Nah.
Then again, a lot of people disappeared during the troubles last year. One more might be noticed but the disappearance wouldn’t draw a lot of attention.
Grimshaw stared at Julian, who looked way too innocent, and realized he’d been played. “Bastard.”
“You started it. I never saw those tattoos.”
They sat quietly, enjoying shade and a cold beer on a hot summer evening.
“I heard what Swinn said to you,” Grimshaw said quietly.
“By tomorrow morning all of Sproing will have heard some version of it,” Julian replied. “The community doesn’t need a newspaper. If you want the latest news, go to the diner. Helen can tell you everything from how the Sproing bowling team did in the Bristol bowling tournament to who slept on the couch after an argument—and what the argument was about.”
“Good to know, but I seem to have my own gossip magnet—at least until Osgood is reassigned.”
“You heard what Swinn said to me,” Julian said. “And I heard what you said to him. He’s really off the case?”
Grimshaw nodded. “Investigation is done. One of the Others killed Franklin Cartwright. There’s no question about that.”
“But Swinn still has Vicki DeVine in the crosshairs.”
“Yeah. And that only makes sense if someone besides his boss is encouraging him to pursue this and find some way to push her out of The Jumble.”
“There’s one surefire permanent way to do that.”
Grimshaw stared at the flowers in the raised beds. “You’re talking about a cop. You’re talking about premeditated murder.”
“Was Swinn promised enough of a payoff from this scheme to make that worth a serious thought?” Julian countered. “Not likely. He’s part of the muscle, not the money.”
“But he would get something from the deal. They would all get something.” Grimshaw waited a beat. “Where have you been since that night in the alley?”
“I haven’t been a spy for the police force or the government if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I didn’t have the impression the allies you mentioned belonged to either group.”
Julian huffed out a breath. “I wasn’t doing anything illegal or immoral. That’s all you need to know.”
No, that wasn’t all. “Why are you here? Why Sproing? Why a bookstore?”
Julian shot out of the chair and went inside. He returned a minute later with two more bottles of beer. One he set beside Grimshaw’s chair. The other he kept, drinking deep as he leaned against one of the porch’s supports.
“I don’t know why one of the terra indigene followed me that night or why it killed the men who wanted to hurt me—or let’s be honest, kill me. But I’ve stayed away from human-controlled towns since I received that settlement and left the force. I’ve moved around. A lot. A place would feel all right when I first arrived and found work and a place to live. But something would sour in a few months, sometimes even in a few weeks. I didn’t fit in, not long-term, not even in Intuit villages. I put my hand to a lot of work during those years; even taught at a terra indigene school for a while. Because of that, I would get a call every so often to help with a problem. Investigate something or someone. Check out a place and report what I sensed.”
“What happened?” Grimshaw asked when Julian stopped talking.
“I got tired of wandering. I wanted to put down roots. I was on my way to Ravendell on Senneca Lake. I have family there. Sproing was supposed to be a stopover, but I saw the For Sale sign in the bookstore window, and it felt right. Like everywhere else, the community was experiencing an upheaval, with people leaving one way or another. And new people were coming in—Simple Life folk and Intuits. A fresh start. A little pocket of ordinary within the wild country.”
“Not so ordinary since the place contains hoppy things that hit up store owners for carrots,” Grimshaw said.
“I didn’t know about the Sproingers until after I bought the store.” Julian resumed his seat. “In a way, the bookstore is a kind of payoff for services rendered.”
“How so?”
“The store changed hands during the time I was inquiring about its availability. The owner’s heirs received their full asking price, and the deal went through fast, even for a cash transaction. I know that because I checked. But the business was still for sale, and I paid about a third of what it’s worth when you take the building and the stock into account.”
“Silence Lodge?”
Julian nodded. “Someone gave the orders to set the price within a range I could afford. Just like my rent for this cabin is almost too reasonable.”
“The Sanguinati—or some kind of terra indigene—want you here. Any idea why?”
“No. Except . . . Gershwin Jones is another Intuit who settled here within the past few months. Grace Notes should have closed within a month of opening. A music store in a place this small? But the building, which includes the apartment above the store, was offered at a rent that he wouldn’t have found anywhere else in the Northeast.” Julian sipped his beer for a minute. “The Dane family wasn’t liked around here. The families who live on High Street aren’t much liked either.”
“I drove around to get acquainted with the streets and noticed half the houses on that street are empty, and not all the unoccupied ones have For Sale signs on the lawn.”
“According to the gossip at the diner, some families fled but are intending to return. Other homeowners died last summer when the terra indigene tore through human places.”
Grimshaw nodded. “So those who are left are still trying to reestablish their superiority and are discovering they don’t have enough social weight to carry it off.” He waited a beat. “Do you think the Sanguinati are seeding the community to create a new dynamic?”
“They’re the form of terra indigene that often acts as the front man for more . . . disturbing . . . forms, so my sense is that restoring The Jumble to its original purpose has been something they’ve wanted but didn’t quite know how to manage because they didn’t want the Dane family to come back to Sproing. Then Vicki DeVine showed up with the deed and a need to make a go of the place. Right person, right time.”
“Openly running the bank is also a declaration: work with us or leave.”
Julian pushed out of the chair. “Let’s get something to eat.”
Grimshaw stood and stretched, his eyes scanning the land around the cabin.
“After what Swinn said about a bullet in the brain, are you looking for a shooter’s sweet spot?” Julian asked.
“Yeah. I am.” Grimshaw looked at his friend. “But you’ve already thought of that.”