Cliff started climbing the steps again, still on his tear about people who were wasting his time.
“And these bean-counters…” Cliff groused, sounding like he wanted to substitute the word “bean-counters” with “assholes,” which spoke volumes about the insurance adjusters they were about to meet. “They’re interrogating me like I’m a goddamned criminal rather than the one trying to save this place.
“I’m sorry to pull you out of whatever you were doing to deal with this. I know Brody would’ve given it to ‘em, and good. I just thought they might finally put an end to this if the one applying pressure was you.”
Just as they came within earshot of the people behind Cliff’s office door, Dev nodded, motivated to help. Nothing in Sapling ran smoothly when Cliff was pissed off.
“Gentlemen,” Dev greeted as he walked through the door. He’d suited up, so as to look official. He never did for everyday town business, but he found it helped for these sorts of things. It involved wearing his uniform shirt and his badge, clipping on his service belt, and holstering his weapon. This was Colorado and he was the sheriff. People got nervous when you didn’t do at least that.
“Sheriff Kingston,” one of the insurance guys Dev had met before stood.
Wanting to maintain an air of gravitas, Dev nodded and kept quiet as he shook the man’s hand. Dev could tell the man respected the law.
“I understand you’ll be needing more access to the site?”
“Specimen collection,” the man explained. “We like to be able to take some of the forensic evidence to our own lab. We trust your process, of course. But our timeline might be a little different than yours.”
“Not just that,” a second one, who had a shiny, new look about him chimed in. It was clear he was the most junior person on the team. “If we want to get samples, today’s the day. Tomorrow, it’s forecast to rain.”
“Look,” Dev started in. “I understand you’re doing your jobs. And I want you to get what you need. But this is a small town and you’re asking for a lot of resources. He’s got a job.” Dev tipped his head toward Cliff before continuing. “I have a job, too. How can we support you to make sure you get everything you need, today?”
Fifteen minutes later, Dev was back in his truck leading a caravan of cars to Number Eight. Ten minutes after that, he stood by the locked gates next to Cliff as he let them all in. Ninety minutes after that, Dev was sitting next to Cliff in the back of his truck, having the inside of his cheek swabbed. The younger adjuster had taken an insane number of samples, and they finally seemed ready to wrap it up.
“Can I make one more request?” the adjuster asked as he screwed the swab he had taken firmly into a plastic tube, then pulled a sticker with a bar code on it off of contact paper before wrapping it around.
“Anything,” Dev deadpanned, trying and certainly failing not to sound sarcastic. He still couldn’t believe he’d had to trade hiking for this.
“Can you have your lab send over the samples you collected from the Packard executives? We need them for our rule-out DNA. They’ve been a bit difficult to get hold of directly, for the investigation.”
“I thought you said the investigation for Eight was closed.” Now, he had Dev’s attention.
“Oh, it is. This is for Number Five. I saw them on the property last Thursday. I was on the outside of the secure area, inspecting the perimeter. And it wasn’t just the three. There was one more guy.”
“And they were unescorted?” Dev wanted to know, throwing a sidelong glance at Cliff.
“I assumed they weren’t,” the man said. “But come to think of it, I didn’t see any police.”
“What were they doing?” Cliff cross-examined, still sounding pissed even though two hours had passed.
“Looked like they were surveying, for the rebuild.”
“Thank fuck someone is,” Cliff mumbled under his breath. “We need to get back in business.”
But, for Dev, it didn’t sit right. He was about a thousand percent certain the escort protocols were something Brody had made clear. It didn’t matter who owned the place—you couldn’t just waltz on to the scene of a crime.
“Look—like I said, they’ve been hard to get a hold of. And we’ve gotta get back at this point.” He flipped a card out of his pocket. “Could you send this to your lab? Have them send their DNA profiles to me?”
17
The Loudmouth
Shea
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” a drawn-faced and disdainful Polly Yearns scolded Shea as she shuffled by where Shea was seated at the bar. She walked quickly for someone who never went anywhere without her cane. “And you oughtn’t to serve her, seeing as how she’s expecting.”
The octogenarian pulled no punches in glaring at the mostly finished bourbon drink that sat in front of Shea, then threw Shea another reproachful look.
“It was just a rumor, Mrs. Yearns,” Delilah explained, loudly enough for Polly to hear, which was rather loud considering the woman was hard of hearing. Delilah shook her head and pantomimed a baby belly. “Shea’s not pregnant.”
Polly leaned in a little, seeming to inspect Shea closely, looking between her midsection and her face. “She’d better not be, drinking that,” Polly spat. Then she shuffled away.
Delilah and Shea waited half a minute, until Polly was ten feet closer to the door, before both of them burst out in laughter. They’d been having fun with reports of Shea’s pregnancy since the rumor had started the previous week.
Shea had made the mistake, apparently, of not wearing a disguise to Bugaboo’s, Sapling’s best and only baby store. She’d wanted to pick up layette sets and cute blankets for Carrie’s twins. They’d both had a good laugh when Delilah told her about the story. According to some people, Shea was somewhere around twelve weeks.
“Welcome to Sapling.” Delilah’s voice was still thick with humor when she raised her glass for a toast.
“Nothing like a small-town rumor mill…” Shea trailed off, though she secretly loved it. Trudy had cackled like a hen the day before when she’d told Shea she was “glowing.” Even Dev had gotten in on the fun. She’d barely seen his face for the better part of two weeks, but a six-pack of Canada Dry and a bag of something called Preggo Pops had been boxed in with her most recent special order. The fact that speculation about Shea was grist for said mill made her feel less invisible than before.
Four afternoons a week helping Delilah in the kitchen had turned into four evenings a week with the Happy Hour crowd at the bar. Janice Brewster—the cozy mystery writer from Delilah’s shop—talked a fair bit after she’d tied on a few. Bev from the post office ordered a blue cheese olive martini every night and was doted on shamelessly by none other than Buffalo Bill.
By about six every evening, the crowd got thicker with folks who had come off shift from the mills. Conversation was easy and everyone shot the breeze. It wasn’t like the city, where people cared about what you did, who you knew and whether you were someone important. Pregnancy rumors notwithstanding, no one seemed to pry.