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"God, you've been hanging around that sheriff too long already. I haven't missed an hour of work yet. Now come on and let's go get a drink."
TWENTY-THREE
We go to the other bar: the Red Lion. Apparently someone envisioned it as a quaint British pub, but that vision doesn't extend beyond the name. The place looks like a set piece for a Western saloon. Wooden building. Wooden bar. Wooden chairs and tables.
Diana's friends are ... God, how do I say this without sounding like a total bitch? Her friends are exactly what Dalton said they were. They remind me of the kids Diana so desperately wanted to hang out with in high school.
In eleventh grade, the popular girls had invited Diana to eat lunch with them ... an invitation that did not extend to me. I barely saw her for two weeks afterward. Then she showed up at my house crying, because it turned out all they wanted was to meet her cousin, who was an actor in a new TV show, and when she admitted she hadn't seen him since a family reunion ten years earlier, they dumped her.
I'm barely in my seat before a guy says, "So, Powys. Rumor says it was murder. Can you confirm, Detective Butler?" He holds his beer glass toward me like a microphone, with this smirk on his face that makes me think he really was a journalist in a former life. Or at least a blogger who thought he was one. A woman grabs the glass from him and says, "Don't be a dick, Dick," and the table erupts in snickers. She turns to me and extends a hand. "Petra. That's Richard. He prefers Rich, but feel free to call him Dick if he acts like one." Rich shoots her the finger, but it's good-natured enough. He eases into his chair, saying, "We're just curious. People have a right to know."
"Sure," Petra says. "You're free to ask. Just don't sneak behind Eric's back and try weaselling answers out of his new detective. You have questions? Go straight to the man himself. Stand up to him and tell him all about your right to know."
That gets a round of genuine laughter. People start ribbing Rich, daring him to do exactly that and then laying bets on exactly how many profanities the response will contain and how inventive the punishment for "bothering the sh
eriff" will be.
"He calls it interfering with law enforcement," Petra says with a grin. "But really, it's just pissing him off."
Nods and smiles follow, and not a single grumble. I'm certain I'm misunderstanding. I can understand Dalton needs to keep a tight lid on Rockton and, yes, may trump up charges against anyone who interferes with his job, but I cannot believe people don't complain about that.
Petra catches my incredulous look and shrugs. "We know the drill. He can be a jerk, but he does his job. It's not like we can afford a police public relations liaison to deal with questions. But if you ever want one, I'm your gal."
The man beside her nods. "Dalton's an asshole but a fair asshole. He'll tell us what he can when he's ready. He always does."
"You mean he tells Will," Petra says. "Who then tells everyone else."
Another round of smiles and nods.
"Well," I say. "For now I can say we haven't made an official decision on Harold Powys. We're focused on finding Jerry Hastings. The longer he's out there, the less chance we have of a positive outcome."
Rich raises his glass. "And we can all agree on that. Let me buy your first drink then, detective, as an apology for living up to my name."
Despite my misgivings, I enjoy the next half-hour. Conversation is lively, if not exactly deep. And they have a sense of fun that's infectious. They're stuck in Rockton for a few years, and they aren't providing essential services, so they can just cut loose and party, beholden to no one and nothing.
It's just past ten-thirty and I'm talking to Petra. Turns out she's a comic-book artist, which she jokes makes her all but useless in Rockton. We're deep in conversation about our favourite graphic novels when Diana perks up beside me. She straightens her shirt and tucks her hair back, and I think, Huh, who's the guy?
I look up to see Anders coming our way. He's grinning, and Diana is practically vibrating in her seat. And I smile, because now I know she wasn't pushing me in his direction--she was testing whether my gaze had already turned that way. When he catches her smile and returns it, I'm glad. I slide out, motion for him to take my place, and then sit in the empty seat on Petra's other side. Anders pulls up a chair and plunks it down next to me.
"Got a story for you," he whispers as he sits. "Rockton policing life at its finest."
There's a moment of silence, and I realize everyone at the table noticed the interplay with Diana.
"You've met Diana, right?" I say, and as the words leave my mouth, I want to kick myself.
Diana looks as if she wants to drop through the floor. Anders just smiles at her and says, "Sure, we've met." There's a snicker from someone farther down the table, and as genuine as Anders's smile seems, I detect a bit of distance in his eyes. That's when I realize it's no secret Diana has her eye on Anders. She's let him--and everyone else--know ... and he's made it clear he isn't interested.
Shit.
"Hey, Di," I say, leaning forward. "You want to go for a walk?" I lift my shot glass. "I've hit my limit, and I could use the air."
Yes, it's an awkward excuse, but I'm desperate to fix this. She only gives me a cool look and says, "I just started my drink."
Anders takes a long gulp of his beer. "Give me a minute and I'll walk with you."
"No!" I say, a little too sharply, and Petra gives a sympathetic chuckle.
"We should both turn in soon," Anders says. "Eric will give me proper shit if you so much as yawn tomorrow. I'll walk you home and tell you that story."
