“On that note…” Dev picked up his cup. “Have a good morning, sis. I gotta open the store.”
“At least take a scone,” she smirked. “You were eye-fucking them so hard, it made me blush.”
Alright. Maybe he had been. But, still… “You know I can’t eat those.”
“Uh-uh…” she tutted. “Can’t isn’t the same as won’t.”
“You won’t accept that I genuinely love my green juice.”
“And you won’t accept that you can eat a scone every once in a while without turning out like mom.”
This last word of uninvited commentary was delivered more gently than the others. It was an observation Dev had never bothered to deny. He did like to eat healthy. He didn’t want to have a heart attack before forty, like their mother. She’d been too heavy, had carried too much stress, had become diabetic at a frighteningly young age. He shared her genes and she had died too young.
Instead of answering, he looked at his watch. Five fifty-eight in the morning.
“I’ll turn the sign around,” he said, giving the counter a single knock before picking up his mug and heading out.
“You coming to The Big Spoon later?” she called after him.
“It’s delivery day. I’ll be there.” he called back over his shoulder.
He flipped the chalk board sign that hung on the glass pane next to the entrance to the side that said, Come in. We’re open!
The old-fashioned motion bell made a sound as he walked out the door.
Dev had always loved this time of day on Oliver Street in Sapling. The morning rising over the mountains in the summer was halting and picturesque. The road was so straight, it looked like a runway that blazed a trail toward a ramp up to the sky, bisecting Elk Mountain and launching the sun.
It had inspired many an early-rising tourist to try to get a good shot, and you could do it if you stood right in the middle of the road. The streetlights, still on at this hour, added to the runway effect. The whole scene left Dev feeling grateful and awestruck and small.
He stopped then, as he had many mornings before, in no rush to get to work and rightly convinced this may be today’s greatest peace. Even his sleepless night and the long day ahead of him couldn’t dampen this. He breathed in the crisp air and sipped his coffee even more slowly than he made his block-and-a-half stroll to The Freshery, his feet walking the double-white divider lines like a balance beam.
He sensed, more than heard, that something in the air had changed, and he was disbelieving when he heard the otherworldly chop of the blades cutting the air and interrupting the silence of the morning. The part of it that wasn’t disbelief at the sound Dev didn’t think anyone had heard in Sapling in many years was déjà vu.
The only helipad in Sapling was owned by Donovan Packard—the same man who had turned it back into a boom town some forty years before. He’d discovered the town on a summer trip spent hiking the Southern Rockies. In the seventies, Sapling had been a tourist town in decline. Resorts at Aspen and Vail dwarfed the once-popular ski runs on the other side of Elk Mountain. Fewer people from outside came to fish and boat on Grand Lake.
But, lumber … Packard had seen an opportunity there. The development boom farther north created demand. Sapling sat in close proximity to timber camps, and riverfront property meant any mill built on the land could be energy efficient. Investing in Sapling and building the Packard Mills had not only been wildly profitable, it had revived industry in Sapling and essentially saved the town.
But Packard himself was a mystery. It was once believed that he had loved this place. For four solid years, he’d built up and launched the ten mills and practically lived in Sapling. But gradually, he’d stopped coming. Now, nobody could get hold of him on the phone, let alone in person. Dev had spent twenty minutes the other day brainstorming with the EDC about how to get past Packard’s handlers—to appeal to the man directly to support Dev’s proposal.
Dev remembered being a small child and walking down that very street, bouncing on his toes and pointing excitedly whenever the helicopter would appear. He also remembered the way his mother would walk a bit faster in those moments or duck them into this store or that. Some people had revered the man—envied his success and praised the prosperity the mills brought to Sapling—but others, like his mother, pursed their lips to keep from speaking unkind words.
“It’s about damn time…” Dev spoke aloud as the helicopter came into view, wondering whether it held the old man himself versus some executive or attorney. Dev had made calls to Packard Industries after each incident on behalf of the Sheriff’s office, asking for access to management and commitments regarding site security plans. Even Cliff, who had more clout than anyone when it came to calling corporate, hadn’t been able to reach the man.
“Brody.” Dev had set down his travel mug in the middle of the empty street, needing his hands to reach into his pocket and fish around for his phone. As he stood there making the call, his eyes continued to scan the sky for the craft that had disappeared behind the mountain. “You know where the old helipad is?”
“Mile seventeen up Elk Mountain. Behind the old Packard place,” the deputy answered without hesitation.
“Can you get up there right now?”
“Yessir,” Brody answered right away. Brody was a thorough cop. He knew procedural details with precision. He was by-the-book, which Dev needed, since Dev himself had never been to the academy. What Brody lacked in experience, he made up for in drive.
“Good,” Dev praised. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure someone from Packard just flew in. Call Cliff, just so he knows the deal. Tell ‘em they need an escort to survey the accident scenes since the scenes are part of an ongoing investigation. While you’re escorting them, eavesdrop on every word they say.”
8
The Best Friend
Shea
“Tell me he’s not having you followed.”
“He’s not having me followed,” Carrie parroted back so quickly and so drily, Shea knew it was a lie.
“Ugh. I’m so sorry,” she said, feeling only regret for her best friend. She’d ceased to be surprised by Keenan’s methods.
“Don’t worry about it.” Carrie brushed it off. “I’m hardly going out anymore, anyway. My OB told me to transition to full bedrest by the end of the week.”
Food situation notwithstanding, Shea still didn’t miss New York quite yet. But she did miss her girl time with Carrie. Video chatting didn’t hold a candle to the real thing. Most of all, Shea was riddled with guilt that divorce drama with Keenan might cause her to miss the birth of Carrie’s twins.
“Did he call you again?” Shea grilled.
Carrie had taken one phone call from Keenan early on—a plea for her to tell him where Shea was, couched in a promise that Shea would want to hear what he had to say. Carrie had lied and said she had no idea of Shea’s whereabouts and that even if she did, she wouldn’t tell him.
“He knows he’s not gonna get anything out of me. But whatever—let him try. Being married to a diplomat has its privileges.”