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CHAPTER 6
Barb thanked Greta profusely for her loaf of sourdough, then asked about the homicide investigation. The news had spread faster than Einstein would have thought possible.
“I’d appreciate your help, Barb,” Greta said, after updating her.
“Absolutely,” said Barb. “Any time. Just let me know what you need.”
Although Jasmine was less demonstrative about the bread, Greta knew she would do anything possible to help.
At 9:55 a.m., Greta presented herself to Wallace’s secretary/receptionist/flunky/whatever—a prissy fifty-year-old who informed Greta that the sheriff would be with her at her appointed time of 10:00 a.m. She was summoned to the inner sanctum at 10:21 a.m.
Wallace looked the part and could serve as a model for a “Your Friend the Competent Sheriff” poster campaign. He was six feet, with a solid build that implied musculature—though no one had ever seen him exert himself. He had a crew cut with just a whiff of frosting; blue eyes; a grin he could turn avuncular, such as when talking to voters around election time; and a mellow baritone voice. She mainly heard his voice when he was griping at her.
He’d likely never forgive her being forced on him. However, after a year she thought he was resigned to her presence and begrudgingly accepted her performance. With an election coming, Greta already had feedback that Wallace was taking credit for hiring the county’s first female patrol officer.
Bruce counseled her to try to get along with him. She gave it her best effort, which amounted to trying to stay out of his way and not care about his opinion. Controlling her tongue tested her the most. As withdrawn as she had been as a child and at the beginning of puberty, her suppressed feelings leaked out during high school basketball. Her aggressive style had gotten her a reputation around the league. She only became aware of this when she accidently met one of the better players from another team in a Springfield, Missouri, mall. After they exchanged normal, polite pleasantries—“Awesome last game,” “How’s your team doing?”—the girl blurted out, “You seem so nice right now. So different from during games.”
Stunned and angry, Greta stomped away. Only after reflection on how other players, including her teammates, reacted around her did she come to realize the girl wasn’t altogether wrong. Greta hadn’t fully recognized that when she talked during games, mainly to herself, interspersed with making comments to teammates and opponents, she got rather earthy. The chance meeting led her to understand that she didn’t always hide or handle feelings well at stressful moments.
The chink in her armor had the unforeseen effect of making her even more reticent to expose herself in everyday life, though she still occasionally let her feelings out on the basketball court. Fortuitously, this behavior came to her aid once she was in college, with the intensity of play and the opponents’ more aggressive nature on the court. There, the game favored a brash attitude, and she earned the reputation of being someone who wouldn’t back down and couldn’t be intimidated. In other aspects of her life, she still struggled with conflicting desires to be liked and accepted, coupled with angst over perceived slights and taking refuge in the comfortable aspects of anonymity, as much as possible for a woman of her attributes. The result was a mixed record in how she interacted with others.
Which was why she always cautioned herself to behave when meeting with Sheriff Wallace.
“Havorsford. Have a seat.” He continued shuffling papers for a minute, then laid them aside. “So, what’s happening with this Lincoln County murder?”
“As I told you before, Sheriff, the Lincoln people questioned whether the body lay in their county or ours. I actually think it was more on the Tillamook side of the line than Lincoln, but, of course, I didn’t tell the Lincoln people that. Once they identified him as a Lincoln City resident, I argued that they were the only logical choice to take the case.”
Everything she said scored somewhere between stretching the truth and an outright lie.
“Hmmm.” He rubbed a hand over his top stubble. “Good move,” he said reluctantly, as if giving up a precious personal memento.
“I also thought it best if we said we’d cooperate in any way we reasonably could to help ensure they took the case.”
“Hmmm,” he responded again.
Amazing repertoire of expression, she thought. I wonder if he has theatrical experience?
“Okay. I think you handled it properly. As you know, we’re down a detective. The other two are overworked as it is. Go ahead and continue to be our liaison to Lincoln on this case. Just don’t let it interfere too much with your other duties.”
Too much? she thought. Hah! A foot in the door! What’s too much?
As long as she stayed out of view and filed routine reports, he wasn’t likely to question how much time she spent on the case. That was assuming the case didn’t go on too long, they didn’t find that Toompas had attempted suicide inside Tillamook County, crawled to the border before dying, and the car drove itself to Lincoln City.
“No problem, Sheriff. I’ll be assisting only where it involves Tillamook County and only when absolutely necessary for us to provide inter-county cooperation.”
“How does the case look so far? Any obvious suspects?”
“It’s too early. The Lincoln people are putting together a list of associates and have asked that if any are in Tillamook County, I do the initial contact.”
“Hmmm.”
There he goes again, she thought. Awesome.
“If they aren’t in your patrol district, be sure to coordinate with the assigned patrolmen that you have business on their turf.”
“Good idea, Sheriff. I’ll be sure to do that.”
She bit back what she was really thinking: As if I wasn’t going to do it anyway, but thanks for such sage advice, Oh Respected One.
