I had twenty-two days left on my probation. The last twenty-two days out of nine years. Could it really be over?
Chickie gave me a small smile and lifted the beer to his lips.
I’m fine. All good. The sheriff says so.
I smiled back.
“Anyway. The damned scribbler is at it again,” Chickie said loudly over the music. “This time, it’s the streetlights being too bright.”
I was grateful for the topic change. “Didn’t someone complain about the streets being too dark at night?”
“That was last month. It was dangerous to walk home, he wrote, because the streets were littered with pine cones. A death trap on every step. He signed that one as our new librarian, Martin Beckett. I told Martin about it, and he knows nothing. And now another complaint has arrived at the town hall, that the lamps are too bright, and the concerned citizen needs to use blinds even when the night is pitch black. This letter was anonymous.”
“You’re sure it’s just one person writing them all?”
“One hundred percent.” Chickie took a deep gulp and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “Since Ollie made the connection, the new ones have been easy to spot. The guy uses the same shitty printer, so they’re all a bit faded in one corner. I know our wordsmith isn’t doing anything dangerous, and aside from impersonating Beauville residents, there’s barely anything illegal to be found, but he bugs me. Like, I lie awake at night because of this guy. Who the hell is he? Why is he doing it?”
Chickie drank more beer and glowered around the pub as if he could spot the villain among the patrons. “I thought I had him when he complained about the construction lights up at Mr. Riley’s, ’cause you can’t see those from most of the town. So I checked who’s staying at the cottages by the church, but nobody fits the profile. Aside from the old-timers, it’s just a few guys who work at the mill. Now he wrote about the blinds, and I put that together with the letters about the dugout in Maple Street. Itook a walk there late last night. Guess what? Not one house had blinds in the windows. Not a single one. It’s driving me crazy.”
I put in an occasional “huh” so Chickie would know I was listening. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about what he said—the complaint letters to the town hall were a mystery. But I’d learned over the years that when folks said things to the bartender, they didn’t need a reply.
People told me everything, even stuff I didn’t want to know. I thought it was the pubkeeper’s role, but Monty insisted it was my face.
“Nobody told me shit when I poured the beers.”
“That’s because they thought you’d blab.”
He laughed the poke off. “Nah. It’s your face. You look like you understand things even when you have no idea. I think it’s the creases on your forehead, and maybe the lines around your mouth. And your eyes. You have a weird eye color. Looks almost black, but it’s dark brown with blue spots. The eyes of a wizard.”
Monty sometimes noticed strange things about me.
He should be here soon, when he was done rolling out the red carpet for Laurel Riley. I wasn’t jealous, no way. I was just worried about Monty. He threw himself into stuff headfirst with that big, guileless grin of his. He didn’t deserve to get his feelings hurt, and Laurel Riley didn’t strike me as the overly appreciative type.
Hunter turned up, and Chickie moved with him to the end of the bar, relaying his misgivings about his investigation into the pile of complaints.
Sedric brought more orders, and I was busy, almost forgetting about our celebrity guest.
A cold blast made me glance at the door just as the chatter at the pub died. An eerie silence swept through the room.
A slim guy entered, wearing skinny jeans and high chunky boots. He had a lithe body, with narrow shoulders and long, slender legs, and he was tall for an omega. He hid behind dark sunglasses, wrapped in a black parka with a hood over a ball cap. He looked like he was desperately trying not to be recognized, which made him stand out like a sore thumb. A few locals immediately zeroed in on him, then huddled together and began whispering.
Laurel Riley, the newest and most newsworthy addition to the Beauville community, had arrived.
He seemed to glance my way, but I couldn’t tell for sure with the glasses he was wearing. I pointed at the corner booth I’d reserved for him and jerked my chin at Sedric to take my place behind the bar. I wanted to take this order in person.
Laurel sat with his back to the main room, folding the sunglasses on the table in front of him. He kept the hood and the ball cap on.
“Good evening, Mr. Riley.”
“Did you tell everyone I was coming?” he said instead of a hello.
Rude. Seemed to me, Laurel was able to take care of himself just fine. Why was Monty bent on protecting him?
“I did not,” I replied.
“Then how do you explain that?” He jabbed a thumb behind himself. An entire table of guys from the lumber mill was staring in this direction.
I pointed at his designer shades. “It’s October and it’s dark outside. You’re wearing sunglasses and you’re dressed like you’re going to a club in the city.”
