Crooked River: A Novel by Valerie Geary

Author:Valerie Geary [Geary, Valerie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-10-14T00:00:00+00:00

My fingers shook, but I managed to press all the right numbers, and after three rings, someone on the other end picked up and said, “Register-Guard, how can I direct your call?”

Calling the newspaper Taylor Bellweather had worked for seemed the best place to start, especially after the papers reported she was in Terrebonne on assignment. They didn’t say who or what exactly she was here for—her editor was quoted saying, “No comment”—only that she was here for a story. But it felt like something important to me. Something worth following up on.

I drummed the side of the metal phone booth and stared at the keypad and the buttons I’d just pushed, trying to decide what to say, if I should even say anything at all or just hang up and walk away because maybe this would lead me nowhere except straight into trouble.

“Hello . . . ?” the woman on the other end said and then again, louder, “Hello?”

I’d found the number in the phone book easily enough and had borrowed enough change from Zeb’s cup holder to pay for at least an hour, though I didn’t think it would take that long. After the hearing, Zeb said he needed to stop by the hardware store for screws. I was going to wait for him in the parking lot, but then I saw the phone booth reflecting in the side mirror and even though it was just a coincidence, it felt like a little something more, too. Like maybe everything had worked out in a certain order just to bring me to this point, this phone call.

“Is anyone there? Hello?” The woman was impatient with my silence. “Okay, I’m going to hang up now.”

There was only one way to do this: hold my breath and dive in.

I curled my body around the phone and brought the receiver close to my mouth. “Joe Mancetti, please.”

“And who may I say is calling?” She was shouting now, because I had whispered and she must have thought we had a bad connection.

I brushed sweat from my eyes. I had to get this right. I had to sound like I did this kind of thing every day, like I was official. I cleared my throat.

“This is Deputy Maribel Santos,” I said, pitching my voice like hers. “I’m calling about the Bellweather case.”

On the other end, there was a hesitation, a catch in the secretary’s breath, and then she said, quiet now, no longer shouting, “One moment, please.”

A click, and then silence. No muffled voices in the background, no keyboards clacking or phones ringing, no cheesy elevator music. Just the sound of my own shallow breathing echoed back through the receiver.

I wiped my face against my shirtsleeve. The sun was straight above me and scorching. I should be sitting in the shade beside Crooked River, dangling my feet in the water. I should be teaching Ollie how to swim. I should be and should be and should be. Doing anything but this.

A man’s voice interrupted the silence, “Deputy Santos?”

“Mr.

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