Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Rus took a sip of his excellent coffee, thinking, fuck him, that was what made him perfectly comfortable sitting right there.
He’d never want Mayberry.
He needed Hawkins.
He was Hopper, knowing no matter what he did, life was going to suck, but doing what he could to fix it anyway.
He could see himself buying flowers from one of those buckets and taking Lucinda’s shit when he gave them to her, all while monitoring that coven, because he knew they were up to something, and it might start innocent and supportive and about the sisterhood, but in the end, it would be no good.
He took another sip wondering if Moran needed a full-time detective.
Rus didn’t want to wear another uniform, but he did want to do the work.
And fuck it, so he was only five years away from full retirement.
The Crystal Killer could be done playing with him, walk up to him sitting right there, and shoot him in the face.
Life was too fucking short.
His father was miserable because, not only the best years of his life, but the best years of his wife’s, he’d squandered. They had money because they both still worked. Their retirement bought one-hundred-percent wool carpet for Paster Rich’s living room, put gas in his Mercedes and paid for his timeshare.
Rus liked it here, a whole lot better than the choked-with-people hassle of the East Coast.
He’d be far away from his kids, but they didn’t have to rely on telegrams to communicate.
Misted Pines seemed a magnet for some seriously bad shit.
So they’d need a good detective.
On this thought, he went for his gun and nearly spilled his coffee down his sweater.
Because, getting the drop on him in a way he’d never share that shit with anyone for the rest of his goddamned life, was a round woman wearing a headband made of those stick-on bows you put on presents, a sweater that had rows of the same down the front, with snowman earrings dangling at her ears.
She threw herself in the chair across the small table from him.
She stuck her hand his way.
And said, “Heya, I’m Kimmy.”
Shit.
EIGHTEEN
Justice for Brittanie
“Don’t look scared, I’m not going to talk about Kennedy,” she said as encouragement for him to shake her hand.
It wasn’t much, but he shook her hand, and he found it interesting she knew but didn’t care, someone had warned him about her.
“You’re the Fed,” she declared when he let her go.
“And you own the holiday store.”
“Cin told you about me, eh?”
She seemed proud.
So he felt safe to nod.
“So, you know, the town’s buzzing,” she informed him.
“I’ve heard a few things,” he replied.
Apparently, that was her indication to launch in, because that was what she did.
“I didn’t know her, my granddaughter did, and she said she could be a bitch.”
She stopped speaking and put her hands up in a Don’t Shoot! gesture, maybe due to his expression, since he knew she was talking about Brittanie.
“Her words. Not mine,” she continued. “I asked my girl why. She said, ‘She’s a maneater, Gran.’ I asked, ‘What in the dickens does that mean?’ She said, ‘She steals people’s boyfriends. That’s not right.’ So I said, ‘You mean, she’s providing a public service.’ And she was all flustered. ‘What do you mean, Gran!’ And I was all, ‘Well, if your man’s head is turned by a pretty face, then you best be knowing that while he’s your boyfriend, and not later. So it seems to me she’s helping the female population by showing these boys for who they are before a girl gets her heart broken.’ She saw the wisdom of that, I think.”
“That’s an interesting take,” he said.
And it was.
“I got a lot of those,” she told him something he already knew. “You a Christmas person?”
“Not in September.”
She waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve moved the Labor Day stock out, and the fall and Halloween stock in. It’s not all Christmas all the time.”
Her green and red and bow-festooned outfit said different.
“Good to know.”
“I don’t know Ezra either. I just know Sherri. She’s a holiday person.”
That tracked.
“Always thought she could do better, though,” Kimmy continued. “No clue why. Now I know.”
He gave no indication what she said interested him, and asked casually, “You know what?”
“That girl? Murdered at the motel?” She gave an impressive fake shiver.
“He’s only a person of interest,” Rus lied.
“He did it,” she declared.
He agreed with her assessment.
Nevertheless.
“It wouldn’t be good for anyone in this town to sidestep due process.”
“Yeah, you gotta worry about that, but I can have whatever opinion I want,” Kimmy retorted. “I don’t know him, but it’s a small town. I’ve seen him. He’s a bum wearing nice clothes because his wife can afford them. He checks women out when Sherri’s not paying attention. But he doesn’t bother to hide it when she’s not around. I mean, when are men gonna learn? Bobby offed himself in his garage, for heaven’s sake.”