In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(20)

“Kimi Kanasket,” he said.

“Such a tragedy,” Anne said. “What’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, though he did. “Just the thought of it, I guess. A girl that young, bright future ahead of her.”

“Do they know what happened yet?”

“They’re waiting on the autopsy.”

Anne snuggled as close as she could get with the belt between them. Her hair smelled of coconut—some new shampoo—and when he lowered his nose and nuzzled her neck, Buzz detected the familiar odor of caramel. Neither of them knew why. They’d done a smell test of Anne’s creams and perfumes, and none of those had been the source. It was her natural scent, they assumed, and it was a surefire way to get Buzz’s motor going. “You are as sweet as candy,” he told her.

“Well, maybe when I get home this afternoon and you get off-shift, we can find a way to take your mind off of work and onto something more pleasant.”

He smiled. “I’d like that. You have a magic spell to make Sophia and Maria sit still for half an hour, do you?”

“Not half an hour, but I might have a spell or two to last fifteen minutes.”

He pulled back and feigned indignation. “Has it come to that already? A quarter of an hour?”

“It’s not the number of minutes that counts, it’s the quality. And you, Buzz Almond, make every minute special.”

“Try explaining that to the guys at the station.”

“I hope you don’t,” she said. “I’d be too embarrassed to look them in the eye again.”

“You? I’d be the one they started calling Quick Draw.”

She laughed and slapped his chest. “You just come home to me, Buzz.”

“How could I not, with those thoughts on my mind?” He kissed her again and left her in the doorway looking prettier than the day he’d married her.

Later, on patrol, his thoughts vacillated between the anticipated rendezvous with Anne, and Earl Kanasket. He couldn’t imagine the man’s grief, couldn’t imagine losing one of his daughters. He’d heard people say that a parent never recovers from the loss of a child, but it had been one of those sayings that had little meaning without context. Buzz had seen enough young people die during two tours in Vietnam; it was something he’d never gotten used to, and he hoped he never did. But he hadn’t been a father then. He didn’t know what it was like to truly love a child of your own flesh and blood. He’d never seen a parent’s anguish, not until that horrible moment when he’d driven to Earl and Nettie Kanasket’s home and delivered the news that their daughter was dead. Earl had been stoic, like a boxer who’d taken a solid right to the head, still on his feet but uncertain of his surroundings or circumstances. Nettie had simply melted, her legs giving way, collapsing to the floor.

Buzz wished he hadn’t made that promise about finding Kimi and bringing her home. It haunted him.

His sergeant had told Buzz to give his reports to Jerry Ostertag, the detective assigned to the case, and put it behind him; his job was done. Buzz was to move on to the next call. But the more he told himself that’s what he’d do, the more uncertain he felt about the way he’d left things. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something just wasn’t sitting right with him. The night he’d arrived at their home, Nettie Kanasket had said Kimi would never cause them any problems, and all indications were she hadn’t. Left unsaid was that it had been élan who’d given them trouble, like setting their daughter up with Tommy Moore.

Kimi was a good student and a responsible daughter. According to the article in the Sentinel she’d earned a partial scholarship to UW, where she would run track. She was athletic, bright, beautiful, and, by all accounts, well-adjusted. Would she really throw herself in the river over a boy? Over Tommy Moore? Buzz supposed it possible, but he didn’t think so. For one, he wasn’t convinced the breakup had been mutual, as Moore insisted. People who said such things were usually protecting their egos. He thought it much more likely Moore had been the dumpee rather than the dumper.

And he couldn’t ignore the damage to Moore’s truck.

Buzz came out of his reverie when he drove past the Columbia Diner. He checked his rearview mirror, determined it was safe to make a U-turn, and drove back to the diner’s gravel parking lot. He sat a minute, debating with himself, then shut off the engine and got out. The temperature had warmed a few degrees, though it remained cold enough to see his breath.

Buzz walked up the wooden stairs and stepped inside to the smell of deep-fried food. The whole place couldn’t have been more than eight hundred square feet, with just five booths and half a dozen barstools at the Formica counter, where a lone man sat working at a piece of fried chicken with a fork and knife, and nursing a mug of coffee.

A waitress greeted Buzz from behind the counter. “Just seat yourself,” she said, despite the sign that instructed customers to wait to be seated. “Be with you in a minute.”

Buzz took a booth near the picture window with a view of the parking lot and the road. The waitress approached with a pot of coffee, turned over his mug, and filled it. “Get you a menu?”

“Just a cup of coffee,” he said.

“You’re new,” she said, looking at his uniform.