Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“Okay. Jake don’t say much, but I know he’s not comfortable living in the house where his grandmother works as a housekeeper.”

“I know.”

“Are you mad?”

“No. But the deal is, no matter where you end up, Shoonga stays with me.”

She smiled crookedly. “You and that dog. You spoil him as much as Levi did.”

Levi. Just saying his name brought sadness that filled the air between us.

Hope whispered, “I miss him.”

“I know.” I swallowed hard. “I do, too.”

“Joy is… well, the joy of my life. But she’s not a replacement for my son. I think that’s why I don’t go out much. People in the community think I should be happy that I have another child. But having Joy hasn’t erased the pain of losing Levi. He’s still in my heart, and I wish to God he was still…” She sniffled. “Maybe that sounds stupid, but do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Hope wiped her tears. “Sorry. Anyway, I keep forgetting to thank you for the frog. Joy loves it.”

I squirmed. I wasn’t a good gift giver. Whenever I bought something new for my niece, I’d sneak into Hope’s bedroom and place the stuffed animals in Joy’s crib, or I’d set the clothes on Hope’s dresser. “Um. You’re welcome.”

“She needs you, too, you know. Beyond the cute outfits and toys you buy her. As she’s growing up she’ll need a strong woman to look up to.”

I was beginning to think my little sister was much stronger than I’d given her credit for. I reached for Hope’s hand and squeezed, then bailed out of the truck before either of us said something that would ruin the moment.

In my sleep-deprived state the next morning, I listened to proposed county budget cuts.

The proposed reallocation of state funds for the county school district.

The proposed budgetary restrictions on fire and ambulance services.

The proposed increases in county vehicle maintenance costs.

My head pounded. I knew nothing about any of this.

“Neither did he, Mercy. You’ll figure it out.”

I looked up at Kiki, startled I’d mumbled the words aloud.

“Didn’t you have to fill out requisition forms and stuff like that in the army?”

“No. The CO did it all, or I blackmailed someone into doing my portion.” I sorted through the sheaf of papers. “I can’t imagine my dad reading all this.”

“He did. Oh, he grumbled, but it was just for show. Wyatt loved scrutinizing yearly budgets and questioning the county commissioners on where they’d allocated the taxpayer’s money.” Kiki put her hand on my forearm. “We only gave you this so you’d have an overview before you debate Dawson. He’s been studying this budget for over a month, so you need to get up to speed.”

My stomach lurched. “Whoa. A debate? No one said anything about me having to debate him.”

“Part of the election process. The format is simple. You state your platform, he states his, and there’s a dance afterward.”

Overwhelmed by the responsibilities, I pushed away from the conference table and walked to the coffeepot. I was in way over my head.

I’d hoped running for sheriff would give me more insight into my father. But these meetings drove home the point that I didn’t know Sheriff Gunderson as well as I’d believed. His employees-hell, even Dawson-had known him better than me. The campaign workers planned to play on my heritage-bogus as it was. The only thing Wyatt Gunderson and I shared was the same last name. And I’d reluctantly approved the campaign slogan: “Gunderson, the name in law enforcement you can trust.”

How would the voters feel if they found out you’d torched your own building and lied about it? Or that you’d covered up a murder and lied about it?

Yeah, I was one trustworthy motherfucker.

“Mercy?”

I faced Geneva and watched everyone file out of the room. “Sorry. My head was spinning.”

“I imagine, especially after what happened last night. Has Klapperich contacted you with any additional news about what caused the fire at the Newsome house?”

“No.”

Geneva’s bright blue eyes pierced me. “Why aren’t you more upset?”

I shrugged. “I’d rather the damn thing blew up when no one lived there. And don’t think I haven’t heard whispers of the Gunderson curse surfacing again.”

“Well, it’s too bad you didn’t have insurance on it.”

“Live and learn.” I scooped the stack of papers rivaling Stephen King’s latest novel from her hands and jammed it into my messenger bag. I met Geneva’s skeptical gaze. “I’ll read it. I promise.”

“No more the-dog-ate-my-homework excuses, okay?”

“It’s better than the truth that I spilled whiskey on it.”

After I ditched my bag in my truck, I stood on Main Street debating my next move. Then I noticed George Johnson’s construction van sitting in front of Pete’s Pawnshop.

Pete Parnell should’ve named his store Useless Crap No One Wants, because it wasn’t as much a pawnshop as a place for Pete to shitpile the junk he scavenged from auctions. Or to take advantage of people low on cash by letting them hock everything from heirloom star quilts to wedding rings.

The place had a musty machine smell that hadn’t improved since my childhood. My dad loved a bargain, and I’d spent what seemed like hours listening to Dad and Pete haggle. But beneath the familiar scent was another. New construction. The tangy pine of freshly cut lumber, the chalky smell of Sheetrock mud, and the sourness of paint primer.

Holy hell, the entire left side of the room was walled off.

“Looks good, don’t it?”

I glanced at Pete, twirling on his bar stool behind the glass display cases. He wore too-small striped engineer overalls with a red hankie hanging out of the front pocket. His seen-better-days ball cap was emblazoned with PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN across the front. Pete was bald as a pool ball beneath that hat-or so I’d been told. I’d never seen him without a cap of some sort covering his head.

“What are you building, Pete?” I dodged plastic milk crates overflowing with mysterious machine parts and stacks of old National Geographic .

“A coffee shop.”

That stopped me. “In here?” Eww. Who wanted dust and metal flakes in their coffee?

“Yep. Re-Pete’s wife Sabrina has been going on and on about how popular them fancy coffee places are. We thought we’d get a jump on putting the first one in Eagle Ridge.”

Pete’s son, Re-Pete, had actually been born Pete Parnell Junior, but everyone-mostly his father-thought calling him Re-Pete would be the height of hilarity. I didn’t envy Re-Pete the nickname during our school years, and certainly not now.

“’Course, I promised Sabrina I’d spiff up the pawnshop a bit.”

He’d have to spiff it up a lot before I’d patronize the place.

“Did you get a taste for them fancy coffees when you was traveling the world, Mercy?”

“Anything is better than the sludge the army served.”

“I hear ya. So you’re running for your daddy’s old job?”

“Yep. Can I count on your vote?”

Pete folded his arms over his beer belly. “Seein’s I ain’t got a beef with the way Dawson’s been doin’ things…”

At least it wasn’t a hell no. Tired of small talk, I said, “I’m looking for George. He around?”

“In the back. Be careful of the wet paint.”

George gripped a paint roller in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Soon as he saw me, he cut his conversation short. “Well, if it isn’t the woman who can stop a bar fight and run for sheriff.”

“I can whistle while I juggle, too.” I smiled. “Speaking of bar fights, I’m trying to track down some information about what went down the night Jason Hawley was killed, and I was hoping you could help me.”