able to find out anything about them. I don’t know what Bib’s up to at Mullmore, but if I catch him there, I’ll notify his parole officer, for a start.”
The sheriff moved toward the living room and the front door, then paused. “Hawk, I know this isn’t what you and your boss—excuse me, your
friend
—are worried about, but if I were you, I wouldn’t just ignore Bib Maitland. That whole Ridder clan he’s married into is a shady bunch. They don’t give a damn for the law; they’ve always lived outside it. It’s a family tradition: the first Ridders to come into these mountains made liquor from the corn they grew in that big cove next to your lady friend. And what’s left of the family today, living over there in a bunch of ratty trailers on Hog Run,
that
crew has been into everything from marijuana to methamphetamines, and we suspect they’re behind a string of burglaries at some of the summer homes in the county. The decent folks won’t have anything to do with them, but the Ridders stick together, marry cousins, and don’t talk to strangers.”
Blaine’s eyes narrowed and he pointed an admonitory finger at Phillip. “I know that the folks you’re watching for make one tough redneck seem like chicken shit. But if it was
my
lady friend and Bib was hanging around just over the hill, I believe I’d worry.”
Elizabeth held the pillow to her face and breathed in deeply. It was still there—that smell of Old Spice and something else, something indefinable, that she associated with Phillip Hawkins. Only a week ago he had spent the night in this guest room. And she had lain in her bed just across the hall, sleepless for much of the time.
What if I’d just come in here and said, “Move over”? What if he’d come to my room?
She closed her eyes, imagining a quiet tap on her door, a gentle—
But he didn’t, did he?
“You fool,” she muttered, and shook the pillows out of their cases. She stripped the bed and left it to air while she wiped the wood of the bed frame with fragrant lemon oil. Friday had come at last and the room was ready for Rosemary, except for clean sheets. A thought struck her and she sniffed at the bare pillow. Yes, that enticing smell was still there, even without the case. She carried the pillows into her own room, hugging them to her, and tossed them onto her bed. Next, marveling at her own silliness—
Like a bloody teenager, Elizabeth
—she removed the cases from her pillows and fitted them over the pillows Phillip had slept on, noting that maybe it was time to get some nicer sheets for her bed.
A frenzied barking from the direction of Ben’s cabin caught her attention and she went to the window. Ursa was standing at the foot of the cabin steps, staring fixedly at the door. The burly black dog continued to bark, occasionally breaking into a high-pitched howl.
“Ursa!” Elizabeth shouted from the window. “Ursa! Ben’s gone to Asheville. All gone!”
Ursa looked briefly in Elizabeth’s direction, then resolutely resumed her barking. A squirrel skittered across the rusted metal roof and leapt for the Cherokee peach tree that grew nearby. Landing safely, it clung to a slender branch, flirting its tail and raising a mocking chatter that could be heard in the intervals of Ursa’s persistent alarm.
Idiot dog,
Elizabeth thought, taking her pillows into the guest room to replace the ones she had appropriated.
Almost home at last! But as she neared the Marshall County Consolidated High School, Rosemary Good-weather was seized by a sudden impulse. She pulled into the right-hand lane and turned up the familiar road leading to the high school.
The parking lot was all but deserted and she quickly made a U-turn and came to a stop at the top of the drive. Yes, just as she had seen it for her four years here: first from the windows of a lurching, rowdy, yellow school bus, later from her very own car—an aging, déclassé little
The sheriff moved toward the living room and the front door, then paused. “Hawk, I know this isn’t what you and your boss—excuse me, your
friend
—are worried about, but if I were you, I wouldn’t just ignore Bib Maitland. That whole Ridder clan he’s married into is a shady bunch. They don’t give a damn for the law; they’ve always lived outside it. It’s a family tradition: the first Ridders to come into these mountains made liquor from the corn they grew in that big cove next to your lady friend. And what’s left of the family today, living over there in a bunch of ratty trailers on Hog Run,
that
crew has been into everything from marijuana to methamphetamines, and we suspect they’re behind a string of burglaries at some of the summer homes in the county. The decent folks won’t have anything to do with them, but the Ridders stick together, marry cousins, and don’t talk to strangers.”
Blaine’s eyes narrowed and he pointed an admonitory finger at Phillip. “I know that the folks you’re watching for make one tough redneck seem like chicken shit. But if it was
my
lady friend and Bib was hanging around just over the hill, I believe I’d worry.”
Elizabeth held the pillow to her face and breathed in deeply. It was still there—that smell of Old Spice and something else, something indefinable, that she associated with Phillip Hawkins. Only a week ago he had spent the night in this guest room. And she had lain in her bed just across the hall, sleepless for much of the time.
What if I’d just come in here and said, “Move over”? What if he’d come to my room?
She closed her eyes, imagining a quiet tap on her door, a gentle—
But he didn’t, did he?
“You fool,” she muttered, and shook the pillows out of their cases. She stripped the bed and left it to air while she wiped the wood of the bed frame with fragrant lemon oil. Friday had come at last and the room was ready for Rosemary, except for clean sheets. A thought struck her and she sniffed at the bare pillow. Yes, that enticing smell was still there, even without the case. She carried the pillows into her own room, hugging them to her, and tossed them onto her bed. Next, marveling at her own silliness—
Like a bloody teenager, Elizabeth
—she removed the cases from her pillows and fitted them over the pillows Phillip had slept on, noting that maybe it was time to get some nicer sheets for her bed.
A frenzied barking from the direction of Ben’s cabin caught her attention and she went to the window. Ursa was standing at the foot of the cabin steps, staring fixedly at the door. The burly black dog continued to bark, occasionally breaking into a high-pitched howl.
“Ursa!” Elizabeth shouted from the window. “Ursa! Ben’s gone to Asheville. All gone!”
Ursa looked briefly in Elizabeth’s direction, then resolutely resumed her barking. A squirrel skittered across the rusted metal roof and leapt for the Cherokee peach tree that grew nearby. Landing safely, it clung to a slender branch, flirting its tail and raising a mocking chatter that could be heard in the intervals of Ursa’s persistent alarm.
Idiot dog,
Elizabeth thought, taking her pillows into the guest room to replace the ones she had appropriated.
Almost home at last! But as she neared the Marshall County Consolidated High School, Rosemary Good-weather was seized by a sudden impulse. She pulled into the right-hand lane and turned up the familiar road leading to the high school.
The parking lot was all but deserted and she quickly made a U-turn and came to a stop at the top of the drive. Yes, just as she had seen it for her four years here: first from the windows of a lurching, rowdy, yellow school bus, later from her very own car—an aging, déclassé little
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