Baby Bones. Donan Ph.D. Berg
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filled hot coffee thermos. Eyelids closed until head jerked forward when he heard, “Good evening, Sheriff.”
Jonas glanced sideways past cruiser steering wheel to see a hunched Melanie Stark peer into the front seat. Right arm flung passenger door wide; he scurried to the Plymouth’s grill.
“Why you here? You’ll create a firestorm or ignite hostility.”
“Maybe.” She rubbed ungloved hands. “But these guys know that when the strike’s over I’ll still control their lives. They’ll not mess with me, especially when I’m here talking to you.”
“If you say so.” He slanted sideways, left hand on the cruiser’s front fender. She surprised him by wearing blue jeans, running shoes, and a light denim jacket. More so when she strutted close and tapped two fingers on the cruiser’s hood ornament.
“Since you missed the St. Patrick’s Day fund-raiser, you could make it up.”
Jonas glimpsed a slight twinkle in mischievous eyes. “How’s that?”
“I’ll serve you breakfast. What time should I expect you?”
“No time.”
“C’mon. Don’t be stubborn.” She twisted toward the strikers; when turning to him, moist pale lips adorned smile. “Miss a free breakfast, no strings. You holding out for a special feast?”
He jerked frame erect. “Heavens no.” Jonas didn’t want to encourage her.
“Ah. Why not?” She leaned toward him. “It’ll be a pleasure not soon forgotten.”
Jonas didn’t know how to interpret the sultry words, other than a blatant tease. He’d told Luann not to worry about breakfast for he assumed the overnight shift might have him arriving home after she left for her own job. Anyway, he could always pour milk into cereal or microwave Jimmy Dean sausage and coffee or sprawl hungry on bed for necessary sleep. He never fathomed Ms. Stark would try to lure him. If so, she picked the perfect opportunity. No passersby would suspect their conversation to be anything other than strike related. No return office visit that would raise questions or waggle idle tongues. “Blueberry pancakes?” After fifteen-second pause, he decided to up the stakes and join the tease game. “If there’s blueberry pancakes, perhaps maybe.”
“You’ve got ‘em.” She glanced for a second at striker catcalls. “Want sausages?”
He’d been stupid to encourage their banter. Pulse slowed realizing he could always manufacture an excuse later for not showing up. “What time? I’m here ‘til six.”
“I’ll be ready.” Widened pupils flashed road’s open. “You know where I live?”
“Give me the address and I’ll find it. Please don’t expect me to stay long.”
“Let’s say ten after six, 125 North Park.” Ms. Stark broadened smile. “Excuse me. Need to write a note to check for sausages.” She scribbled on a pocket paper scrap.
Jonas’s sideward glance met the long distance gaze of three picketers following Ms. Stark’s every move. “Guess we’ll see if these strikers stay calm and don’t get rambunctious. Or, if the company doesn’t try to push the envelope with truck traffic at six a.m.”
“Now, Sheriff, didn’t I promise the company wouldn’t try to enflame the employees?” She waved toward the strikers. None responded. “The strike will collapse in a week. Boredom and families missing a paycheck support us. With stores well stocked; we won’t need to force the line.”
“You told me, but should I believe you?” He leaned backside on fender.
“Let’s enjoy breakfast. If you expect a trick, I’ll expect a treat.”
Old enough to decipher a hidden sexual come on, he feared responding in kind would be misinterpreted. Happened to him often as a teenager. He’d stay vigilant, and possibly enjoy a quick breakfast. Hours of surveillance time existed until then and anything could happen.
Melanie activated scattered boos, waved as the gate opened, and then crossed the picket line.
At hour intervals, Jonas visited picketers huddled next to a smoky barrel burning split wood. He justified not enforcing a county air quality regulation. The Jove Foods warehouse far corners in eerie shadow, sporadically illuminated by a sauntering rent-a-cop flashlight. High-wattage portable light towers created elongated patrolling guard shadows across the expansive asphalt parking lot.
Near three a.m., up close to twenty hours, Jonas’s eyes blinked heavy. He climbed into cruiser to lay a weary head on front passenger seat headrest. When the sun warmed face with streaming rays penetrating windshield, he realized the nap lasted longer than planned. Half dozen picketers marched single file across the Jove Foods entrance. Shouts or truck horns hadn’t wakened him. Assuming he missed nothing important, right forefinger wiped crustiness from both eyes.
In the rearview mirror he watched Sgt. Paul Anderson approach. Jonas opened the passenger door, but stayed seated.
Paul bent down to stare at Jonas. “Anything I should know?”
“No. Nothing unusual.” Jonas waited until Paul strutted away and became engaged in striker conversation before edging the Plymouth into the street. Groggy from napping, he would’ve driven home until he remembered Melanie’s invitation at the second intersection. Turning toward Park Street, left hand fingers itched a day-old beard. Following house numbers in descending order left him idling in front of 125 North Park.
Four
Jonas stared at the porch and across dewy, ready-to-be-mowed grass to the 125 North Park front door. Rounding cruiser grill, he paused, stared. The outer screen opened. An angelic creature in a flowing gown occupied the porch. Surprised, he rubbed eyes hard. Indeed, a person stood there.
With deliberate slow motion movements, he restricted stride length to match the walkway flagstone leading toward initial vision. Six short steps and he recognized Melanie Stark in a snow-white, trimmed in glittering gold, flowing gown. Golden slippers graced feet, protruding from under hem. He would’ve sworn on a courtroom Bible he’d witnessed an angelic apparition.
“Good morning,” Jonas said. A sausage smell wafted from inside the front door. He followed the sizzling, crackling sound and pork aroma past Melanie into the house. Melanie rotated the front door handle lock and motioned him forward where two kitchen table place settings and a brewed coffee bouquet intermingled with the stronger sausage aroma greeted them.
She pulled out and spun a chair, seat to face stove. He lifted belt and holster as he sat. Melanie grabbed his shoulders equidistant from the neck, twisted side-saddle style, and the white gown billowed and settled, a cloud of fabric wrapped his knees as she nestled onto his lap, right arm around neck. Left hand fingers stroked chin stubble. “I could get used to seeing your face like this every morning.”
Jonas’s between whiskers skin warmed to the touch. “You really take charge, don’t you?” No girl or woman in his memory ever so energetic. Every kiss his lips tasted stolen after long, delayed, clumsy attempts. Rapid breathing expanded Jonas’s chest against the pressure of hers. “This isn’t right. Not with the strike and all.”
“Phooey. We could be good for each other.” She wiggled hips. “I’m sure your sister wouldn’t mind you not being there all the time.”
“Against my better judgment, I accepted your breakfast offer. About St. Patrick’s Day—”
“Don’t care about any church fund-raiser. Those are part of my job, not personal.”
“You should turn off those sausages before they burn.” Jonas didn’t know how to or where to place either hand to lift her off his thighs. If he weren’t careful, they’d both tumble onto the floor. And she didn’t seem anxious to stop kneading his tense neck muscles.
“I’m so glad you decided to leave your dog at home.”