Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

“Can you fill me in a little?”

“Well, we think the Logan woman may have known her killer. She lived alone, and she had a conceal and carry, which she got because she was carjacked one time. Made her paranoid, I guess, the guy who worked it told me.”

“But not so paranoid she didn’t open her door to her killer.”

“Right. So she knew the killer, trusted him or her but probably him — it was dark, but the door had a glass panel — and she answered it.”

“From what I read online, her killer attacked her right there in the doorway.”

“Right. Eight deep thrusts of what we think was a knife blade, all in the chest. That’s partly why we think it’s a man — wounds went deep.”

“But a woman in a frenzy could do that.”

“Which is why we don’t rule that out. So what’s your interest in this, buddy? Or is it your daughter’s, ’cause she’s chief there?”

“Nothing except Sue Logan was a local girl. Sue and my daughter were in high school together, and this weekend’s the class reunion. Thought if there was any news, any leads you might be able to share, her friends might like to know.”

“Well, there isn’t. Anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Nice talking to you,” Hastings said, and hung up.

The outer area of the Galena Brewing Company on North Main was a big modern room with rustic touches, brick behind the bar, barnwood-trimmed doors, wooden tables and chairs, and — hanging from the open rafters — nostalgic posters. These hawked their house brews — General Grant for Uly’s Dark, Carrie Nation for Anna Belle’s IPA, and a weary Depression-era farmer for Farmer’s Blonde.

This time of year the microbrewery was rarely hopping (or barleying either, for that matter). But this was a Friday, and fairly busy, so Krista was not surprised when she and Jerry were directed to the party room. Maybe thirty people were packed into the modest space with its own bar and rustic touches (here a barrel, there a pioneer picture), and half a dozen four-chair tables. On the edge of the bar, a phone in a speaker dock was giving forth with Lady Gaga’s possibly prophetic “Bad Romance.”

The word “casual” to Krista’s female classmates hadn’t stopped them from making an effort — around the room were colorful sweaters, ruffled blouses, and funky sweatshirts. Less thought had gone into the rest of their ensembles, which invariably ran to leggings or jeans. UGG boots and maybe her own cowboy boots were as fancy as the footgear got, with running shoes in the lead.

The guys had taken “casual” more literally, the room filled with flannel shirts and sweatshirts, nondesigner jeans, and even sweatpants, with running shoes winning the footwear event, male division.

But for the occasional selfie, the usual phones were tucked away, texting taking a back seat to actual human contact with these old classmates. It was better than Facebook.

Krista and Jerry, who on the brief car ride here had spoken very little, if politely, joined Jessy and her husband, Josh, at the table where seats had been saved for the less-than-happy couple.

“You look adorable!” Jessy said, standing and giving her a hug. “I love the cowboy boots!”

Josh, also on his feet now, grinned and said, “I thought you were the police chief, not the sheriff!”

He was a good-looking, friendly guy with dark blond hair and dark blue eyes, slightly overweight, in camouflage sweatshirt and khakis.

She laughed politely at Josh’s greeting, not terribly interested in having her profession pointed out. Jerry said hello to everybody as they both sat down.

“Well, you look very nice yourself,” Krista told Jessy, who — ever the professional — had on a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, with a tailored navy blazer, her makeup flawless, though her dark-washed jeans and flats showed less effort.

Krista added, “Love the purse!”

Jessy — the black Coach crossbody purse before her like a meal she was protecting from some hungry interloper — said, “Nabbed it at T.J. Maxx across the river. Where did you find those boots?”

“Online, I’m afraid,” Krista admitted.

She and Jessy talked clothes for a while, and commented in hushed tones about the attire of other female classmates (mostly admiring, but a modest amount of cattiness creeping in). Josh and Jerry just smiled awkwardly at each other. They had nothing in common, Josh having typical male sports enthusiasms, Jerry a would-be hipster interested only in the arts.

Krista caught snippets of their occasional, strained conversation.

Jerry gestured to Josh’s camouflage sweatshirt and said, “Didn’t know you were into hunting.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh.”

Josh shrugged. “Just thought it had a nice macho vibe.”

Jerry nodded. “That it does.”

“Don’t want people to think because I’m in the food industry I’m some kind of... you know.”

Jerry, who clearly didn’t know, said, “Right.”

And that, of the several things that got through her radar as she girl-talked with Jessy, was the longest and most interesting exchange between the two former classmates.

Krista asked Jessy, “Any sign of Astrid?”

“Not yet. I fully expect her to make an entrance. If she shows at all.”

“Thought you said she was coming...?”

Jessy nodded, her permed dark hair bouncing. “Yes, but we only took RSVPs for the formal night. We just informed everybody on our emailing that on Friday we’d meet casually here at the Brewing Company.”

“Nice place for it. Did they charge us for the party room?”

“No. Not even for the bartender.”

Of course, the microbrewery was obviously making out just fine. And that was cool with Krista, who liked their craft beers. Her particular favorite was the Farmer’s Blonde. Noting that neither Jessy nor Josh had drinks yet, she interrupted the conversation with Jessy to take their orders, which she and Jerry rose to go over to the bar and get. They would buy the first round.

As they stood in line, Jerry said, “What the hell kind of aftershave is that doofus wearing?”

“Josh is very nice,” she said firmly. “Anyway, I don’t think that’s aftershave.”

“What is it then?”

“Maybe the new garlic caramel corn.”

As they carried four beers over to the table, Miley Cyrus was singing “Party in the USA.” Krista and Jerry distributed the beverages, giving an Uly’s to Josh, an Anna Belle’s to Jessy, with Krista keeping the Farmer’s for herself and Jerry the can of Coors Light he’d disgraced himself asking for.

“You’re kidding,” Josh said, to no one in particular.

He was looking across the room where two guys had just come in. Both were noticeably older than Krista’s classmates, which was as it should be, since Christopher Hope had been one of their teachers, and his significant other, Tyler Dale, was the longtime owner and operator of Galena’s Own Artworks, where you could find paintings, prints, ceramics, and jewelry by local artists.

Jessy frowned at her husband and said, “Don’t.”

“I just think he has his nerve,” Josh said.

Krista knew Josh meant Chris.

Jerry, not following, said, “What?”

“I’m no homophobe,” Josh said, which was something that only homophobes tended to say, “but I don’t think somebody like that should be teaching children. Much less...”

Jerry, getting it now, frowning, asked, “Much less what?”

Josh was looking somewhere else now. “Nothing.”

But Krista knew. Chris and Tyler had adopted two children. Some people didn’t like that. Most didn’t care. She certainly didn’t. And in her time on the PD, she’d seen four instances of barroom literal gay bashing that had made her sick.