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“What?” she asked.
“Pregnancy.” And for just a second, Pescoli thought she saw a glimmer of satisfaction in the twist of Terri’s lips—the smug look of someone who knows something—a secret. Make that a malicious secret.
“And why would that be a big deal?”
“I guess it’s not,” Terri said. “Usually. Unless your husband is shooting blanks.”
“What? Pregnancy?” Pescoli asked, pulling back on her temper with an effort. There was a little glimmer of satisfaction in the twist of Terri’s lips. “Who?”
“Someone whose husband is shooting blanks.” She laughed then, a wicked little chuckle echoed by her friends. “Forget it,” Terri said over her shoulder as they headed into the bar, but Wilda waited till her friends were out of earshot to add tautly, “I’m serious, Regan, you leave my boys out of this mess.” Then she followed after them through the open doorway to the bar.
Watching them go, Sandy said, “What the hell was that all about?”
Sandy picked up the dropped bags while, from behind a fringe of long bangs, she watched Pescoli nervously, as if she thought, as Wilda Wyze had charged, the detective was unstable.
“A misunderstanding,” Pescoli said, accepting the takeout bags that Sandy offered. “Wilda doesn’t seem to think I’m fit to do my job.”
“And you just proved her point,” Sandy said. “You nearly knocked down Grizz in the process.”
“It would serve him right,” Pescoli said. “What’s with the Big Foot getup?”
“He’s just getting into the spirit of the upcoming holiday.”
“Please.” She sno
rted.
“You’re not into Big Foot Daze?” Sandy asked. “You know, it’s going to be good for business. Rod Larimer came by and he’s rented out the Bull and Bear for the next six weeks. The inn’s booked solid. And I’ve got reservations coming in like crazy.”
“So Mayor Justison and Barclay Sphinx and the Big Foot Believers are right. Sasquatch is good for the town.”
“You got it,” Sandy said as the phone rang and she grabbed it. Two couples were coming into the foyer and they oohed and aahed over the stuffed grizzly bear in his Sasquatch attire.
“Isn’t that cute?” one of the women said, and Pescoli couldn’t stand it another second. She thought she might actually be sick if one more person tried to tell her how great Big Foot was for the town. She headed outside and found her Jeep where she’d left it, no ticket in sight.
She climbed inside and glanced down the street. She noticed, along with the banners announcing the upcoming event, several carved wooden statues of Big Foot, both male and female, on display. How had that happened? Had the merchants found the statues tucked away in their basements collecting dust, or had they ordered them from the guy who did chainsaw art just out of town?
Whatever the case, Big Foot Daze was definitely happening. Like it or not.
At the end of the block, she turned onto the road leading across a set of train tracks before it wound along the face of Boxer Bluff, past the area of older homes where Mayor Justison lived, then higher still and past the sheriff’s department on her way home. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and saw the red tracks on her cheek where Wilda Wyze had attempted to scratch her eyes out.
The woman’s temper had skyrocketed from zero to sixty in half a second. Yes, Pescoli had goaded her after Wilda’s initial attack, but the woman’s reaction was way out of line. She was over the top. Was she scared for her sons, afraid they were being railroaded, or was there more to her fury? Did she know something? A secret they were harboring? If the altercation had done anything, it had increased Pescoli’s suspicions about the Bell brothers rather than allay them.
Lost in thought, she drove by rote, stopping for stoplights and ignoring the Braxton Hicks pangs that had started about the time she left the restaurant. All the while, she was going over the homicide investigation and, more specifically, replaying the scene with the women she’d just dealt with in the foyer of the restaurant. While Wilda had definitely been the aggressor, Billie O’Hara had played the part of peacekeeper. But what about Terri Tufts and her supercilious attitude, the same knowing smile she’d displayed on the night of the vigil? What had she said about Pescoli’s pregnancy? Seems to be a lot of that going around. As if she were enjoying her own private and nasty joke.
Who was this husband shooting blanks?
She followed a minivan filled with kids and decorated with bumper stickers proclaiming I HEART JESUS as it buzzed along over the speed limit.
Pescoli was certain she was missing something, something important, something that was scratching at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t quite reach. But the aroma of the food was distracting her. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in hours.
At the house, she found Bianca downstairs on the couch, her ankle propped up on a pillow, Cisco and Sturgis curled up beside her, cell phone and iPad at hand, television tuned to the news. Her hair was wet and curly, as if she’d just gotten out of the shower, and she was dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. She glanced up as her mother arrived, but couldn’t muster up a smile.
“Hey,” Pescoli said to Bianca as the dogs bounced off the couch to come greet her.
“Hi.” Bianca’s voice was flat and she looked like she’d lost her best friend. “What happened to your face?”
“Long story,” Pescoli said. “Why the long face?” She dropped the sacks onto the kitchen island, taking time to pet a madly barking and twirling Cisco. “Yeah, I love you, too,” she said to the terrier, then scratched Sturgis’s ears as the lab wagged his tail. When Bianca didn’t answer, she said, “Got your texts. What’s going on?”
