"I'm sorry for your loss," I said.
She smacked the back of the bench and let out a deep laugh. "That's a good one," she said. "I had quite the mourning period but I'm slimming down for a cruise this winter. It'll be worth it."
"I'm sure it will be," I lied. I couldn't stomach the idea of giving up sugar. "Send my best to your girls. I hope they're doing well."
"I will," she replied, sliding out of the bench. "And say hello to your mom for me. I can't wait to catch up with her."
That was local-speak for "We are going to talk about this juicy new bit!"
"I will," I said, forcing my enthusiasm. "Have a good night."
Jackson stretched his arm across the back of the bench, his fingers resting near my shoulder. After a moment, he said, "Don't you think you've tortured me enough for one night? Don't you think it's time you let me take you home?"
I turned toward him, my mind still on Denise Primiani and the pit of dread in my stomach. But when I met his dark eyes, I wasn't worried about my parents or my sisters. I didn't need to figure out how I'd tell them about my relationship or gird myself against their cutting commentary.
There was something about Jackson. It'd always been there but it seemed bigger now, brighter. And it wasn't just the desire to get naked. It was so much more.
It was as if he came upon me and took stock of me and my aggregate parts, and said, "This is nice, your calm, collected existence but wouldn't it better if we turned it upside down?"
That was exactly what he was doing and I didn't want him to stop for anything.
18
Baking Blind
v. The process of partially or fully baking a pastry case, such as a pie crust, without filling.
Jackson
It wasa great day for disasters.
I didn't make my opinions on the matter known but I was convinced the arrival of the full moon came with the surge of calamity. Most people brushed off that kind of thinking as old wives' tales or other nonsense but I was a believer. There was a restlessness in the air when the moon was ripe, one I was feeling today.
First, the innkeepers, Cleo and Rhys Neville, reported more suspicious activity on their land. Their dogs had spent the night barking at nothing, their goats and chickens were spooked, and one section of their back fence kept coming down. Once again, I didn't find any evidence of trespassers but that didn't ease their minds.
We walked their property together, righted their fence, and adjusted their motion-sensitive flood lights. I promised to keep a deputy patrolling their street for the next few days and put another call into my contact at the FBI. Even if she knew nothing, it kept the Nevilles' case on top of her mind. It wasn't much but short of razing the woods behind the inn and planting a sharpshooter on the roof, there was nothing left for me to do.
Shortly after leaving the Nevilles, a dog fell into a decommissioned well in the forest on the far end of town. The well was well off the hiking trail and required use of the off-road vehicles to bring in the proper equipment. It took several hours but the pup was rescued and shipped off to the local animal hospital to inspect his injuries.
Then I fielded a call about a group of teenagers rigging up a barge of fireworks. I found them gathered around a rudimentary raft and enough explosives to blow a crater in the beach. As it turned out, they were planning a big send-off for their friends going away to college next week. I was certain they had a cache of beer with them but didn't go looking for it. Instead, I pawned this issue off on the firefighters.
On the way back to the station, I spotted an elderly man walking along the coast road. This was the wrong spot for an afternoon stroll. The road hugged the rocky shoreline, leaving no room for sidewalks or shoulders. Drivers found the speed limit irritatingly low but with one lane and miles of turns and bends ahead, it was necessary.
I sped up and stopped at the least dangerous spot, then jogged back toward the man. I didn't recognize him until I was a few feet away. "Judge Markham," I called. "Out for a walk today, sir?"
"No time for pleasantries," he replied, his arms pumping at his sides. He was slow going but he was going. "Lead the way, bailiff. I'm late."
The judge was dressed in pajama pants, a white undershirt, and a dark brown bathrobe. Shiny dress shoes slapped the asphalt as he walked. I fell in step with him. "Where are we headed, sir?"
Pausing then, he met my eyes with an impatient glare. "To court," he replied. "I'm presiding over an important trial today, bailiff. You should know that."
"Yes, of course," I replied, nodding as I squinted at him. Judge Markham didn't leave the grounds of his estate often. I was told he preferred keeping to himself and puttering in his garden. But this wasn't reclusive. This was unwell. "Allow me to drive you to the courthouse. We'll get there faster."
I gestured to my SUV up ahead and he gave me a brisk nod. "Yes, very good. Hurry now. This trial is important. You should know that, bailiff."
After securing him in the back seat, I radioed the station. "Any missing persons reports this afternoon?" I asked, my voice low to avoid rousing the judge.
Cindy was quick to respond. "No, sir. Nothing's come up since that pupper took a bath and those kids try to blow us to kingdom come."
