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The older cop scowled at me. "That wouldn't be funny at all."
"Kinda my point."
They all continued to stare. I reminded myself that ignorance is not idiocy. Or so I'm told.
"I don't get it," the younger cop finally said.
I was tempted to explain. Damn tempted. But mocking them probably wasn't the best way to make a good first impression. "I'd like to speak to Chief Bruyn."
"He's not here," the receptionist said.
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"He went out."
"Can I make an appointment for later?"
"He's not here."
Sometimes you've got to figure that small-town people pull the rube routine just for us city folks, a passive-aggressive way of telling us to go fuck ourselves.
"Can you give him my card then?" I asked. "I'd like to speak to him as soon as he gets a chance."
The receptionist took it and laid it facedown on her desk, where I was sure it would accidentally slide into the trash the moment I left. The younger cop picked it up. He looked at me. Read it, lips moving, then pursing.
"Private investigator?"
"Yep." I flashed my license. "That's why I'd like to speak to Chief Bruyn. I've been hired to investigate Claire Kennedy's murder and I wanted to touch base with him first."
When no one said a word, I took that as a dismissal and left.
five
My first big solo case and I got redneck morons for law enforce-meant. Figured.
A tiny voice in my head--one that sounded a lot like Paige--said I should have kept my mouth shut about the frying pan incident. I doubted that would have helped, though.
I decided my next step would be to visit the diner I'd noticed downtown. As I walked, I tried to take in my surroundings, get a better sense of the town, but it was too damned depressing. Empty storefronts. Empty streets.
Even the few people I saw looked empty. Hopeless. Agaunt middle-aged woman standing in the window of a store festooned with Going Out of Business signs. Two boys no more than thirteen, kicking a can along the side of the road, skipping school and not caring who noticed. A pregnant teenage girl sitting on a dilapidated bench, as if hoping someone would drive by and whisk her off to a better life.
The diner looked like your stereotypical small-town eatery, right down to the vinyl seats and beehived waitress in a frilly dress better suited to someone half her age--and size. The patrons were all on the far side of fifty, most courting heart disease and diabetes, most wearing clothing bought in the last millennium.
I sat at the counter, ordered coffee and a slice of pie, then chatted with a couple of customers. Both were balding. Both wore button-down plaid shirts and jeans. Both seemed to have made the diner their new home after the sawmill shut down. The only way I could tell them apart was the accent--Bill's was local and Jacob's sounded like he'd come from the Southwest.
After some chitchat, I said, "I hear a young woman was murdered here about a week ago. I don't need to be worried, do I?"
"Not unless you plan to join that cult of wackos up on the hill," Jacob said.
The server rolled her eyes. "It's a commune."
"Same difference."
"There's a commune around here?" I asked.
"Cult."
"Commune," the server insisted.
