Bonegrinder by John Lutz Page A

Boemer was a retired government clerk living on a fair pension, and the office of mayor neither paid nor meant much. The influx of tourists and fishermen, with their money, might change all that and Wintone was the only one who seemed to look on the situation with disapproval. Mayor Boemer could always remove Wintone from office, but he knew that without a good reason that would be awkward. Knowing Wintone, it might even be dangerous.
    “I’d be interested in any ideas you have, Billy,” Mayor Boemer said as Wintone was leaving.
    Wintone nodded and closed the door behind him.
    On the walk back to the office, Wintone was stopped near the Colver General Merchandise store by Luke Higgins. Higgins’s usually unshaven, round face was smooth and scrubbed, and he was loading some cartons and a shiny new wheelbarrow into the trunk of his old Dodge. The car had been recently washed, and flaking rust around the headlights and doors stood out like cancerous sores on the white paint.
    “I admit it, I was wrong,” Higgins said, tying down the trunk lid with a knotted length of brown twine. “I thought people’d be scared away by those creature stories, but instead they’re flockin’ like chicks at feedin’ time. I shoulda know’d folks like bein’ scared. Hell, they pay to go on roller coasters.”
    “They like to be scared only so much, though,” Wintone said.
    Higgins took off his rimless glasses and polished them on his shirttail. “Appears we scared ’em just right,” he said with a grin.
    “Work to do?” Wintone asked, motioning toward the wheelbarrow handles protruding from the lashed-down trunk.
    “Gotta do some landscapin’,” Higgins said. “Gotta pretty up the place so I can compete. Location ain’t everything.”
    “Guess not.”
    “An’ I can afford some things now, load of gravel for the parkin’ lot, repairs on some of the cabins. It feels good to be able to afford things, Sheriff.”
    “You got a full house at your place?”
    Higgins grinned. “Every cabin’s full an’ I’m booked through the month. I hear even a few of the places that wasn’t too bad damaged on the north shore are makin’ back some of their losses.” He walked around and opened the car door. “Best make it while they can, I say.”
    Wintone watched the old Dodge drive away, rocking on its worn-out springs.
    Instead of returning to the office, Wintone walked down to Mully’s and had a cool beer. He didn’t stay long. Old Bonifield was entertaining two men wearing business suits, probably reporters, in one of the corner booths. When Wintone noticed Bonifield lean across the table and lower his voice and the two men glance over at him, he quickly finished his beer and left. He’d had his press conference for the day.
    But half an hour later the two men were in his office, asking the same questions McKenna had asked, getting the same answers. Only these two were more persistent than McKenna, and Wintone had to stand and almost bodily force them from the office when they began baiting him and trying to provoke him into a newsworthy statement.
    More press people, more tourists and more fishermen descended on Colver during the next week. Though the drought held, and the heat, the streets were no longer empty at midday. Cars passed Wintone’s office window several times an hour, and men and women in tourist apparel strolled Colver’s “rustic” streets with cameras and asked questions about whatever had killed Dale Larsen.
    Wintone was kept busy, though most of the inevitable trouble fell within the jurisdiction of the State Patrol. Still, he listened to his share of complaints, calmed his share of disturbances, worried over his share of paperwork.
    The lake surface had never been dotted with so many fishing boats, nor the deep green woods invaded by so many campers and hikers. Yet the soft, yielding, but uncompromising countryside seemed to make room for them, to absorb them. When Wintone had reason to drive up to Hap