Chapter 4
SUNDAY MORNING, I woke up more than a little sore. Yoga class had gone better than I expected. Tina Gaylord, the instructor, had taken me to one side to assess me for placement in class. After touching my toes produced a loud grunt, and trying to balance on one leg for longer than a count of ten sent me toppling to the floor, Tina assigned me to the beginners’ side of the room.
As I watched Murray lithely twist herself into one asana after another, I decided that it was time to kick the couch-potato habit. I might never be able to stand on my head, but by God, I was determined to be able to touch my toes without groaning.
A warm breeze cascaded through the open window overlooking the backyard. I winced and climbed out from under the new comforter I’d recently purchased. The color of peacock feathers, the blanket had been the inspiration for me to redo my entire bedroom, and I’d lucked out, finding matching accessories so that now I felt like I was sleeping in an opulent harem. Even during summer, the nights in Chiqetaw were usually cool enough to warrant a cozy blanket.
I took a quick shower, then slipped on the one-piece swimsuit I’d bought at the beginning of summer. The bra shelf supported my boobs so they weren’t doing the jiggle-dance that all large-breasted women dealt with, but the leg holes rode higher on my hips than I felt comfortable with. Harlow had helped me pick it out.
A cautious peek in the mirror caught me off guard. Whoa. My, oh my. Apparently, Harlow knew what she was talking about when it came to fashion. Outside the glare of the dressing room lights, the suit looked good . . . real good. The high-cut legs made me look taller and less cushy around the middle, and the color was a gorgeous tone-on-tone embossed burgundy, which set off my peaches-and-cream skin, as Nanna would have called it.
I slipped jeans and a tank top over the suit, slid into a pair of loafers, and wove my tangle of curls into a French braid that fell just above my waist. Silver sparkled among the brunette.
In the kitchen, the feline brigade came bouncing into the kitchen, clamoring for food. Kip fed them while I finished making English muffin-and-egg sandwiches for breakfast. I fixed myself a quad-shot espresso and poured it in the blender, adding a dollop of vanilla ice cream, milk, a couple of ice cubes, and chocolate syrup. Might as well make it nutritious, I thought, tossing in a scoop of chocolate Slim-Fast that I kept around for emergency meals. As the blissfully thick, caffeinated shake ran down my throat, I sat down at the table with the kids.
“Why can’t we go?” Kip said for the umpteenth time, his mouth full of muffin. His strawberry-blond hair reflected in the sunlight that beamed through the window, as he gave me that woeful puppy-dog gaze of his. Short for his age, he looked younger than his nine years.
Randa chimed in. “Yeah, I hate chlorine. The lake would be so much nicer.”
“I already told you,” I said. “A man’s missing. We don’t know what might be out there and I refuse to put you in danger. I tell you what, if everything seems okay, I’ll drive back, get you, and you can go swimming this afternoon.” I gave them my “no-more-complaints-and-that’s-final” look. They quieted down. “Stay around the neighborhood today, okay? I’m taking my cell phone, and Horvald’s going to be home, so go over to his place if there’s an emergency.”
They pouted the rest of the way through breakfast, but by the time I was ready to leave, they’d managed to find something to occupy their time. Kip was playing superhero out in the front yard, and Randa was on the phone, calling to see if her friend Lori was back from vacation yet. A horn sounded from the front of the house. Murray had arrived. We were driving out separately, just in case her boss, Coughlan, called her back to the station. The jerk was so lazy that he had taken to interrupting her on her days off to take care of grunt-work that he didn’t want to do.
I headed out the door, glancing at the still-unfamiliar Mercury Mountaineer parked in my drive. Yet another change this year. I had finally given up hope of ever finding my beloved Grand Cherokee, which had apparently gone the way of a chop shop when it had been stolen in April.
I sauntered over to Mur’s pickup and leaned in her window. “Do you mind if we stop at the store before we head out? I didn’t want to torture the kids anymore than necessary by packing a picnic basket here.”
She nodded. “Not a problem. I’ll follow you, right?”
I shaded my eyes from the sun. “Yeah, do you have the directions in case we get separated?” I handed her the map that Jimbo had drawn up.
“I’ve been there before, remember? When I was checking out Jimbo’s alibi?” She tucked the napkin into her pocket.
“That’s right. He’s changed in the past months, don’t you think?”
She shrugged. “At least he hasn’t gotten himself tossed in jail since you dropped the charges against him. Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”
As I pulled out of the driveway, I turned on the radio to 107.7—The End. Nirvana came wailing out of the speakers and I chimed in, happily belting out the lyrics to “Lithium,” even more off-key than Kurt Cobain himself. Fifteen minutes later, the back seat full of bread, chips, soda, and beer for Jimbo, I turned left onto Myerson Road, with Murray keeping pace right behind me.
Myerson forked into a “Y.” I flipped on my right blinker and turned onto Oakwood, which would lead us northeast. A spacious country road, Oakwood was free from potholes since the loggers took a different route that led them around Chiqetaw instead of directly through it.
The road wound through patches of fir, cedar, and alder that were interspersed with sprawling country homes and vintage farmhouses. The big farms had been subdivided into one-to-five acre individual lots years ago, and the profusion of houses were surrounded by miniature corn fields and blueberry farms. Weekend gardeners made a killing at the farmers’ markets around the area. I veered left when we came to Lakeshore Drive.
Miner’s Lake was actually more of an overgrown pond than an actual lake. While the other side was clearly visible, the lake was wide enough to fish on and swim in. I slowed, bumping along the uneven road, wondering if the city was ever going to get around to repaving it.
Jimbo’s chopper, polished and shining, was parked in front of a ramshackle house that had long ago passed its prime. The house was surrounded by outbuildings and sheds scattered across the property. Half-finished projects, from engine motors to plumbing to woodworking, littered the yard, and a big old truck peeked out of the main garage. One of those rounded cab affairs, it had been jacked up for off-road use, probably for when Jimbo went hunting and trapping.
As I pulled to a stop, Murray eased in behind me and Jimbo sauntered out into the yard. It still seemed odd to see him in his home environment. Instead of his leathers, he was wearing a mesh tank top and jeans. His perpetual bandana was nowhere to be seen, instead he’d caught his hair back into a ponytail that was hanging down his back. Roo, his brown and white three-legged dog, hopped along beside him, barking and wagging her tail. She was missing her left rear leg, but the pooch seemed happy enough.
Jimbo shushed her. “They’re friends, you dimwit. Good girl, that’s a good girl.”
The dog came loping up to greet us. The first time I’d laid eyes on her, I’d been surprised to see how well she functioned with only three legs; but she ran and played just like any other dog.
“Hey Jimbo. You remember Murray?”
Jimbo’s eyes flickered from my face to hers. He gave her a wry grin and spread out his arms. “Yeah, yeah . . . Hey, Detective, you want to frisk me?”
I choked back a snort as Murray cleared her throat. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. I heard you were frying up a chicken and decided to find out if you can really cook, or if you’re blowing smoke again.”