A Hopeless Sheriff (A Hope Walker Mystery Book 9), page 7
“Why, you,” I yelled as I charged after him. But Granny snatched my arm before I could do anything stupid.
Sheriff Stangle shook his head at me. “Tsk, tsk, Ms. Walker. It appears someone here’s got quite the temper. I’d hate to see you assault a sheriff. That could go quite badly for you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
His self-satisfied grin disappeared. His face hardened, and he focused his eyes on me. “I told you last night that I follow the law. Every last one of them. Even the health laws. And if you feel the need to stick your nose in my investigations, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure all of the laws are followed. In addition to your granny, I’m sure you have a number of friends here in Hopeless with a variety of businesses. I would have no problem calling every inspector I can think of to examine those businesses as well. You catching my drift yet?”
I didn’t think I could hate a person as much as I hated Gemima Clark. But Cameron Stangle was giving her a serious run for her money. I so wanted to rip that stupid smug look off his stupid mustachioed face. But Granny still had hold of me and was pulling me back.
“What?” he said, egging me on. “All of a sudden, that smart mouth of yours doesn’t have anything clever to say?”
Granny yanked me behind her and then stepped up to Sheriff Stangle and looked right up at him.
“Okay, hotshot. I don’t know what bug crawled up your butt, nor do I particularly care at this point, but let me be real clear so there is absolutely no confusion. Whatever you think this is, it better damn well stop.”
“Or what?”
Granny smiled. “I am a very old woman. I am a very cranky woman. I can’t feel anything over sixty percent of my body. That includes pain. I lost the only man I ever loved, and I can’t wait to see him again. In other words, buddy, I have absolutely nothing to lose in this world.” She licked her lips. “You know, I happen to know people from Bozeman.”
He flinched, but just a little.
“And those people know you.” She smiled. “They know all about you. Remember, sonny, what is done in the darkness will always see the light of day. So . . . if you want yourself a war, you walked through the right door today. If not, then turn around and get the hell out of my bar.”
At first, I thought Sheriff Stangle was going to challenge Granny right back. But that old woman didn’t flinch. She got up on her tiptoes and pushed her leathery face right up to his chin. And then suddenly, he saw something he didn’t like. He blinked and actually started backing away, like a wild animal reassessing a challenge too hastily made. He rubbed his hand over his chin as he thought about his situation. Then he turned to Mr. Toomey. “I, um, don’t think this bar needs a health inspection today.”
“You don’t?”
“I think we can let this serve as a warning for them to keep their bar in tip-top condition at all times.”
“We can?”
“Yes, Mr. Toomey, I think we can.”
Then Sheriff Stangle looked in my direction. “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Ms. Walker. I can see now where maybe I let my pride get in the way. All I ask is that you let me do my job.”
“And all I ask is that you let me do mine.”
He shot a glance at Granny, clearly spooked by whatever superpowers the Good Lord had blessed her with. Then he looked back my way.
“I think I can live with that.”
The two of them left, and I came up and hugged Granny around her neck.
“Holy crap! That was awesome. Like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie.”
Granny said nothing. She just went around the bar and continued drying out bar glasses.
“I can’t believe he backed down like that. What information do you have on him?”
“Who said I had information on him?”
“You were bluffing?”
“Who said I was bluffing?”
“He’s gone, Granny. You can tell me.”
She looked at me, stone-faced. “And where would be the fun in that?”
“Fine. But when you said you’d go to war with him, what exactly did you mean?”
Granny sent me a hard look. “You ever wonder why Bess doesn’t talk much?”
“All the time.”
“Let’s just say, I have lived a full and colorful life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, granddaughter, there are some things that shouldn’t be talked about, that we are never going to talk about.”
I desperately wanted to ask her a follow-up question or twenty, but the look in her eyes was clear. This conversation was over. Then she bent down, grabbed a full keg of beer, and carried it behind the bar.
And I stood there thinking that Granny might just be the toughest woman alive. I also thought about myself and all that I’d been through. Especially since coming back to Hopeless. Thankfully, I had gotten some of her toughness. Then my thoughts went to Granny’s daughter. My mother. Rebecca Walker. Most of my life, I’d thought she abandoned me out of weakness. But maybe that wasn’t true at all. Maybe she was tough. Much tougher than I ever imagined. I felt like for the first time, there was a chance I might just be getting near the truth.
I texted Earl’s wife to let her know that I was sorry, but I had to postpone our meeting until the next day. Something had come up. She texted me back two poop emojis—she was apparently getting quite tired of her husband. Then I jumped in my car and headed down Main Street and out of town. The first step in getting closer to the truth just might be sitting in a big fancy house in Boise. Gemima Clark’s mother and I were about to have a little chat.
Chapter 11
I drove a couple miles south of downtown Boise until I turned onto Wildernest Lane and found a stretch of beautiful luxury homes that backed up to the Boise River. The Clark house was a nice mixture of Idaho mountain with clean and modern architectural lines. Whenever I thought of Gemima, the word “ostentatious” came to mind. This house was huge, expensive, and luxury in every sense, but not ostentatious. It was rather beautiful. I parked in the circular driveway, then rang the front doorbell and less than a minute later, the door opened and a woman in her mid-fifties appeared. She folded her arms and gave me a disapproving look.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
“I’m not selling anything,” I said. “I’m a reporter.”
“Then I’m really not buying.” She started to shut the door.
“Mrs. Clark, my name is Hope Walker. Hope Walker from Hopeless.”
The door stopped moving. She stepped forward and took a closer look at me. I did the same. Melinda Clark was beautiful, but not in the same way her daughter was. Where Gemima was full and voluptuous in a vaa-vaa-voom sorta way, this woman was thin and a little severe. More elbows and knees than curves. She’d also had plenty of work done. That much was clear. Her chest was ample, but didn’t quite fit the rest of her body. Her lips had the overly full and slightly duckish quality of Botox that didn’t quite work the way it was intended.
“Yes, I suppose you are Hope Walker from Hopeless. I haven’t seen you in some time. What are you doing here?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions . . . about my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“I understand the two of you worked together at the Pine Tree Country Club for a summer. That you knew each other and became friends.”
“I was never friends with your mother,” she said harshly.
“But you knew her.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“Yes. You see, I never knew my mother. She left when I was a baby.”
“And this is my problem . . . why?”
“I have also never understood why she left. But now I think it might have something to do with my father.”
Her face twitched.
“I have no idea who my father is, but I figure if I can find him and talk to him, maybe I could understand why my mom left.”
She stared at me impatiently, her arms folded across her chest, her breaths short and clipped.
“And since you worked together the summer she got pregnant with me, I thought maybe she told you something.”
Her face hardened. “She never told me anything.”
“She did have a boyfriend at the time. His name was Ned. I think you knew him too. Ned wasn’t the father, but he thought it was possible the father was someone my mom met at the country club. Do you think that’s a possibility?”
She shook her head in exasperation. “This was all a lifetime ago. You really expect me to remember stuff about some girl I didn’t even care about from back then?”
“I was hoping.”
“Well, I don’t remember. Now, is that all?”
“Ned said you might have met your husband at Pine Tree.”
“And?”
“Maybe he remembers my mom. Maybe he knew something. All I need is a lead. Something. Anything.”
“My husband does not know anything about your mom. I can promise you that. Now, please get off my property and don’t come back.”
She stepped inside her house and started to shut the door, but I stepped forward and put my foot inside the door so she couldn’t close it.
“What the hell?”
I pushed the door open as she tried to hold it shut. But she was no match for me.
“I will call the police. I swear to God, I will call the police!”
“Fine, Mrs. Clark. You do what you have to do. Just answer one more question. Why do you hate me so much?”
“Excuse me?”
“The first time I ever met Gemima, I was seven years old. I’d never met her before. I’d certainly never met you. And you know what Gemima did in front of the whole school? She told me that you said my mom was a piece of trash. So I’ll ask you again. What did I ever do to you?”
Her face reddened. A vein on the side of her neck started to bulge. She pulled out her phone and started to dial a number, but I snatched it out of her hand before she could finish.
“Give that back, you little . . .”
I snapped my fingers loudly and pointed right at her. “I will give you your phone when you answer my question.”
She reached for it, but I pushed her back with one hand while holding the phone high enough that she couldn’t get it.
“Answer my question!”
She shrieked. “Fine. You want me to answer the question, so I will. I told Gemima your mom was a piece of trash because she was.”
“But what does that mean?”
“Why don’t you grow up and use your imagination, you little twit. And I’m sure wherever your mother is, she’s still a piece of trash.” She examined me with pure unfiltered loathing. Then a chuckle came out of her mouth. “And I just bet the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The evil bitterness of the whole exchange temporarily shocked and paralyzed me, so Melinda Clark reached up and snatched her phone as I backed away. Then she gave me one more hateful look before she slammed the door in my face.
I drove aimlessly through the streets of Boise, feeling deadened. The loss of Jimmy had profoundly hurt and saddened me. Hurt and sad—those were things I understood. But the kind of seething anger that came from Melinda Clark? I didn’t understand that at all.
At some point, the numbness started wearing off and I began to think about what Melinda Clark had said. They were not friends. Rebecca Walker was a piece of trash and was probably still a piece of trash. She told me to grow up. To use my imagination.
I thought about what Ned had told me. That he was surprised about the way Melinda acted that time at the country club. I started working things out. If my mom and Melinda weren’t friends, were never friends, why on earth would she have such strong feelings about my mom one way or another? My conclusion—she wouldn’t. It wasn’t apathy I saw in Melinda Clark. No, it was passionate hatred and anger. And I concluded that kind of anger would only result from one thing.
Betrayal.
What if my mom had done something to Melinda that summer, committed an act of utter betrayal? And if so, what kind of betrayal would it be?
Grow up, she’d said. Use your imagination.
What would be the deepest betrayal a girl could commit against her friend?
The air almost left my body as the obvious answer hit me like a sledgehammer. I pulled over on the side of the street, chasing the logic down to its horrible, awful conclusion.
Was it possible?
Was it really possible that’s why Melinda Clark hated my mom so much? Hated me so much?
I needed to talk with someone, to bounce it off a wall and see if I was crazy. Normally, I would talk to Katie and Granny about this sort of thing.
But that wasn’t who I thought of. The first, second, third, and only person I wanted to talk to was the former sheriff of Hopeless, Idaho.
Alex Kramer.
And then I realized where I was.
In Boise.
Where Alex had been living for the last couple of weeks.
I picked up my phone, nervously placed the call, and then waited. Three rings later, he picked up.
“Hope?”
“Hey, Alex.”
“What’s up?”
“Can you talk?”
“What’s going on? I can tell something’s wrong.”
“I just . . . I just really need to talk. I’m in Boise.”
“You are?”
“And I was wondering if we could meet up.”
“I would love to, but unfortunately, I’m working right now.”
“Working? For that big security firm?”
“No, I haven’t heard back from them yet. I got a gig doing private security for a VIP. Just to earn a few bucks, pay some bills until I figure things out.”
“Okay.”
“But I’d love to talk. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “We could talk tomorrow.”
In the background, a woman called out to him. “Come on, Alex. Time for a perimeter check.”
The woman’s voice seemed familiar.
“Are you working with someone?” I asked.
There was the woman’s voice again. “Come on, Kramer. Time’s a-wasting.”
The voice was definitely familiar.
“Yes,” Alex said. “I’m working with someone. Special Agent Vargas.”
Of course. I felt like such an idiot. Alex Kramer had left Hopeless. He was back in Boise, where Special Agent Awesome, the gorgeous Secret Service agent who was still in love with him, lived.
Of course they had reconnected.
“But it’s just a job, Hope. That’s all it is.”
I pictured Special Agent Vargas. Then I imagined punching Special Agent Vargas. Bad things often happened when two women were both interested in the same man. But I didn’t want to be all caught up with the kind of hatred and loathing I saw in Melinda Clark. I didn’t want that at all. Two ships passing in the night, I reminded myself.
“It’s okay, Alex. It really is.”
“No, Hope, you don’t understand.”
“Yes, I do. Better than you realize. Goodbye, Alex. And . . . take care of yourself.”
I sat there, numbly staring at my phone. Alex called back thirty seconds later. I declined the call. There really was nothing else to say. So I called Katie.
“Taco House,” is all I said.
“Are you asking me?”
“Nope.”
“Got it. Corporal Katie Jo Rodgers reporting for duty, ma’am. And Hope, do I get to know what this is about?”
“No, Corporal Rodgers, you do not. What I need is greasy food, strong margaritas, and a designated driver.”
Chapter 12
By the time Katie and I arrived at the Taco House, Dr. Emma Patel was already there, sitting at one of the high pub tables. But so was someone else.
“What’s Ruth the coffee lady doing here?” I whispered to Katie as we walked their way.
“Not sure exactly. When I called Emma to tell her we were having Ladies’ Night and that she was paying, she was totally cool with it. When I told her she was the designated driver, she was totally not cool with that. She must have made a command decision.”
“Hey, Emma. Hey, Ruth,” I said as I sat down, grabbed the margarita that was waiting for me, and took my first sip.
Emma clinked her glass with mine and took a sip of her own.
“I’m not drinking Sprite again. Especially if I’m the one paying. Why am I paying again?”
“For starters,” Katie said as she clinked her glass to Emma’s, “it’s the Geneva Convention Rules, which we went over in detail the first time we did this. Seriously, Emma, keep up. And number two, you’re a doctor and you’re rich.”
“So, I’m being penalized for being smart and working hard?”
Katie gave her one of those “duh” expressions. “I get penalized for being gorgeous all the time. You don’t see me complaining about it.”
At that, everyone laughed.
“Seriously, girls,” Ruth said, “I appreciate the invite.”
Katie made a face. “Better thank Emma. We sure as hell didn’t invite you!”
There was an awkward moment of silence. And then everyone erupted in laughter again. Ruth had tears coming down her cheeks. “I don’t get to attend many ladies’ nights.”
“Why has it taken so long for us to do this again?” Emma asked.
“I thought the fact that I accused you of murder might have had something to do with it,” I said.
Ruth playfully punched Emma in the shoulder. “Don’t take it personally. She accused me of murder too.”
“Ahh, yes,” Katie said. “Hope Walker’s patented broken clock mystery-solving technique.”
“Broken clock?” I asked.
Katie grinned like an idiot. “Because even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
“You’re a butthead,” I said. “But speaking of my glorious mystery-solving skills, we’ve got an eyewitness to the latest one. Emma, how was your first bank robbery?”
