Rosemary Harris - Dead Head

He shook his head in resignation, as if he knew my answer before he’d even asked. I made a move to get up but stopped short when I heard the sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside. And then a muffled voice.

“Kill the lantern,” I whispered.

I prayed it wasn’t a tabloid reporter out to snag an unflattering photo of the Fugitive Mom’s Philandering Husband! Because that would make me the Mistress and Two-Timing Floozy who betrayed her friend!

We sat still, barely breathing for what felt like twenty minutes but was probably only five. A spider crawled over my forearm and, not wanting to make a sound, I let it despite the fact that I really wanted to scream. I tried to blow it away.

The angled beam from a flashlight moved slowly and methodically over the outside of the building. Grant and I hunkered down trying to appear smaller and less human to anyone who might be peering through the filthy panes. Another vehicle pulled up fast and stopped, spraying gravel on the nursery’s glass doors. Great, the cameraman was arriving; if the reporter was a fast writer, we could be on the eleven o’clock news.

The front door creaked open as it had when I’d arrived. Someone stepped on the same debris I’d stepped on, sending a field mouse scurrying, filling the air with the scent of oregano and getting closer to the back of the building. Then, a young and nervous-sounding voice called out to us. “Springfield Police! Springfield Police! Who’s back there?”

The tension broke like it does on a close, humid day when it finally rains. Grant and I breathed easier. He even choked out a laugh, and he fumbled to turn the lantern back on, knocking it over in the process. The flashlight stopped moving.

“It’s Paula Holliday and Grant Sturgis,” I yelled. “We didn’t break in. Grant has the combination.” I blurted it all out in about five seconds, not wanting to get shot accidentally by one of Springfield’s newest cops.

The boy ranger, who’d stumbled upon me and Caroline Sturgis’s distraught husband, managed not to shoot either of us, although we did have a scary moment when one of Guido’s old wicker baskets fell on his head and he swung around, ready to pounce, as if he’d been attacked from behind.

After six months of classes and the same amount of time spent in field training, the rookie had wisely called for backup before entering the building. That was the second car, which had been on a routine patrol not far away. The two cops made another call once the four of us were assembled outside Guido’s nursery. Now that we were outside Guido Chiaramonte’s derelict nursery, I could read the name on the young cop’s badge, Officer J. Berry, the same cop I’d seen at Babe’s.

“My sergeant says there have been a number of break-ins in the area recently, and we should bring you down to the station house just in case.”

“Just in case what, Officer Berry?” I said. “There are some bulbs missing from Guido’s?”

“No need to get belligerent, ma’am.”

Oh, brother. Belligerent? There was that training manual word again. Humor was pointless. Sarcasm was pointless. We were dealing with RoboCop. Was there anything more disgustingly earnest than the newbie-in any field-who had all the rules and regulations freshly imprinted on his brain but none of the logic, experience, or common sense?

Berry and the other officer, a female named Carson, herded us into the backs of the two patrol cars. They had to be kidding. It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so annoying.

Carson drove Grant. I sat in silence, while Officer Berry, who I’d now started to think of as Juniper Berry, drove me through town to the courthouse/police station complex behind the hospital. The cops pulled into two of the reserved parking spots alongside the building and walked us around through the front entrance, swaggering as if they had just apprehended Bonnie and Clyde.

Grant and I were parked on a bench near a very large soda machine that managed to throw off quite a lot of cold air. Berry and Carson checked us in with a few words to the desk sergeant, then they exited through a back door. We sat there, freezing, for over an hour. I paced and read every flyer on the slatted bulletin board. I learned about National Lock Up Your Meds Day and what ingredients might be purchased if the buyer was planning to manufacture meth, which struck me as a mini-tutorial that you might not want to post in a public place that had a steady stream of criminal types-but, hey, what did I know?

A short, unhappy-looking woman came in and quietly asked for her thirteen-year-old daughter’s police report. Good grief, thirteen-year-olds with police reports? Whatever happened to the good old days when they just shoplifted?

Behind the Plexiglas barrier, another woman, who didn’t appear to be a cop but wore an SPD T-shirt, asked what the kid had done.

“She trashed my house.”

Tough love or mom from hell? Who can say? I silently thanked my own mother for never having had me arrested.

Just then a young guy barreled through the heavy front doors. He had dirty blond hair flattened over one eye in a style made popular by lead singers from bands I never listened to and only knew about from meanderings on YouTube. He wore a tan hooded jacket with lots of pockets, and his massive book bag bore the logo from the Springfield Bulletin. Grant instinctively looked down, and I pretended to be mesmerized by the age-progressive images of some kids missing since 1994.

“Hey, Sarge. Got anything for me?” the guy said. He looked at us briefly and must have dismissed us as “marital dispute.” Not interesting unless one spouse was dead or maimed, hopefully in a colorful way. He ignored us.

Behind the civilian employee, a man I took to be the desk sergeant shook his head and the young man spun on his heel and left before the heavy doors had fully closed. That was a break.

In the space of thirty minutes I’d eaten a very stale package of peanut butter and cheese crackers and downed three bottles of water from the station’s soda machine. If they didn’t see us soon I’d be moving on to the corn chips. I’d had enough. I approached the desk sergeant.

“Excuse me, Officer.”

He pretended I wasn’t there for at least two minutes, something I remembered from snooty hostesses in restaurants who sometimes mistook rudeness for exclusivity. But the Springfield police department headquarters was not a velvet-rope joint. There, the tactic might have been used intentionally to make people feel powerless. Which it did.

Not famous for my patience, I tapped my toes, I jiggled the keys in my pocket, I sighed heavily, I turned around to look at Sturgis and made a twisted, eyes-crossed face. Finally the cop acknowledged my presence.

“It’s sergeant,” he said, tapping the nameplate on the counter with his pencil. “Sergeant Frank Stamos.”

“Right. Sergeant Stamos. We’ve been here for a pretty long time. Are we being charged with something? Because, if not, I’d like to go home. And I’m sure my friend here feels the same way.” I waited for Grant to back me up, but he just sat there, forearms on his knees, staring at his shoes.

Stamos looked at me as if everyone he met when he was behind that glass said the same thing: I want to go home. And he answered the same way. “Just be patient, ma’am. Have a seat and the investigating officer should be here any minute.”

“Investigating what? Two people talking? A business deal?” I was getting worked up. Not a good thing under the circumstances. I’d already been borderline belligerent with the first cop.

Grant rescued me. He came to the desk and without saying a word, clamped a hand on my elbow, and led me back to the wooden bench like a child who’d strayed too far in the playground. The only thing missing was one of those kid leashes that have come back into fashion. Stamos left the counter and went back to shuffling the papers on his desk.