Page 53 of Finding Silence
“Am I too late?”
Bess, who owns Strange Brew, looks up from her perch behind the counter and raises one perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Hello to you too.”
“Hi. Sorry,” I quickly correct with what I hope is an appropriate amount of contrition as I approach her. Trying to peek around her into the kitchen, I can’t resist repeating my question. “So am I? Too late? Is there any left?”
With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Bess ducks into the kitchen and reappears a second later with a plate. With my mouth already watering, I study this week’s culinary creation. It looks like a standard square but, knowing my friend, it’ll be much more than that.
Every Friday, Bess tests out new recipes for her coffeeshop menu, and for as long as she’s done that, I’ve been first in line to test her efforts. I’m usually here by about eleven, when I’m about ready for a decent cup of coffee after forcing down the cliched pot of law enforcement tar back at the station. When I took over as sheriff several years ago, I suggested perhaps investing in a new coffee machine, but that did not go over well with Brenda who had served as my father’s office manager for twenty years before I took over, although the title does not do her justice. The woman runs the office and, since things would fall apart without her, I wisely retracted my suggestion and have been chugging down the sludge she makes on a daily basis without complaint, ducking out to Strange Brew which is just down the block from the station for a proper cup of Java.
“I had to fight off a crowd to save you the last one,” Bess guilts me.
“Well, I’m sorry if I was held up. Mrs. Dixon’s alarm went off; she fell again,” I retaliate with my own guilt card.
Mrs. Dixon is an octogenarian insistent on living independently in her little bungalow when she would probably be better off moving in to some assisted living facility. She is still sharp as a tack, but her balance and eyesight leave much to be desired. She has a son, but he lives in Alaska, and only visits a few times a year. Last time she ended up in the hospital after a nasty fall that left her with a fractured wrist, he and I tag-teamed her in to conceding to a health alert necklace which—when deployed—not only sends an alert to the emergency dispatcher, but to my cell phone as well.
“Oh no. Is she hurt?”
“She’s gonna have a lovely bruise on her hip, but EMTs checked her out and she should be okay,” I fill her in, bringing the first forkful of square to my mouth.
Blueberries, and I smell a hint of something floral, recognizing it as lavender when the flavors hit my tastebuds.
“Blueberry lavender coconut squares,” Bess confirms when I groan my approval. “I wasn’t sure about the flavor combination, worried the lavender might get buried by the coconut, but Phil said it was perfectly balanced.”
“Phil dropped by?” I ask with my mouth full.
Phil is Phyllis Woods, aka Phyllis Dubois, singer of former rock band Listen Phyllis and also my father’s new wife. She rolled into town in a rattling motorhome two years ago and rocked my father’s world, blowing new life into him. It’s impossible not to love Phil and the breath of fresh air she brought to our little town of Silence.
I’m the one who introduced her to Bess’s Friday tastings and I don’t think she’s missed one since.
“Stopped in with the sheriff earlier. They were on their way to Spokane for an appointment.”
After serving this town for well over thirty years, everyone still calls my father sheriff, despite being retired for several years now as a result of health issues. It doesn’t bother me, I love seeing how my father’s chest still puffs up at hearing the honorary title. He lived for that job until it just about sucked the life out of him. It had been a hard transition, but since Phil’s arrival in town, he seems to be enjoying his retirement a hell of a lot more.
I bet you that’s why they’re heading into Spokane; to see Dad’s cardiologist.
“Latte?” Bess asks, moving to the complicated espresso machine.
I nod and quickly swallow my bite before mumbling, “Please.”
While she busies herself with my coffee, I hop on to one of the barstools at the counter and let my gaze drift around the coffeeshop. It’s after two, the lunch crowd has already come and gone, but a few tables are still occupied. I smile and nod a greeting at Dana Kerrigan, our local nurse practitioner and a good friend. Her parents own the town’s British-style pub where my father hangs out for his weekly poker game. If Dana wasn’t sharing a table with a man I don’t recognize—a handsome one at that—I’d pull up a chair, but she seems engaged in deep conversation. Curiosity around who the guy might be killing me, but maybe Bess knows more.
Then my eyes catch on a familiar person in a booth near the washrooms.
Carson, teenage son of Hugo Alexander, my chief deputy. Hugo mentioned a while ago his boy had been getting into some trouble since his mom died early last year after a valiant battle with cancer. I had a sneaking suspicion he might be involved in a few incidents of vandalism, most recently a dumpster fire behind the Safeway in town. I’ve been keeping my eye on a small group of troublemakers I’ve seen Carson hanging out with. My gut tells me they are the culprits, but I don’t have anything tangible, so my hands are tied.
However, I know for damn sure the kid should be in school right now and not hiding out in a coffee shop, and I can definitely do something about that.
Carson sees me coming and his eyes dart around, looking for an escape. It’s not until I’m almost at the table I notice the young girl sitting in the shadows across from him. Both of them look like deer caught in the headlights, guilt written all over their young faces.
“Really, Carson?”
He winces at my firm tone and stern look, but only momentarily, before he visibly straightens his shoulders and shores up his bravado. My guess is, for the benefit of the girl across from him. She’s pretty in a wholesome kind of way; long dark hair tucked behind her ears, and a sprinkling of freckles covering her pert, upturned nose. Her big brown eyes look panicked at my approach. She is young, younger even than Carson’s sixteen years.
“Skipping school?”
“We’re working on an assignment,” Carson bluffs.
