Page 49 of Snow Creek

Joshua’s eyes are riveted to his sister. “Don’t do this, Sarah.”

“Josh,” she says. “We have to. Dad killed Mom. You know it. Detective Carpenter knows it.”

“Please,” he says. “Don’t.”

She looks at him with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Too late, brother. I already did.”

Twenty-Three

The judge was very specific, as he or she must be. I’m a stickler for following the rules of law. I don’t want to be the person who screws things up on a technicality. We asked for a broader search of the property, the Chevy, of course, but the mention of the hammer keeps our focus on where tools might be found.

I lead the deputies, armed with cameras, into the barn. It’s a peculiar space because it doesn’t appear that it is in much use for an off-the-grid family. There’s a single stall with a milk cow and a few Sussex chickens. One is a broody hen and she stays put on her clutch of eggs as we pass by.

“This isn’t a one bite of the apple, guys,” I say. “I want to wallpaper our office with of all the photos you take. We might see something later that we miss right now. It happens.”

“We got it, Detective Carpenter,” Deputy Copsey says.

It enters my mind just then how much I like the sound of that. There’s no sarcasm, no phoniness in his voice. I am a detective. I am going to solve this case.

My eyes are lasers. I absolutely will not miss anything.

“Davis,” I say, looking up at the hayloft, “check out every square inch. Run your fingertips through the straw up there. Be careful. Tell yourself that you will be the man who solves this case.”

Davis is younger than me. He has black hair and a mustache that screams Seventies porn star or cop. Cop, I think. His gut hangs over his belt. He’s earnest and a total pleaser.

“Yes, ma’am. On it right now.”

I give Copsey a smile. He gets it. At least, I think so. I’m too young to be a ma’am.

“While your partner is poking around up there,” I say, “let’s check out the shop.”

“Sounds good,” he says as we leave the barn. Copsey is older, hard to say how much. Maybe five years. No more than ten. He’s a strawberry blond with biceps that are barely contained by his uniform. He speaks with a slight lisp that I find charming.

Merritt’s woodworking shop is in an aluminum Quonset hut. Its form reminds me of the arching ribs of a chicken carcass. My mother wasn’t much of a cook, but whenever she made her favorite—and no one else’s—she started by simmering a whole chicken in a pot with onions and carrots. And, yes, her chicken and dumplings smelled so good. Her dumplings never came out of the pot tender. Always hard, like little doughy rocks.

Like her heart.

Merritt’s shop is filled with the odor of cedar and fir. Balsam, I think. It’s like one huge potpourri bag that I wish I was able to give to Maxine. I can’t, of course. The thought that passes through my mind is only good, not snarky. I liked Maxine. I didn’t like how her place assaulted my olfactory senses.

I tell Copsey to search the north side. I note a flattened area on the floor, an imprint of something that had been there a long time.

Carpet?

“I’ll start here, on this end. We’ll meet in the middle. Seriously, Deputy, if the hammer we’re looking for is anywhere on the property, it will be here.”

“Got it, ma’am.”

“Please,” I say. “No more ma’ams.”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

I keep my mouth shut and wonder if I should grow my hair longer. Or maybe slather on the peacock shadow.

There are a bevy of galvanized storage bins on Copsey’s side.

We search by grid, first sweeping every inch in a methodical manner. We take photos too. Not of everything. Copsey also uses a metal detector. I didn’t think to bring one. I make my way around a couple of chairs and a table, works in progress, toward the wide workbench that runs the length of that side of the hut. Merritt Wheaton might have been a monster, but it was clear that he was a very neat one. An array of tools hangs neatly on hooks against a pegboard. He’d outlined with a Sharpie each tool.

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