“Long day, Sheriff?” Jean asks, no doubt picking that up from my grim expression. The woman is scary perceptive. She clocked my feelings for her granddaughter days after I realized them myself. I tried to deny how I felt, but she wasn’t having it.
“Longer than I’d like,” I admit, digging a hand into the back of my neck to work out a kink.
“Oh?”
The last hour was spent behind my desk filling out paperwork and writing reports—my least favorite part of the job—while Thor snoozed at my feet. The pup had more than his share of excitement during a bike safety event for kids under twelve earlier this afternoon, so I dropped him off at the house before a rescheduled newspaper interview about the new four-way stop at Second and Pine that has half the town in an uproar. Then there was the not one, but two calls, out to the Hanks brothers’ property.
“Eldon Hanks apparently set off fireworks, scaring Chester’s chickens so badly they now refuse to leave the coop.”
“Oh no.”
“That was after Chester allegedly let a skunk loose on Eldon’s property that sprayed his old hound dog right in the face. If that’s true, that would mean Chester managed to acquire a skunk in the first place. How is anyone’s guess.”
“Those two live to make each other miserable,” Jean says, laughing.
“Agreed.”
“The worst thing their mother ever did was leave the old crotchety menalmostequal parcels of land right next to one another in her will,” Jean adds.
“You can say that again,” I mutter, reaching for my coffee and draining half the mug.
After the day I’ve had, I’m dead on my feet. I still need to head to Everleigh’s place to assemble the furniture I promised, but this pitstop couldn’t wait another day. I’ve been trying to get to the diner all day. It’s one of the best gossip hubs in Emerald Creek. I’m hoping Jean or anyone else might have more information about what’s happened to Walter. Although I’ve not heard about anyone looking for a missing alpaca wearing a blue unicorn hat, I fear it’s only a matter of time before a report comes in.
I need to find out what happened to Walter Smalley first.
Paps’ information was limited and partially based on hearsay. And so far, despite my asking around town the past twenty-four hours, I’m not having much luck getting a straight answer from anyone. Seems as though Walter kept to himself these past couple of years, so when he disappeared, no one really knew about it. One day he was home, the next, there was a for sale sign in the yard.
My fork hovers above the pie, but before I can get my question out, Jean asks, “What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”
“Walter Smalley,” I say, lifting the coffee mug to take a slow, thorough sip.
“Ah, sweet fella, Walter. Poor man hasn’t been the same since he lost his wife a couple of years ago you know. So unfair that she beat cancer only to be taken out by a drunk driver, isn’t it?”
I nod, remembering the horrific accident scene I was unfortunate enough to come upon before the ambulance and rescue crew. Guess thereareparts of this job I dislike more than paperwork. I push away the unwanted memory, focusing on my current mission.
“Do you know what happened to Walter?” I ask. “Sounds like he vanished in the middle of the night.”
I vaguely remember Walter’s wife Eliza involved in practically every local function. The town raised thousands to help with her medical costs and even threw her a huge party that required closing off two blocks of Main Street once she beat cancer to celebrate. Her funeral was so strongly attended they had to hold it at the high school gymnasium to accommodate everyone who wanted to pay their respects. But once that funeral was over, Walter and his alpacas became recluses.
“Heard he had a stroke a few weeks ago.” Jean wipes down the counter beside me. “Next thing anyone knew, he’s gone and his house was for sale. I’m sure glad Everleigh snatched it up before those greedy city investors could sniff it out. But with the price she got it for, the seller was clearly motivated to sell.”
“You think Walter just had enough and wanted to leave Emerald Creek?”
“I don’t think Walter sold his home by choice, if he was even the one who sold it at all.”
I searched for recent death records during a small break in chaos yesterday afternoon, but Walter Smalley’s name was notamong them. Which means he had to have gone somewhere else. “Paps said something about a grandson?”
“That ungrateful brat put Walter in a home,” Ester pipes up from her table.
I turn on my stool to face her.
“And the only reason I’m calling him a brat is because there’re tiny ears.” She nods to the little girl in the corner booth. The mother, I assume, looks up and mouths a silentthank you. She looks exhausted, as though she hasn’t slept in days, maybe weeks. But before I can focus too much on her, Ester adds, “He sold Walter’s alpacas, too.”
“Alpacas?” I ask, noting thes.
“I heard Birdie was spotted in town,” Delma adds, her eyes pleading. “Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true,” Gary Tomlin chimes in as he steps into the diner. “Saw her myself. She ran past my kitchen window just after dawn yesterday. Can’t mistake her either. Not with that blue hat.”
