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Val’s hand was still there.
“You caught me, Sheriff!” he confessed. “I throw myself on the mercy of the court. ”
Val’s smile changed from sleepy to devilish. “Sorry, pal, but no mercy for the condemned in this court. ” And she hooked a warm leg over him and climbed on top. Even then she had the presence of mind to pull a sheet up around her left shoulder.
“If you don’t come down for breakfast in the next minute I’m feeding this to the cows!” The voice boomed up from two flights below just as Crow was lacing up his sneakers. Val was still in the shower.
“Your dad’s calling,” he yelled in through the now closed bathroom door. “Again. ”
“You go. I’ve got to dry my hair. ”
“Love you, baby!”
“Love you, too!”
Grinning, Crow headed out of the bedroom and jogged down the stairs, humming Lightin’ Hopkins’
s “Black Ghost Blues. ” The song had been in his head for days now and he meant to see if he could download it off the Net later on.
Malcolm Crow was a compact man, only an inch taller than Val’s five-?seven and built slim without being skinny. He had the springy step of a kid half his age, and when he played basketball he was up and down the court so fast he just wore out the bigger and better players. His black hair was as smooth and black as his namesake’s, and it gave him a Native American look that was at odds with his Scottish ancestry. Crow had a lot of white teeth and he smiled easily and often, as he was now as he bounded into the vast kitchen of the Guthrie house.
Henry Guthrie was at the stove using a spatula to stack slices of French toast onto a metal serving tray. Plates of bacon and sausage and a dish of scrambled eggs were already on the table.
“If you’re quite through being a bother and a burden to my daughter,” Guthrie said sternly, “then see if you have enough strength left to take this over to the table. ”
“My strength comes from purity,” Crow said, hefting the plate. “As well you know. ”
“Then you must be as weak as a kitten. ”
“Ouch. ” Crow thumped down the plate and slid onto one end of a hardwood bench at the far end of the massive oak table. There were enough plates and cups scattered around to show that several people had already eaten and left. Crow knew from long experience that the Guthrie kitchen was in nearly constant use by field foremen and supervisors, the Guthries themselves, and various other people who happened to be passing, from the seed merchant to the milkman. Despite Guthrie’s threat of giving the breakfast to the cows, they didn’t actually own any.
Guthrie poured coffee for Crow and then for himself and sat down in the big captain’s chair at the other end of the table.
“So, what’s on your agenda?” Guthrie asked. He checked the hall to make sure Val wasn’t looking before adding real sugar and half-?and-?half to his coffee instead of Splenda and skim milk.
With a mouthful of French toast, Crow said, “Got to go over to the hayride and do some work. Couple of the traps need some repairs. ” Pine Deep boasted the largest Haunted Hayride in the country. It was owned by Crow’s friend, Terry Wolfe, but Crow was the one who designed it and kept it in top shape. He personally devised each of the “traps”—the spots where the monsters jumped out at the customers and scared the living hell out of them. Each of Crow’s traps was very elaborate. “After that,” he said, swallowing and reaching for the bacon, “I guess I’ll head into town to open up the shop. ”
“Business okay?”
“Doing great. ” Crow’s other concern was a small arts and crafts store on Main Street, where he sold art supplies, fancy paper for scrapbookers, even knitting yarn, but which turned into Halloween central this time of year. Even with the crop blight that was hitting the local farms, and the resulting economic slump, Halloween was still the number-?one business in Pine Deep.
Munching bacon, Crow assessed Henry Guthrie. Val’s dad was getting up there now, and high-?tech farming or not the fields took their toll. He looked every one of his sixty-?four years, and perhaps a bit more. His bushy black eyebrows had become wilder and shot with silver, and since Val’s mother died two years ago, Guthrie’s head of hair had gone completely gray. Even so, his blueberry-?blue eyes sparkled with youth and mischief.
“I’m thinking of taking Val to New Hope next weekend. Just to get away for a day or so. Can you spare her?”
“Well,” Guthrie said, considering, “without her the farm will collapse, I’ll be financially ruined and will have to live in a cardboard box under the overpass, but other than that I don’t see why you two shouldn’t have some time. ”
“Cool. ”
“Oh, I ran into your buddy—His Honor, I mean. ”
“Terry? Where’d you trip over him?”
Guthrie almost said that they’d met in the waiting room of the psychiatrist they both shared—Henry for grief management and Terry for who knew what?—but shifted into a different lane when he realized he didn’t know if Crow knew that Terry Wolfe was in therapy at all. He said, “In town. I had a few errands to run. ”
Crow grunted, eating more bacon.
“He doesn’t look too good these days,” Guthrie said.
