"Listen up, bucko," Hannah said. "This is my turf. And Malcolm's. Now cool it with the boogetyboogety rays, find some floor to lie down on and stay there. You got that?"
He hesitated long enough for her life from first memory through eighth grade to flash behind her eyes. Moving to the rug under the table, he hunkered down, then rolled over on his side.
"Good boy," she said, recanting all those snide remarks she'd made about assertiveness-training seminars.
Malcolm hoved into view. He looked at the recumbent rottweiler, then at Hannah, then strutted into the bedroom and returned, dragging his Scooby-Doo beach towel. Dropping it in the great room doorway, he circled twice, hunkered down and rolled over on his side.
Alas, a miracle in the breakfast room didn't beget another in the kitchen. After Hannah stashed the Code Name: Epsilon file in a drawer, she perused the cupboards, the refrigerator and its freezer compartment. All held pretty much what she expectedfood, but nothing much to eat.
In fairness, that was less a result of crummy shopping skills, than the good stuff always ending up at one end of the county, while they foraged for crumbs at the other.
Living together separately. Living separately together. Either way, it sucked. And would, even if she didn't know there were marshmallow-fudge cookies, English muffins, hot dogs, a bag of salad greens, eggs, frozen waffles, lunch meat and bread to slap it between at David's house.
"Hannah," David called from the bedroom, "have you seen my cargo shorts?"
"You wore them home when you forgot your gray slacks. Remember?"
No audible response. Telepathy wasn't required to channel,
Sure, I remember now. Which doesn't help a helluva lot, when I'm standing in the bathroom in my underpants with nothing to wear, except the uniform trousers I just took off.
While clothing outages were as common as grocery outages, Hannah knew the true test of a commuter relationship was personal-product outages.
Loaned razors that barely grazed a beard, or performed unscheduled kneecap surgery. David's discovery that mousse only foamed like shaving cream. Gender-bending deodorants that left her smelling like a jock and him like a botanical garden. Constantly regarding a large bottle of mouthwash with suspicion, and maintaining a running tally of the paper cups beside it.
Hannah listened to the water heater clack on and roar to life in the utility room. Outside the kitchen window, the moon cast more shadow than light and katydids skritched their eponymous song. Malcolm yipped like a puppy in the doorway, his hind legs jerking in his sleep. A few feet away, Rambo snored and slobbered on the area rug.
Across the county, the moon shone just as bright at the corner of East Jesus and plowed ground. Bugs serenaded there, too, the new house had a bigger water heater,
two
full baths and there'd be a king-size bed with a hot, handsome sheriff in it every night.
Okay,
most
nights. Duty would still call, but the A-frame's pantry was large enough for a case of marshmallow-fudge cookies. And for a price, every pizza joint in town delivered.
David had her heart. He deserved the home to go with it, and another four years as sheriff to keep it. Even if she had to hire Delbert, whose résumé was in the mailer she'd picked up at the post office. Or Marge, who'd snuck hers in Hannah's Code Name: Epsilon file when IdaClare wasn't looking. Or the Schnurs, who were piling into IdaClare's Lincoln when Rosemary said she'd lost an earring and scurried back inside to give Hannah the résumé tucked in her bra.
Or, about three minutes before "Here Comes the Bride" played in the park, Hannah could scratch out the felony clause in Valhalla Springs' employment contract, rehire Jack's mother, then make David promise to love, honor, cherish and buy her a Howitzer for a wedding present.
She shuddered and stared at the floor, telling herself to keep her options open and her mouth shut for the time being. Advertising was her game, not politics, but even Luke Sauers would agree: unless whoever killed the former sheriff's widow was apprehended and soon, the current sheriff taking a bride in a public ceremony would be like dancing on Bev Beauford's grave.
* * *
David spun the lid off the mouthwash bottle. As he raised it for a swig, the mirror reflected a column of paper bathroom cups on the counter. On the top one, an upside-down Quick Draw McGraw blustered, "Now hoooold on thar
"
"Hannah will never know the difference, podnah." David tipped the bottle, then lowered it. "But I will."
There've been strides, he thought, pouring mouthwash into a cup. He'd almost broken himself of drinking from milk jugs and orange juice cartons. Dirty clothes mostly went straight to the hamper, instead of piling up behind the door. And he seldom left toilet seats up, even in the courthouse washroom, despite Jimmy Wayne McBride saying he was whipped.
David watched the man in the mirror swish peppermint mouthwash around in his mouth. The same damn fool who'd needed to see Bev Beauford lying dead on the floor to remind him that life's too short, shit happens, and if you aren't part of the solution, then could be, you're the problem.
A partial truth. Doubts had always murmured in the background. Louder, at times, but never mute. They'd goose-stepped in hobnail boots through David's brain at Ruby's, before he ever got the call about Bev.
He spat and raked a towel across his mouth. "I'm not the impulsive type." He cupped his hand under the faucet to scoop water to rinse the basin. "Never was. Never will be." He wiped splatters from the counter, then rehung the towel. "Slow and steady's just looking an awful lot more like stubborn and stupid."
Home was where Hannah was. The address didn't matter. What did was hearing, but failing to listen, whenever she teased him about not knowing how to be a wife.
David hadn't proposed to June Cleaver. He didn't expect gourmet meals or lifetime-guaranteed maid service. It had taken far too long to comprehend that wasn't what "wife" meant to Hannah, either.
The only security and stability she'd even knownfinancial and emotionalshe'd provided for herself. She'd loved her alcoholic mother and Caroline Garvey had loved her, but had taught Hannah by example that dependence was a trap.
Valhalla Springs was her safety net. An income separate from David's was merely a token of it. Here, she'd remain Hannah Garvey, resident operations manager, who happened to be the sheriff's wife. Marry him, move to his house and take some marginally fulfilling job in Sanity, and Hannah would be Mrs. Sheriff, who also worked at XYZ, Inc.
The distinction was semantic and a trifle sexist for anyone other than a grown-up little girl whose sibling rivals were Jim Beam and Mom's boyfriend of the night. A grown-up little girl who joked about a childhood belief that the John Doe beside
Father's name
on her birth certificate meant she was somehow related to Bambi.
David splayed his hands on the vanity. He told his mirror image, "You can't
make
Hannah feel safe. Her mother yanked the net out from under her, time and time again. If you love her, sell out to Luke and leave her be."
A knuckle-rap sealed the deal. Someday, they'd find a place together. In the meantime, the cottage had all a man could ever need: Hannah, four walls, indoor plumbing and a roof. He'd convince her of it, as soon as a statewide APB on two homicide suspects wasn't threatening to yank him away at any minute.
"Problem solved," he said as he strode into the breakfast room. "I found the sweats you borrowed the morning you spilled maple syrup on your jeans."
Hannah jumped, turned, pulled her mouth into a smile. "Gee, and here I was, picturing you walking around in your underwear."
He hoped not, judging by the scowl she'd been aiming at the floor. "Oh, you were, huh?" He hooked a thumb in the elastic waistband. "I will, if you will."
The ornery grin she slanted had him wishing he'd crawled into bed with her,
then
kissed her awake. "I'll get back to you on that," she said. "When I'm wearing some."
David tripped over Malcolm's tail. A couple of yards to the left, Rambo was stretched out on the rug, as though his name was embroidered on it.
He stared at the rottweiler and the lamb, stifling an urge to go outside and see if the lake had parted in the middle. "I thought bringing Rambo here was worth a try. No way did I expect him to make himself at home."
"Thanks for warning me that the Terminator was patrolling the breakfast room," Hannah said.
"Plan A was to hang up my clothes, then bed down Rambo in the pickup for the night. Plan B started with kissing you."
"B was definitely better," she said, then repeated the little chat she'd had with his dog and its results. "I think Malcolm thinks I talked Rambo to death."
David grinned as he sat down at the bar. "Whatever works."
"How wise of you to leave it at that." She motioned at the cabinets. "Tonight's specials are crunchy, smooth or frosted corn flakes."
"Okay."
Entrées decided, the beverage choices were cola or lemon-lime soda, orange juice, wine, water or her last can of beer.
"Milk," David said.
She groaned like a waitperson who'd already iterated a restaurant's no-substitutions rule. "Not unless you want dry cereal."
David smirked. "I'll have juice."
Hannah nodded. "Now that we're clear on what we don't have to eat, you vent about the Beauford case, because that's mostly why you're here, and I'll scrounge for snacks."
"I missed you, is why I'm here."
"Bull." A butcher knife that always made David nervous halved an apple in one stroke, which was why it made him nervous. "You called and said you'd be working too late to come over."
Whack,
a half split to a quarter. "I couldn't sleep." She shrugged. "Okay, I fell asleep, but I was sort of waiting up for you, anyway, with my eyes closed."
Whack.
"So whatever changed after you called was lousy enough for you to go home, get your pickup, a clean uniform and your dog, and drive all the way here to talk."
"Saying I missed you wasn't bull," David insisted. The butcher knife dismembered a stalk of celery. "But yeah, shortly after I called you, the investigation hit the skids."
While he explained, Hannah set their food on the breakfast bar and slid onto the stool beside him. "Sounds like a dead giveaway to meno pun intended. If Kimmie Sue and Rocco aren't guilty, why would they skip town?"
David dunked an apple slice in the chunky peanut butter. "Why'd they go to the house for a walk-through, before they skipped?"
"We've discussed answering questions with questions, Sheriff. I won."
"That's all we've got, sugar, and mine was an extension of yours. If they are guilty, why didn't they skip the walk-through, too? Marlin pushed, but he'd have agreed to wait until morning if Kimmie Sue had pushed back."
Hannah scooped smooth peanut butter with a celery stick and licked it like an ice cream cone. David was dumbstruck with vegetable envy. "In the movies," she said, "the bad guys always return to the scene of the crime."
"They've been known to," he allowed. "That's why us good guys take scene photos of gawkers standing behind the tape line."
"But my guess is, if Kimmie Sue and Rocco were in it together, they went to the house to find out what you and Marlin knew."
David tore his eyes away from the X-rated peanut-butter show and focused on the food in front of him. He sniffed the milk carton's spout, then checked the expiration dateyesterday, it now being a couple of hours past Thursday. The milk smelled like Tuesday noon.
Hannah flinched. "I should have done that when I took it out of the fridge." The saucer of apples migrated closer. "All yours. Eat 'em before they turn brown."
"I'll share. I'm not that hungry, anyhow."
"No, thanks. After that dream I had, I'm off apples for a while." She took a cracker and bit off a corner. "I get the feeling you don't believe Mrs. Beauford's daughter is involved in her death."
By her tone, forbidden fruit and homicide were linked. How evaded him, so he said, "I don't want to believe Kimmie Sue's involved, but maybe she's a better actress than we think."
"Either way, if Jarek is the killer, she's a major liability." Hannah munched the rest of the cracker. "What if she didn't leave town with him, and he
took
her? Even if she didn't conspire in the murder, she'll suspect him eventually. Process of elimination, if nothing else."
Hannah's instincts and an analytical, logical mind had attracted David from the start. Not that he was blind to her womanly curves and bottomless brown eyes. Much as she professed to despise her long, curly-wavy hair, he loved to touch it, bury his face in it, see it tousled and tangled on her pillow while she slept.
Hannah Marie Garvey wasn't as tough as she wanted people to believe, more beautiful and sexy than she ever would admit, and a lot smarter than David, but thought the reverse was true. Stay on his toes, and he might fool her for the rest of his life.