Page 16 of Crossing Lines

Sam brightened. “Yes. Sort of good news. He twitched.”

“Does that mean he’s waking up?” Reese looked hopeful.

“Maybe. The nurse said he’s twitched a few times. Could just be involuntary muscle twitches, but it could also be the beginning of coming back.”

“That would be great.” Reese cocked her ear toward the front. “Phone, gotta run.”

“I might visit Kevin later. I think it helps to have us talking to him.” Jo glanced down at the dog. “Can I bring Lucy?”

“Of course.”

“Okay then, we should get started on the interviews. Is that the list?” Jo inclined her head toward the piece of paper on Sam’s desk.

“Yep. I figure you and Wyatt can take the first two, and Lucy and I will take the third—”

“Sorry, guys.” Reese appeared in the doorway. “That was Rita Hoelscher on the phone.”

“Oh no, not Bitsy again,” Jo said.

Rita Hoelscher and her goat, Bitsy, had a long-going feud with Nettie Deardorff, and the White Rock police were often called upon to referee. Being a police force in a small northern New Hampshire town did have its unusual calls. One type was the refereeing of town feuds, the other the various moose sightings, which the locals seemed to think was one moose who they had named Bullwinkle.

Sometimes, Bullwinkle would mess up someone’s garden, and sometimes he would hold up traffic. Moose were usually peaceful but could cause damage because of their size. It would be very unwise to tangle with a moose, but luckily the locals knew to leave Bullwinkle alone.

“This time it’s serious. Apparently Bitsy ate some of Nettie’s nylons off the clothesline. Made her sick. She’s at the vet now, and Doc Grueber says she’ll be fine, but Rita is really mad. There’s a shouting match going on in Rita’s backyard right now.” To make matters worse, Nettie and Rita lived next door to each other. “George Mathers called it in. He’s worried.”

Sam, Jo, and Wyatt exchanged a look. One of them would have to go.

“I’ll handle it,” Wyatt said. “I have a way with Nettie.”

Sam looked at Jo. “Guess that leaves you, me, and Lucy to interview the friends.”

Upon hearing her name, Lucy rose from the sunny spot and trotted toward the door.

“I guess someone is ready to get started.” Jo followed the dog.

They ran into Harry Woolston on their way out. He was dressed in an oversized button-down shirt with splotches of blue and red paint down the arm. His fingers bore the same splotches, as did his jeans and sneakers.

“Painting your house, Harry?” Sam gestured toward the paint drips. He hoped Harry wasn’t getting up on any ladders. The man was eighty years old.

Harry looked down at his clothes and made a face. “Nah. Another one of the wife’s hobbies. She’s got me painting now. Thinks I’m gonna be a regular Picasso.”

Harry’s gaze flicked from Sam to Jo to Lucy. “Is this a bad time? Marnie Wilson sent me over and wanted to ask if she could meet with you.”

Jo’s sigh was loud enough to be heard in the lobby. She looked irritated. She wasn’t a fan of Marnie Wilson. “It actually is a bad time. We’re on our way to interview suspects for a murder investigation.”

Harry’s blue eyes widened with a spark of interest. “Oh, right. I remember those days. Say, did I ever tell you about how I caught that killer up in Glenbrook?”

Harry had a never-ending supply of stories of the old days. Some of them were entertaining, and Sam understood how empty it could feel to not have a purpose, so he usually listened to them.

“I don’t think we have time for a story,” Sam said as gently as he could.

“Well, I might have some expertise that can…” Harry’s words trailed off, and the light in his eyes dimmed. He’d almost gotten shot “helping” on one of their other cases. He blamed himself for Kevin being in a coma, and ever since then, his wife kept him on a short leash. But Sam suspected it was mostly his own guilt that made him stop insisting on handing out advice or going along to crime scenes.

“I don’t have time. I have to finish my painting before it dries. I’ll just tell Marnie she’ll have to catch up with you later.”

“Sounds good. Good luck with your painting.” Sam slapped Harry lightly on the shoulder and left.

Chapter Twelve

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