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“I’m a fan.”
His eyebrows rose. “A fan?”
“Not like that,” I said. “It’s just, he’s a good guy, did me a huger favor last summer. The Wadsworth held a pop-up exhibit in Elizabeth Park. Stephen agreed to be our featured living canvas, donated a hefty sum to the arts fund, too.”
As he wrote, the sheriff tugged the cuff of his sleeve down over a serpentine coil of ink. “You've got an eye for art?”
“And the degree and student loan debt to prove it." With a wry grin, I twisted the end of my hair. “But I'll admit, a healthy appreciation of the human form might influence my opinion some.”
Circling a word on his notepad, the sheriff murmured, “Not fond of the accountant's form, though.”
“Low,” I told him.
“Cold night,” he shot right back.
I studied him. What a shame he disliked cats. The sheriff was a man at the peak of physical prowess, with sturdy, country muscle layered underneath the grooming sensibilities of government. Someone of his apparent strength and stature had probably ended a few fights, but there wasn’t so much as a faded scar on his face or hands. That being said, while he may have eluded physical harm, experience and age had begun to etch their impressions on his face— and in his case, deepen its appeal, especially when he smiled.
He caught my lingering gaze and did just that. Embarrassed, I zoomed off to the kitchen with guilty red cheeks.
“Mind if I put on a pot of coffee?”
“This being your humble abode, fix yourself whatever you need so long as it ain’t illegal.” He trailed after me. “All I ask is you continue answering my questions.”
I hesitated. “Where were we?”
“What would you say is the overall neighborhood opinion of Mr. Vilkas?”
“Tolerant. Landscaping’s gorgeous: no complaints there. He snowblows the sidewalks every winter, even has his plow guy clear Mrs. Serrano’s driveway free of charge. Thing is, Stephen throws frequent parties. His home is set back from the road, so we don’t see or hear much, but he drives a lot of traffic to an otherwise quiet street. Still, complaints are few, far between, and often originate at the blue house on the corner.”
“Blue house, blue house…” He flipped several pages back. “You close with Mrs. Allen?”
“No more than I am with Stephen.”
“Good,” he began, “And I paraphrase, ‘It was only a matter of time before a tractor trailer sent that freewheelin’ son of a gun into the ditch to rot with the rest of his miserable kin.’”
I winced.
He returned to the current page. “Now, I’ve heard Mrs. Allen’s account, but I’ve been told their spat resulted from an unfortunate incident of charity late last winter. Seeing as how you ain’t close with either, I’d appreciate your reasonable perspective on the matter, presuming you know what happened.”
Everyone did. “Tammy hosts an annual holiday light show for charity, offered to pay our electric bills for the month if we'd let her string lights and post a few reindeer to turn our cul-de-sac into a winter wonderland. WFSB came this past Christmas, put our neighborhood on the six o’clock news. Stephen set up his lights that morning: every bulb was purple. He brought in ombre flocked pines and there was a huge display with garland, candy and a gingerbread donation box for Alzheimer’s. Got more attention for his 'statement' than Tammy. She’s trained her poodle to shit on his newspaper if he isn’t fast enough to grab it most mornings.”
“Has Stephen reciprocated her kindness?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Sheriff Harlowe's pen lifted from the page to point at the sudden apparition of leering yellow eyes beneath a kitchen chair. “Cat fixin’ to take a swipe?”
“Or a bite.” I stuck a hand underneath to shoo her. “She only tolerates her people.”
“Pains me to agree with a cat,” the sheriff said. He, like everyone else who’d met my cat, couldn’t help staring. “Begging your pardon, but your little lady looks like she’s near-filled her dance card at the grand ole graveyard waltz.”
I straightened, but not before stroking the cat’s tattered black ear. “Igor’s been with me a little over a year and a half now. Heard her meowing in a garbage can outside the Yale Art Gallery. This teensy kitten had clawed her way through the trash and mangled corpses of her siblings and was trying to jump free despite her leg hanging by a tendon.”
Grimacing, he moved in for a closer look. “Bait?” he guessed.
I nodded. “Police told me she’d been used to train fighting dogs. Scumbags dyed her and her littermates for bettors to guess the order of slaughter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He went to pet her, but the cat’s claws moved faster. Shaking his hand, he retreated. “People can be absolute monsters, Miss Davins. I don’t know how many lives she’s spent, but she deserves a good one after the hell she’s survived.”
