A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📖

“Lonnie, get me that damn file. And is that Kincaid woman here yet?”

Deputy Lonnie Parker flashed an embarrassed look my way. Brower was never known as a cheerful guy, but his mood seemed particularly rank. Lonnie hesitated, then grabbed the file and headed into his boss’s office. I could hear a mumbled discussion before Lonnie returned with his head bowed.

“He said he’ll see you in ten minutes. He’s got to make some phone calls first.” 

“That’s fine, Lonnie. I’m in no hurry to relive yesterday.”

“Man, that musta been hard on you. I’ve never been involved in anything like that.”

I just nodded, as I flashed on the similar incidents I’d seen in D.C. But I didn’t want to relive those either—or get into one-downmanship with the deputy. He and the sheriff lived in Laurel Falls (Lonnie with his mother, Brower with his ego), but their county office was about ten miles from the store. I mostly knew them by reputation and, of course, through the rumor mill.

Lonnie had always been courteous to me, though I knew he could pick on Abit as badly as the rest. While I watched him go back to typing a report, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity. He lived in a culture that expected him to be tough, but he didn’t seem well suited to that role. He was just the flunky of a hard man, and together they played out the old kick-the-dog routine. Brower got dumped on by his boss, he took it out on Lonnie, who made fun of Abit, and so on. Except it seemed to stop with Abit. He just absorbed the jabs, as though he deserved them.

“Coffee?” Lonnie asked as he pulled the report from his typewriter.

“Thanks, but I’ll hold off on any more. I’ve had plenty today.”

“You just don’t want the sludge we serve,” he said, as he walked to the kitchen. He came back with a drip-stained mug that made me doubly glad about my decision.

“Kincaid!” Brower shouted through the office door. When I opened the door, I noticed that his face sagged with fatigue, and his shirt, buttons straining over his belly, looked as though he’d slept in it.

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

He motioned to the chair. “Okay, let’s go over this again. What were you doing in the woods yesterday?”

“Having lunch with Jake.”

“Why that area?”

I sighed. I’d gone over all this last night. “It’s a favorite spot.”

Brower smiled. “Not any longer, I bet.”

I waited; I knew he was baiting me. I hadn’t left Abit’s house till about ten o’clock, and after that, I’d had trouble winding down. I thought about a glass of wine, but alcohol had never been a good relaxer for me—I’d fall asleep, then wake up a few hours later with jarring thoughts made worse in the dark. As it turned out, that would have been better than lying awake most of the night.

“So did you recognize this girl?”

Brower called every woman a girl, but that time he wasn’t off by much. “She’d come by the store once. That’s where I see most people, and I knew there was something vaguely familiar about her face.”

“So, you did know her?”

I ignored that. “Have you identified her yet?” I asked. I didn’t mean anything by that comment, but he took offense.

“Nothing from her prints,” he said, then added, “We’re doing the best we can. It’s not easy on our limited resources.” Brower moved on to other details we’d gone over last night. I didn’t understand why we were doing it all over again. Where was the damned typed statement I was supposed to sign?

Finally, he slid a sheet of paper over with a pen. “I better not find out you messed with anything. It’s bad enough you touched the body, but under the circumstances, I’ll let that pass. You sure you didn’t mess with anything else?”

I just looked at him.

“Okay, that’s it for now. Looks like suicide. We’ll get the tox screen in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, as they say, don’t leave town.”

I dug my fingernails into my palm to keep from saying something snide. I tried to think that somewhere inside him, deep down, there was something that would allow me to feel compassion for him, but at the moment, it alluded me. I stood and turned to leave his office.

“By the way, that’s a damn fine dog you’ve got. I never went much for mongrels, but I believe he got all the best features from his mixed parentage,” Brower said. “Let me know if you ever want to give him away.”

“Sure, Sheriff. I’ll put you at the top of the list” ... of bastards, I thought to myself.

“Listen, Missy, no one invited you to move here. Lose the bitch attitude if you want to stay in business.”

I turned, my hand still on the door knob. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. I’ve always wondered why you came here. Running from something back there in the crime capital of this fine country?”

“This fine country, Brower, let’s people move wherever they want.”

“So why here?”

“I bought that store fair and square. I fixed it up, and now people want to come there because it’s more convenient, and because, well, it doesn’t have your ornery father in it.”

Brower stood, his face burning red. “Get out.”

As I closed the door behind me, I knew I’d gone too far, taking a slap at Brower because I was tired and couldn’t stop myself. Lonnie kept his head down and typed a line or two on what looked like a blank sheet of paper.

––––––––

On the way back to the store, I stopped off to see Kitt Scanlon and check out what was showing in her gallery. Kitt had become one of my best customers, her taste in food and wine similar to mine. About the same time I bought Coburn’s, she’d moved to Laurel Falls from somewhere east of here. Raleigh, I believe she told me. Rumor had it she and Brower had something going on.

I should have rushed back to the store, but I needed to shake off that experience with the sheriff. And I wanted to support her new venture—if only with goodwill. I didn’t have money right now for art, not to mention the art was more edgy than my taste. It must have cost a fortune to redo the old gas station and add the moveable gallery walls and track lighting, but she’d done it right.

When I opened the door, she had her back to me, hanging a cumbersome piece of wall sculpture. She looked the part of gallery owner—tall, slim, black leather boots over tight designer jeans, a gorgeous purple silk top, and long blond hair, perfectly highlighted. A guy magnet. No wonder those rumors were flying about Brower, though I couldn’t imagine what she saw in him.

“Hey, do you need a hand with that?” She jumped. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I added. “I just came from a meeting with Brower, and I wanted to stop by and see what was new.”

She set the sculpture on the floor and wiped her hands on her fancy pants. “Oh, Della. That must have been so rough—finding that girl and then having to deal with our sheriff. I bet you need to get the taste of that experience out of your mouth.”

I wondered if her last statement was more about her own experience with Brower than yesterday’s tragedy. “He thinks it’s a suicide, but I’m not so sure.”

“Really? I thought it was a done deal.”

“Well, yeah, Brower would like it that way.”

“Wonder who that poor girl was?” Kitt asked.

“No one seems to know. Maybe just a tourist passing through.”

“Strange. Someone looking for a beautiful place to kill herself.” She shivered, and we were both quiet for a moment. “Well, if I were you, I’d try to get that scene out of my mind. Take a look at the art,” she added, sweeping her arm through the air. “That always makes me feel better.” 

I glanced at the tortured sheet metal sculpture splashed with red paint and quickly said, “I will another time. I’ve got to get back to the store. Just wanted to say hi. Oh, and I’ve got