The old bell in the tower hadn’t rung since World War II, but the building committees had voted to keep it anyway. I imagined removing it would’ve cost a small fortune.
Local history aside, I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotion that hit me as I stood in the lobby. I remembered the first time I stepped through these doors with Clare at my side. I was terrified, but too proud to take her hand.
She didn’t share my hesitation. Inside, she’d been the fierce, vocal champion of the scrawny, guarded young girl she’d taken in.
Here I was, a ten-year-old who should have been a fourth grader. By any school standards, though, I wasn’t even qualified to sit in a first grade class. But Clare wouldn’t have me face a moment’s embarrassment alone. In her mind, I’d suffered enough. Been deprived enough.
When we went into that meeting with the principal and the district social worker, she told them in no uncertain terms that she’d provide several months of homeschooling and private tutors, all at her expense, to get me ready to sit with the students my own age. And she did it. Or I should say, we both did it. Before the school year was out, I was here and learning alongside other fourth graders.
That memory would never leave me. Clare had never stopped believing in me, never stopped insisting I deserved a normal childhood. As normal as it could be, given how mine began. Her staunch determination had become the foundation for whatever confidence and resilience I carried into adulthood.
She was the reason I was here today. I wasn’t about to let questions surrounding her death go unanswered. I owed her that much.
“You’re early.”
Arthur’s voice pulled my attention from the display case.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on California time?”
Seeing him, I felt my spirits immediately rise, and I couldn’t help but relax a little.
Whether it was a small town committee meeting or lunch at a fine New York restaurant, Arthur was always the same. Cool and imperturbable. Effortlessly elegant and impeccably put together. Today was no exception. He wore a tailored navy blazer over a crisp white shirt, the open collar just rakish enough to suggest confidence rather than carelessness. A silk pocket square, folded with precision, added a subtle pop of color, while his slim-cut trousers and polished horse-bit loafers completed the look. His silver hair was artfully tousled, the only hint of rebellion in an otherwise perfectly composed appearance.
No matter where he was or what the occasion, Arthur always looked like he belonged.
I actually was half an hour early. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Not at all, my love. Not at all.”
This was not going to be an easy day. I knew that. The funeral home had been bombarding me with texts and emails, urging me to come in and finalize the arrangements for Clare. That was my next stop after this.
My mother had always been organized to a fault, but dying hadn’t been on her agenda. As a result, I had no idea what her wishes were. I knew there was a family plot where her mother and grandmother were buried, but beyond that? No clue. Actually, I was only assuming that’s where she wanted to end up. We’d never discussed it.
I don’t think either of us thought she’d ever cash in her chips.
“Do you think the sheriff is here?” I asked.
“I should think so. I just saw someone’s breakfast being delivered.”
Arthur took me by the arm and steered me past doors labeled Town Clerk, Assessor’s Office, and Planning & Zoning. Brick walls that once were lined with wooden lockers now were adorned with glossy paint. The smell of floor polish lingered in the air.
As we walked, I found myself glancing in at each classroom door, trying to match them with the women and men who once taught there. Some of those teachers were memorable...and some not so much. My first classroom, Mrs. O’Brien’s fourth grade, was now Committee Meeting Room A.
We reached the wide iron stairwell and descended to the basement. At the bottom, a single door stood ahead of us, its sign plain and to the point: Harbor View Sheriff.
“What’s the sheriff’s name?”
“Craggs.”
I nodded, whispering, “What exactly are we going to say?”
“Leave it to me.” He shot me a wink. “We’ve got this.”
We knocked and, hearing a gruff “Come in,” we entered.
It was like something out of a 1940s western. There was low railing with a gate that separated us from the ‘business’ part of the office. On a back wall, a map of the village was prominently displayed between a door labeled ‘Cell Block’ and another labeled ‘Emergency Supplies’. Between the railing and the back wall were three battered wooden desks with equally battered chairs around them, but only one desk appeared to be in use.
Arthur wasn’t kidding when he said Sheriff Craggs was the ‘Barney Fife of Harbor View’, right down to his bulging eyes and the nervous, twitchy energy he exuded.
