Alaska
Gus Stockton sat in the Viking Bakery at one of five small round tables, his hand splayed on the editorial page. He closed his eyes, imagining how his boss would take the public display of disaffection from the so-called concerned citizens of Petersburg. The town wanted a scapegoat for the murder of Sing Lee and in their desperation, they picked one man as their favorite suspect: Alf Forden, assistant manager to Sing Lee, and now, the acting manager of the Country Store until Sing Lee’s affairs could be put in order.
“More coffee, Marshal?”
“Please, Greta. Thank you,” Gus said to the pretty young blonde with the coffee pot in hand.
“How about another cinnamon bun, sir?” she asked, with a hint of mirth behind her eyes.
He patted his stomach, the editorial forgotten for a blessed moment. “A pastry here in the morning and one at the Country Store in the afternoon are luxuries I probably don’t deserve.”
She shook her head, wonderment in her expression. “You work so hard, Marshal. I never see you relax. If you aren’t reading a notebook, you’re interviewing people. When I deliver to the Country Store in the afternoon, you always have a new person at your table, asking them questions and taking notes.”
He pointed to the editorial in the Press, unable to keep tightness out of his voice. “You have anything to do with this letter?”
Greta appeared horrified, retreating a step as if concerned Gus might explode into a rage. “No, sir. I help with the baking and I deliver our goods all around town. I like Mr. Forden, Marshal. He might be a little strange, but he’s always treated me good and paid me on time. Sing Lee trusted him and I do, too.”
Feeling like a heel for upsetting her, he reached out to pat her arm. When she flinched, he said, “I’m not accusing you of anything, Greta. Like you, I’m skeptical of Mr. Forden as a suspect for many reasons. But understand that I wouldn’t be angry with you if you had a part in writing this complaint to my bosses.”
She filled his coffee cup, “You’re doing the best you can, Marshal Stockton,” she said, but her smile didn’t match the sadness in her eyes.
****
“Are we protecting Ev’s killer?” Liv mused, staring at the 1932 letter from the citizens of Petersburg. “Without meaning to, are we making Parker’s job tougher? Maybe I’m subconsciously advocating for Tilly or praying Tuck isn’t a suspect for my own selfish reasons; for sure, I’m guarding my own privacy.”
Liv tapped on her desk mat as she considered Parker’s reaction to her chart. He’d risen, grabbed his coat out of the closet, and walked to her front door. “Coffee and Norwegian cookies another time, thank you. I’ll see you and Ivor at your mother’s tonight.” He held up her chart stiffly. “And we’ll go over this line by line and person by person.”
“Where are you going?” she’d blurted, confused by her feelings. She was glad she’d stalled the interview, but she didn’t want him to go. How was that for stupid? Plus now she dreaded the dinner tonight at the same time she looked forward to seeing him again.
He’d stared at her chart, and said quietly, “I’m off to get a forensic tutorial on dead people found in saltwater. Your list tells me it’s useless to question any more people in this town until I can pinpoint time of death.”
She’d nodded, but he was gone before he caught her gesture. The detective was irritated with her, with the whole town, and maybe, with himself. And it bothered her, hollowing out her gut. Here was a man who actually appealed to her, and she’d worked him like she did all guys. A lifetime of flirting and dissembling to hide her weird brain. For the first time, her old ploys not only didn’t work on a guy, she felt inane using them.
Depressed and unable to concentrate on her Sing Lee feature, she drifted down to the shop and opened early. She was arranging a pyramid of salmon jars on the counter
Gus Stockton sat in the Viking Bakery at one of five small round tables, his hand splayed on the editorial page. He closed his eyes, imagining how his boss would take the public display of disaffection from the so-called concerned citizens of Petersburg. The town wanted a scapegoat for the murder of Sing Lee and in their desperation, they picked one man as their favorite suspect: Alf Forden, assistant manager to Sing Lee, and now, the acting manager of the Country Store until Sing Lee’s affairs could be put in order.
“More coffee, Marshal?”
“Please, Greta. Thank you,” Gus said to the pretty young blonde with the coffee pot in hand.
“How about another cinnamon bun, sir?” she asked, with a hint of mirth behind her eyes.
He patted his stomach, the editorial forgotten for a blessed moment. “A pastry here in the morning and one at the Country Store in the afternoon are luxuries I probably don’t deserve.”
She shook her head, wonderment in her expression. “You work so hard, Marshal. I never see you relax. If you aren’t reading a notebook, you’re interviewing people. When I deliver to the Country Store in the afternoon, you always have a new person at your table, asking them questions and taking notes.”
He pointed to the editorial in the Press, unable to keep tightness out of his voice. “You have anything to do with this letter?”
Greta appeared horrified, retreating a step as if concerned Gus might explode into a rage. “No, sir. I help with the baking and I deliver our goods all around town. I like Mr. Forden, Marshal. He might be a little strange, but he’s always treated me good and paid me on time. Sing Lee trusted him and I do, too.”
Feeling like a heel for upsetting her, he reached out to pat her arm. When she flinched, he said, “I’m not accusing you of anything, Greta. Like you, I’m skeptical of Mr. Forden as a suspect for many reasons. But understand that I wouldn’t be angry with you if you had a part in writing this complaint to my bosses.”
She filled his coffee cup, “You’re doing the best you can, Marshal Stockton,” she said, but her smile didn’t match the sadness in her eyes.
****
“Are we protecting Ev’s killer?” Liv mused, staring at the 1932 letter from the citizens of Petersburg. “Without meaning to, are we making Parker’s job tougher? Maybe I’m subconsciously advocating for Tilly or praying Tuck isn’t a suspect for my own selfish reasons; for sure, I’m guarding my own privacy.”
Liv tapped on her desk mat as she considered Parker’s reaction to her chart. He’d risen, grabbed his coat out of the closet, and walked to her front door. “Coffee and Norwegian cookies another time, thank you. I’ll see you and Ivor at your mother’s tonight.” He held up her chart stiffly. “And we’ll go over this line by line and person by person.”
“Where are you going?” she’d blurted, confused by her feelings. She was glad she’d stalled the interview, but she didn’t want him to go. How was that for stupid? Plus now she dreaded the dinner tonight at the same time she looked forward to seeing him again.
He’d stared at her chart, and said quietly, “I’m off to get a forensic tutorial on dead people found in saltwater. Your list tells me it’s useless to question any more people in this town until I can pinpoint time of death.”
She’d nodded, but he was gone before he caught her gesture. The detective was irritated with her, with the whole town, and maybe, with himself. And it bothered her, hollowing out her gut. Here was a man who actually appealed to her, and she’d worked him like she did all guys. A lifetime of flirting and dissembling to hide her weird brain. For the first time, her old ploys not only didn’t work on a guy, she felt inane using them.
Depressed and unable to concentrate on her Sing Lee feature, she drifted down to the shop and opened early. She was arranging a pyramid of salmon jars on the counter
Similar Books
