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"We don't have bathtubs."
"Excuse me?"
He speaks slower. "Most people who cut their wrists do it in a tub because it's less painful, apparently."
"Less painful? Her hands were practically cut off."
"She left a note in her handwriting."
"Presumably written before she nearly amputated her own hands?"
He shrugs and stares into the forest. I walk into his line of sight.
"You're not stupid, sheriff, and I don't think you're corrupt, so what the hell is going on here?"
"I ruled the death a murder."
I ease back. "Okay."
"Beth thinks the killer intended to hack off Irene's hands, but the blade wasn't sharp enough. The killer then realized it could look like a suicide and faked Irene's handwriting. Any idiot can see it's not suicide. The council disagreed. So I am not allowed to officially investigate."
"Officially. Meaning you have investigated."
"If I had, it would be on my own time and any notes would be kept in my home, because if the council found out, they'd give me their usual threat--to stick my ass on a plane down south. One way."
I want to ask why that's such a big deal. Then I remember what Anders said--that Dalton was born here and doesn't intend to leave. I'm guessing that's how the council keeps him in line. Threatens to kick him out, because he has no right to stay.
"Irene was Harry Powys's ex-girlfriend," I say. "She died two weeks before he went missing."
Dalton takes a gulp of his coffee.
I continue. "You didn't randomly decide you'd like a detective on staff. Like I said on the way up here, you already needed one. This is why I'm here, and you just stood back and let me figure it out for myself."
"No," he says. "I had one woman dead, presumably homicide. Another woman went missing seven weeks ago. Then Powys disappeared. I've wanted a detective for a while. Your file just hit our desk at the right time."
&n
bsp; "Missing woman?"
"Abbygail Kemp."
I choke back a growl of frustration. "Were you going to tell me about her? Or just wait until I figured it out? If you want to test my detection skills, amuse yourself by making me figure out which horse is yours."
He turns cold grey eyes on me. "What you and I are doing right now, Butler? It's not about proving you're a detective. It's about proving I can trust you. Because you came along at a helluva convenient time."
I pause. "You think I'm, what, a plant? Spying on you?"
"Wouldn't be the first time. What's the adage? It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you?" He puts down his coffee. "The council expects one thing from me, detective: blind obedience. I don't provide it, so they want me gone. The problem? There are still people around who financed this town in the early days. Permanent stakeholders. They want me here, and unless the council can prove I'm incompetent, I stay. So, yeah, I'm suspicious."
"I'd like the file on Abbygail Kemp."
"Inside. Second cabinet. Second drawer."
"I also want your notes on everyone you think the council smuggled in."
He looks up at me. "I don't keep--"
"Bullshit. If you don't want to show me, okay. We'll just discuss them."
