21
GAFFER'S RIDGE SHERIFF'S STATION
WEDNESDAY EVENING
Fayreen grinned as she slid the two dinner trays under the bars on the dark green linoleum floor.
“Imagine your girlfriend making dinner for the two of you. Jenny said it was your favorite, and then she asked me all sorts of questions I didn’t answer. They’ve been waiting to see you.” She checked her watch. “Deputy Brewster should be done with them any time now, making sure they’re not carrying any weapons or phones. He already checked your spaghetti, no telling what she could have stuffed under those meatballs.” She turned to Carson. “Mrs. Clapper—she rented you your house—found your purse on the front steps. She gave it to me. I don’t like to be without my purse myself, so here you go, all except your cell phone. We’re going to keep that for you. She said your bag of groceries was spilled all over your front porch. She put the stuff away for you, didn’t want the nonfat milk to go off.”
Fayreen forced Carson’s big black cloth messenger bag through the bars. “Thank you,” Carson said to her retreating back. It seemed to her spilled groceries, a handbag on the front steps were big clues that something had happened to her. Evidently not. Carson unzipped her handbag and began looking through it—recorder, small notebook, her current paperback mystery, makeup bag, rental car keys, small brush, the usual odds and ends. She realized she basically carried her life around with her.
But there was one big thing missing. “He took my wallet, Griffin. Rafer Bodine took my wallet. I remember he told me he’d looked at my driver’s license, knew my name. I’ll have to ask for it back, if they admit they found it. Everything else is here.” She pulled out her makeup bag and checked her mirror. She burst out laughing. “I surely do look squirrelly, Fayreen was right about that. Goodness, Griffin, why didn’t you say something? I could have at least finger-combed my hair, maybe washed my face in that bowl over there, though I don’t see a water faucet.”
“That bowl is the toilet,” he said, and grinned at her appalled look. “Don’t worry, I don’t think we’re going to have to spend the night in jail. Like I told you, my boss, Dillon Savich, must have called the SAC in Richmond by now—”
“What’s a SAC?”
“That’s special agent in charge. Bettina Kraus is the SAC of the Richmond Field Office. She’s a mover and a shaker. I predict she’ll be here pretty soon and she’s going to bring the cavalry. She’s involved in Civil War reenactments, so who knows what she’ll bring.” He looked down at his watch. “I spoke to Savich about two hours ago, so half an hour, more or less.”
“You mean you’re so important an FBI field office is going to assemble a team to come rescue you?”
“Yep.” No need to tell her Savich would have called in the troops if a summer intern was in trouble. “Carson, you don’t look all that bad, really. If you have a Kleenex, you might wipe your face off. Just here.” He pointed to his left cheekbone.
He watched her spit on a Kleenex and scrub at the dirt on her face. She brushed her hair quickly and pulled it up in a ponytail, tying it expertly with a new elastic band from the depths of the messenger bag. He saw a notebook and a beat-up paperback, and that was only the first layer.
He watched her dab on a bit of pinkish lipstick, look over at him, and smile. “Well? Would I still scare chickens and small children?”
He grinned. “I think small children are safe, but I’ve got to be honest here, I’m not sure about the chickens.”
“Har har.” She zipped her messenger bag. “That was very nice of Fayreen to bring me my bag. Maybe she likes me after all.” She looked toward the toilet. “Well, maybe not.”
They fell to the amazing spaghetti with Jenny’s special sauce and managed to get halfway through before Fayreen appeared with the two deputies and unlocked their cell. “You’re lucky,” she said. “Sheriff Bodine said you can speak to your visitors, said he didn’t want to give you one more thing to complain about to Judge Pinder whenever he gets back. Twenty minutes, no longer.” She looked over at Carson. “You cleaned up, did you, missy? Well, the two of you look so perfect and buffed up, makes me wonder if you’re waiting for the TV vans to roll up any time now, drum up publicity for your movie? That’s what I’m guessing this is all about.”
Griffin said easily, “I suggest you contact the sheriff again, Fayreen. I’m expecting a squad of FBI agents in about”—he looked down at his watch—“twenty minutes. Believe me, you don’t want to face them alone.”
Did he see any doubt in her eyes? He didn’t think so. She said, “Now, that sounds like another whopper to me. I mean, where are your wing tips? And your black FBI suit and white shirt and buzz-cut hair?”
“Do you wear your uniform on vacation?”
“Don’t get smart with me. And you stop trying to scare me with talk of the FBI coming. It won’t work. I’m not about to bother Booker with your tall tales. He’s eating barbecue with the family tonight, the whole family. Rafer’s daddy and mama will be there, that’s Mr. Quint and Mrs. Cyndia, trying to figure out what this is all about, after, of course, they go to the hospital to visit their poor boy.”
Griffin shrugged. “Up to you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m going to take you to the interrogation room. It’s not comfortable like Booker’s office. You walk in front of me and don’t try anything funny.”
Griffin raised an eyebrow. “Interrogation room? You have so many criminals running around in Gaffer’s Ridge you need a designated interrogation room?”
Fayreen shook her head, curled her lip at him—an amazing feat, really—and directed them down a short hallway that gave onto the station’s central room. She pointed right, to a room labeled INTERROGATION, and opened the door, waved them in. “Sit down and don’t even think about trying to run. I’ll bring in your visitors.”
Griffin and Carson walked into the room with Jewel and Brewster on their heels. The room was at least larger than the cell Griffin and Carson were sharing.
Fayreen said from the doorway, “Here they are, all worried about you.”
“I don’t believe this,” Jenny said, and ran over to Griffin to hug him.
Brewster stepped in front of her. “Step back, Ms. Wiley. No touching the prisoners. All of you, sit down, keep your hands on the table where I can see them.”
Jenny looked Brewster up and down. “These hands make your tacos. Be nice to these hands.”