I juggle, too.” I smiled. “Speaking of bar fights, I’m trying to track down some information about what went down the night Jason Hawley was killed, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“Sure. Whatcha need?”
“I heard you were talking to him in the back room at Clementine’s before the fight.”
“Yeah, so?”
“What did you talk about?”
He measured me, then shrugged. “Ain’t a big secret he was trying to get local construction workers on board with supporting the pipeline. He pulled the usual ‘great-paying jobs for skilled workers’ line of bullshit.”
“Did you believe him?’ “‘
“Some of the guys did. And they were pissed when they found out Hawley had forgotten to tell them they’d have to join the Pipelayers’ Union in order to get hired. We don’t need to pay a fucking union to get us jobs.”
South Dakota. Not such a big union state. “Were any of your guys mad enough-”
“To kill him over it? Hell no. I can vouch for every guy there that night. They may get a little crazy, drink too much, mix it up with their fists when provoked, but no way would they kill for kicks.”
“Did Hawley talk to anyone else after you?”
“Some Indian chick.”
That was new. “Know her name?”
“Cherelle something. But she was trying to talk to him, and he was blowing her off.”
“What’d she look like? Younger? Older?”
“Younger. Pretty until you noticed the scar running down the right side of her face. I felt sorry for her, but at the same time, she had this incredibly mean look about her.” George squinted at me suspiciously. “Why you asking me this?”
“Has Dawson been around asking you?”
“No.”
“Then there’s your answer. I’m following a few lines of investigation he hasn’t.” I pointed to his roller. “Thanks for your help. I’ll let you get back to work.”
Outside, the fresh air alone wasn’t clearing my head. I took off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. Since Main Street was only three blocks long I’d run out of pavement before my mind really kicked into gear.
So far my one lead was that J-Hawk had talked to an Indian woman named Cherelle. I would’ve remembered a scarred woman.
I leaned against the brick building housing the Wipf Law Office. How long had J-Hawk been in the bank room before he came up to the main part of the bar and ordered a drink from me? Had he stuck around in the parking lot afterward because he’d been waiting for someone specific?
The reflection of a passing car flashed in my face, and I averted my eyes. My gaze caught on an SUV parked in the bank’s parking lot between a boat and a pair of Sea-Doo Jet Skis. It was angled so I couldn’t read the license plate. But I recognized it.