Down by the River by Robyn Carr Page B

pocketful of drug money.”
    Tom leaned back. He picked up a pen and tapped it a few times. Finally he asked, “Why do you suppose he’s hanging around here?”
    “I have a lot of theories. His pupils were as big as ink blots this morning when the baby was coming. He was high. Sluggish and inattentive. I don’t think he’s looking for a fresh start. Though I’ve never seen him before, I’m pretty sure he came out of the mountains where he either worked for a grower or had a small operation of his own.”
    “If it was an outdoor farm,” Tom said, “it might’ve shut down. Pot growers aren’t the only farmers who fall on hard times when the weather turns. We see some layoffs around here in winter. Social services gets real busy. Maybe he’s just one more hard-luck story.”
    “When you see his eyes…when you talk to him…you’re going to know what I know. He’s not what he pretends to be. He’s not just another hard-luck story.”
    “You expect me to arrest him for the look in hiseye? Or run him out of town because we don’t like the smell of his cash around here?”
    “I expect you to keep a real close eye on him. Because he’s up to no good. I’m sure of it.”
    Tom smiled lazily. “You aren’t all that retired, are you?”
    Jim returned the smile. “Old habits die hard.”
    “I can imagine,” said Tom, who had barely had a day off in twenty years.
    “Plus, old Sam seems like a good guy and I’d hate to see him burned by the kid. It’s gotta be Sam helping him out.”
    “Sam’s pretty savvy, but just to be safe, I’ll put a word of caution in his ear.” Tom stood and stretched. “You had lunch?”
    “I’ll have to take a rain check,” Jim said. “I have errands to run. And I think I’ve had all the café exposure I can take for one day.”
     
    The afternoon sped by for June, for she had more than the usual number of patients with decidedly minor complaints, mostly curious about her new status as expectant mother and, it was assumed, prospective wife.
    She found herself frequently thinking, you gotta love a small town. The questions were not couched in any phony politeness. “Well, how long have you known him then?” And “When is this baby due, exactly?” She was an expert at evasion. She would answer “Long enough” and “Babies tend to comewhen they’re good and ready.” But by far the most common question was “When is the wedding?”
    And her answer? “When we have a date, you’ll be the first to know.” By the end of the day at least forty people were deemed to be first.
    By the time the dinner hour approached, June had had a full day. She was clearly sinking. She knew that exhaustion was par for the pregnancy course, but she hadn’t been so plagued before. “I’m absolutely wilting,” she told Susan Stone.
    “Yeah, I think that’s the worst part, the total and consuming fatigue. Worse even than the nausea.”
    “I don’t know about that,” June said, a hand going to her stomach. “Did I tell you about my visit with Aunt Myrna today? She dragged my mother’s old wedding gown out of the attic and I threw up on her Oriental rug.” She made a face. “I think it was the smell of mothballs. And the tea Endeara made me, which tasted like dishwater.”
    Susan erupted in laughter. “No! Really?”
    “Would I make that up? I was mortified!”
    Jessie, upon hearing the laughter, came down the hall from her secretary’s cubicle. “What’s so funny?”
    “June threw up on her aunt’s rug,” Susan reported.
    “No way!” Jessie said.
    “Way,” confirmed June.
    John came out of an examining room to join the discussion. “What did the daddy do?” he asked.
    June had to think a minute. “I think he looked the other way,” she said.
    “But he didn’t run for his life, did he?” Susan asked.
    “No, he hung in there. It was truly horrible.” June sank wearily to a stool in the hallway. “You know, he’s almost forty and never expected