Mountain Sheriff. B.J. Daniels
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road to Dennison Ducks was narrow and dark, ten miles carved through the forest. Today, with the rain beating down, the road was even darker, gloomy somehow.
Or maybe it was just his mood, which hadn’t been helped by the thought of that damned present someone had left for Charity. She’d sounded so excited. He wondered now what the gift had been.
Dennison Ducks was Timber Falls’s claim to fame. Of course, if Wade Dennison had his way, the town would be renamed Dennison. Or even Dennison Ducks. Fortunately Wade didn’t have his way all the time.
The decoys were sold in a small outlet store in town next to the Timber Falls Courier office, from mid-April to mid-October. But few people knew where the ducks were actually carved, since none were sold on site at the plant. There wasn’t even a Dennison Ducks sign on the large metal building, just a small sign at the gravel parking lot that read Employees Only.
There was no gate. No security guard. And since no one lived on the premises, no one had seen Nina Monroe arrive or leave last night, according to Wade.
This morning there were a half-dozen cars in the lot. Mitch had called on the way to make sure Wade was in his office. He was and had told Mitch he could talk to any of the workers he needed to. Earlier Mitch had suspected Wade hadn’t been telling him everything. Now, after seeing Nina’s ransacked bungalow, he was convinced of it. He parked and rang the bell at the employee entrance. The door was opened by Bud Farnsworth, the production manager.
Mitch was assaulted by the heavy scent of freshly cut pine as he entered the building. From deep inside came the drone of band saws, carving machines and sanders. Ducks in various stages of production lined the tall metal shelves that ran the length of the room.
“Wade said you’d be coming by.” Bud didn’t sound happy about that. “You know this is our busiest time of the year, gearing up for Christmas.” He was a burly fifty-something man with receding dark hair and small dark eyes that always seemed to be squinted in a frown. Like most of the employees, he’d started working at the decoy plant in high school and had worked his way up.
Bud drank on his time off and it showed in his ruddy complexion, as well as in his cranky demeanor, probably the result of a hangover. “Before you bother to ask, I don’t know anything about Nina Monroe. She didn’t work for me. Never said two words to her.” Bud’s crankiness verged on hostility. “Paint department’s down there.” He pointed between the shelves of ducks.
“If you think of anything that might help, give me a call,” Mitch said to the man’s retreating back.
Bud gave no sign he’d heard.
Mitch rounded the end of the last shelf to what was obviously the paint department. Three artists were seated at a large wooden table next to a window. Both the table and the floor around them were covered in dried paint. One of the four chairs at the table was empty. Nina Monroe’s.
Mitch made his way to the painters, recognizing all three women. The thing about living in a small town like Timber Falls was that everyone knows everyone else—and their business. For most people, that was a curse. For the town sheriff, it was a mixed blessing.
Sheryl Bends didn’t look up as he dragged out the empty chair next to her and sat down. He’d gone to school with Sheryl, even kissed her once in junior high. She was divorced from Fred Bends, a local logger, had worked at Dennison Ducks since high school and spent most evenings at the Duck-In Bar.
She had a narrow face with strong features and wide pale-green eyes, and wore her brown hair in a single braid that fell to the middle of her back. She often invited him over for dinner at her place. He’d never accepted, although he’d been tempted on occasion—usually when he just couldn’t get Charity off his mind. But he’d never been tempted enough to actually accept.
Sheryl wore her usual outfit—a Western shirt, jeans, moccasins and long beaded earrings. Both the shirt and jeans seemed to be fighting to keep her ample breasts and bottom from bursting out.
“Hello, Sheriff,” Sheryl said, giving him one of her slow sexy smiles.
“Sheryl.” He felt his face warm a little.
From across the table, Tracy Shank seemed amused to see him flustered. Tracy was thirtysomething with cropped brown hair and close-set eyes. She gave him a nod and kept working.
Next to her sat Pat Ames. She was fiftyish with a head of gray curly hair and a small delicate frame.
“Sheriff,” Pat said, and kept painting the drake decoy in front of her.
He turned his attention to Nina’s workspace, hoping to find some personal item that might give him a clue as to her whereabouts. But while the other women had photos of husbands or boyfriends or kids, there was nothing personal at Nina’s end.
Mitch watched the women work for a moment, wondering if he should talk to them separately. He hoped they’d be more honest as a group. Also, he was still expecting Nina to turn up. It wasn’t as if he had a murder investigation on his hands.
“I suppose you heard I’m looking for Nina Monroe.”
They had. He went through his questions with Pat and Tracy, who told him what they knew, with Sheryl nodding in agreement. According to the women, Nina stayed to herself, didn’t talk much, didn’t socialize with her fellow workers, didn’t even eat her brownbag lunch with them.
“Where’d she eat lunch?” he asked, having noticed what looked like a coffee-break room on his way in.
The women shrugged. “She’d leave the building,” Pat said quietly as she carefully painted a patch of Mallard green on her duck decoy.
“She ate outside?” he asked.
Pat shrugged and whispered, “Wade usually left for lunch right after her.” Pat didn’t look at him, just kept working.
“You think there was something going on between them?” he asked, keeping his voice down, too.
No answer.
Sheryl glanced past his shoulder. He followed her gaze to the large plate-glass window of Wade’s office on the second floor. The office was situated so that it overlooked the plant floor, giving him a view of the entire production area. Wade stood at the window, watching.
Mitch shoved back his chair, stood and thanked the women before heading upstairs.
Wade was still standing at the glass looking down when Mitch stepped into his office. He turned, not looking happy. But then, he seldom did.
“Have you found out anything?” he demanded.
“Not much. I’d like to see Nina’s employment file.”
“I don’t know what help it’ll be.” Wade motioned for Mitch to draw up a chair in front of his desk as he stepped into the reception area outside his office, opened a large file cabinet and pulled out a file folder. His secretary’s desk was empty, Mitch noted.
On a high shelf that ran the circumference of the office were samples of every decoy ever made at Dennison Ducks, all painted, all different sizes, shapes and types of ducks. The light made the dozens of eyes glitter as if watching him.
Wade handed Mitch the file and returned to his big black leather chair on the other side of the desk.
The folder had little in it. The Dennison Ducks employment application was one page. Under Former Employers, Nina had named a craft shop in Lincoln City called Doodles and a restaurant called The Cove in North Bend along the coast where she’d been a waitress. Not exactly great references for decoy painting, which he’d always heard took a great deal of artistic talent. So why had Nina been hired so quickly at Dennison Ducks?
Nina had left the phone numbers of her past employers blank. Under the space for her former address, she’d just put Lincoln City and the name of a motel or apartment building there, Seashore Views. No address. No phone number.
“There isn’t much here,” Mitch agreed.