Betrayal of Trust by Jance J. A

Author:Jance, J. A. [Jance, J. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Crime, Suspense, thriller, Adult
ISBN: 9780061731150
Amazon: 0061731153
Goodreads: 9633628
Publisher: William Morrow & Company
Published: 2011-07-05T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Dr. Epstein was in the process of attempting to call Governor Longmire when Mel and I left her office. On the way out of town, we stopped at a drugstore and stocked up on batteries for the cassette recorder Mel keeps in her purse. Fortunately she keeps a supply of extra cassettes tucked in there as well.

The trip to Packwood was still the same distance as it had been the day before, but somehow knowing where we were going made it seem shorter.

“We must have done all right with the locals yesterday,” I said. “At least it wasn’t necessary to send Deputy Timmons along to look after us.”

“Are you going to tell Kenny and Ardith, or will I?” Mel asked.

“We could always draw straws,” I suggested.

“No,” Mel said. “We’ll play it by ear.”

As we drove through Randle we noticed that there were no motorcycles parked in front of the Bike Inn, and a red-and-black CLOSED sign hung on the door. I had no idea who owned the bar. As far as I knew, Ardith was an employee. It struck me as a kind gesture on the owner’s part to have closed the place down for the day in honor of the tragedy playing out in Kenny and Ardith Broward’s lives. Once we arrived in Packwood, however, I was downright impressed.

Kenny and Ardith’s yard was full of motorcycles—two dozen or more, along with a collection of woebegone minivans and pickup trucks. People milled around on the porch, where a washtub full of ice, beer, and sodas was the center of attention. Out in the front yard, someone was lighting up an old-fashioned charcoal grill.

You could tell the motorcycle guys from the loggers by the way they were dressed, leathers as opposed to overalls and flannel shirts. A collection of kids dressed in shorts, some of them barefoot, clambered over the play structure. And even without stepping inside the house, I knew that it was full of neighboring women who had probably covered every available flat surface with a collection of casseroles and potluck-worthy hot dishes. Packwood was a small town, and the folks had gathered there together to show their respect and offer their condolences in time-honored small-town fashion.

In a way, this was surprisingly similar to the people who had come to the governor’s mansion once news of Josh’s death had leaked out. Friends had gathered there, too, offering sympathy and support, but that had been a far better dressed crowd; the vehicles involved had been more expensive; and to my knowledge, none of the guests had come to the governor’s mansion with a covered-dish casserole in hand.

Everyone paused and watched with interest as I squeezed into one of the last available parking spots. When Mel and I stepped out of the vehicle, Conrad Philips—the high school principal and the only visible black man in attendance—extricated himself from the group around the charcoal grill.

“Did you find her?” he asked.

I nodded. He understood the implications. What we had to say wouldn’t be good news.

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