Like a spell, her efforts seem to conjure diners from all over, wafting in on the scent of her latest creation. The café fills up by ten in the morning and stays full the whole day through. Nonstop serving, bussing, and cleaning being the one small mercy I’m afforded. Myrtle nestles into the steady flow of company like an owl in the hollow of a tree, gabbing and laughing, surrounding herself with a fortress of people.
It’s practically closing when Regis turns back up, half our tables still full of stragglers. Terry and Amos are arguing over a game of Scrabble, washing their sorrows over Ed down with their second slice of pie. Myrtle is ensconced behind the bar, mixing fresh waffle batter for the morning. If Regis is surprised at the bustle, he doesn’t show it. Thankfully, he’s no longer wearing those aggravating sunglasses, and his hat’s been left on the dash of his car. He catchesmy eye as I lean down to stack a bunch of plates from a table that was just vacated. But before he can get to me, Myrtle hollers, “Want some pie, Sheriff? We’re feasting in Ed’s honor today.”
He pauses as if she’s seized him and he is somewhere he doesn’t belong. Recovering quickly, he pushes his chin out. “I’m all right, thanks.”
She nods as if it’s no skin off her nose, but her eyes are narrowed to dashes above her cheeks, the look of a woman playing a dangerous game she believes she’s winning.
But Regis is not easily taken in, and I’m not sure her confidence is warranted. I suddenly understand the pull of customers, the gobs of food, the exaggerated laugh at someone’s joke. It is a tableau, a stage set, everyone a prop that proclaims her status in the community, their love for her—her innocence. It strikes me as both brilliant and foolish. The attention it draws to her will only engage his obstinacy. There is a stubborn lift to his lip already.
When he reaches me, he bends to my ear. “Can we talk?”
I want to melt where I stand. Has the frost of the day before shifted? But when I brush past him toward the door, he shrinks away, my touch something he fears. Like a subluxated rib, something has slid quietly out of joint between us. I feel the ache of it between my shoulder blades, the misplaced pressure, the decreased range of motion.
The raucous night is an improvement over the noise in the café, less grating, the stirring of nocturnal creatures growing on me like an overplayed melody. I drag him from view around to the side where the slant of the roof blocks out the motel lights. We wash monotone as night swallows us.
“Is everything okay?” I ask when he doesn’t immediately start talking. I suddenly wish I had a necklace on, something with a thin chain and a pendant I could fiddle with. I don’t know what to do with my hands.
“I got the autopsy report,” he tells me.
“So soon?”
“It’s preliminary. The full report will take some weeks to comeout, but they shared their findings with me. It’s standard procedure.”
“Oh.” I stand there, not knowing quite how to respond. When he doesn’t go on, I ask, “And?”
His face is pinched, eyes darting away. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this, but…” When he meets my eyes finally, he looks sad, sadder than I’ve ever seen a man look. “I don’t know what it is about you. I can’t seem to help myself. I want to protect you so badly.”
“Protect me? From what?”
“I care about you,” he says now, as if it comes as a surprise, like ants in the sugar jar. He sighs, the sound of it heavy between us, weighted. “It’s not good, Acacia.”
My heart rate picks up, stuttering into overdrive. I wipe my palms on my thighs. “Was it a bear, then? Should we be concerned?”
He sighs again, as if he expected this but still hoped for more. “A moose, but that’s not what I mean.”
I clear my throat, try and hide the anxiety shooting through me like a drug. “It’s not?”
His hands go to his hips, elbows out, a wall I cannot breech. “The coroner found traces of orellanine toxin in his bloodstream, and amatoxins. Do you understand what I’m telling you?Poison,Acacia. Mushrooms. Another amanita plus something else.”
I deflate but am careful not to collapse in front of him. “Is that what k-killed him?”
“That’s not the point,” he tells me. I feel like a mouse in a very small field with a very large cat. There is nowhere to hide.
“I see,” I say, stalling. “How do they think he got—”
“Oh, come off it,” he barks, swearing at me. He takes a few steps away, hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, and walks back. His lips barely move as he says, “I don’t know what you two are playing at. But since you got here, we’ve had two deaths and two mushroom poisonings inside of a week. And this isn’t the first time someone has died of suspicious causesaround here. My first year in the department, we found a young man at a campground, lifeless. His heart had stopped the night before, and his blood was chock full of amanitins—deadly amatoxin compounds. Coroner couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Last place he was seen alive was this very café. At the time, I believed your aunt when she said he wasn’t acting right when he came in. Said he seemed to be high on something. We wrote it off as a case of mistaken identity. Boy was probably looking for psychedelic mushrooms and got confused, especially if he was already on something.” Regis glares at me. “He was twenty-one, Acacia. Twenty-one years old.”
I can’t imagine Myrtle taking a life that young, but how much do I really know about the venery? About Myrtle’s history? I scrabble for words, but none come.
“Despite my best instincts and the obligations of my job, I’m out here telling you this because… because…”
I widen my eyes and cross my arms. “Because?”
“Because you matter to me, and I don’t want you to go down for her…deeds.”
“What exactly are you implying about my family, Regis?” My eyes narrow, and I can practically feel them blazing with green fire.
He leans in. “You told me you were here to study botany. Is that true?”
