Kelley Armstrong - Waking the Witch

The only thing I liked to hear was stories about her—something cool or funny she’d done. But I’d never met this girl’s mother, so I couldn’t offer anything there. After fumbling around, I said the obvious—you must be Ginny’s daughter—which was obvious because only Ginny Thompson had a child.

She nodded. “Her real name was Genevieve, but the newspapers didn’t say that because the reporters were too lazy to ask.”

Stupid cops. Lazy reporters. A girl after my own heart.

“They didn’t mention your name either.”

“Kayla Thompson.” She extended her hand.

I shook it. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I’m homeschooled. Grandma didn’t like the way the other kids acted after my mom died.” After what she’d said about the chief’s grandson, I didn’t blame her grandmother. I’d like to have a chat with the little ghoul’s parents myself. “Grandma’s at work today, so I’m staying with Aunt Rose. She thinks I’m at the library.”

“Well, then, Kayla, since it seems we’re both investigating this crime, we’d better get to work.”

KAYLA WAS NOTimpressed by my lack of fingerprint powder and evidence bags. I tried to explain that wasn’t how private investigators worked, but she clearly considered that a pathetic excuse. She had powder and plastic zip bags from her Junior Detective kit.

I did manage to redeem myself a bit by teaching her the proper way to use the powder. Then I left her to her work while I did mine. She was so quiet I’d almost forgotten she was there until she announced she had to go—her aunt was picking her up at the library and she needed to check out some books to show for her visit.

We went out the back door, then around the building together.

“Is he with you?” she asked, pointing. It was the guy from earlier, now standing in front of his BMW, hood open, scowling down as if he could shame the motor into turning over.

“Nope. Think I should offer to help?”

“You can fix cars?” Her look said she was mildly impressed.

“Cars, bikes ... That’s my motorcycle over there.” I hoped to win some cool points for the bike, too, but she only glanced at it, then back to the guy with the BMW.

“I bet he can’t fix it,” she said. “I bet he can’t even pump his own gas.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You should see if you can help.”

“Nah, I’ll walk you to—”

“I’ve got a few minutes.”

She started across the road and I hurried to catch up.

“Hey, there,” I called. “Having trouble getting her running?”

He turned. He blinked, as if seeing a mirage, then turned back to glare at the misbehaving engine again.

“Transmission, I think,” he said, with the air of a man who couldn’t find the transmission on a dare, but wants to sound like he could reassemble one with his eyes shut.

“You’re in luck. Transmissions are my specialty.”

He eyed me, clearly torn between not really wanting to tell an attractive young woman to get lost, but not wanting her mucking about with his luxury car either.

“I’m going to call for a tow,” he said.

Kayla snorted. “From where? Nearest tow truck is in Battle Ground.” She gave him that same critical look I’d gotten earlier. “You don’t think she can do it because she’s a girl.”

“Of course not. I just don’t want to bother—”

“No bother,” I said.

I walked over to my saddlebags and got out my tools. Then I set to work. It wasn’t the transmission. I could have figured out what was wrong, but after a few minutes of hovering anxiously, the guy insisted I give up.

I wish I could say I was gracious about the blow-off. I wasn’t. But he wasn’t gracious either. All the more reason, I say, not to do favors, even for hot guys.

“Jerk,” Kayla muttered as we walked away. “Real estate vulture, I bet. They’ve been hovering, picking at the corpse of this town.”

A line obviously picked up from eavesdropping on an adult conversation. I had a feeling Kayla did a lot of that. An only child, homeschooled, mother dead, no father in the picture, an off-kilter personality that would make most other kids steer clear. She’d spend a lot of time around adults. Probably, in some ways, thought of herself as one. A feeling I remembered well.

AS I WALKEDher to the library, there were a dozen questions I longed to ask—about her mother, about the investigation—but I suspected that if I started treating her as a witness, she’d shut down. Just another adult playing nice to get something in return. I’d see her around and maybe, if she decided I was up to the job, she’d share her thoughts on her own.

Before we parted, I asked where to find the police station and she directed me to a tiny house on Main Street, just past the downtown. When I walked in, two guys were standing in front of a huge desk, dwarfing an elderly receptionist. One man was in his early forties, his belly straining the buttons on his uniform. The other was in his twenties and would be a whole lot cuter if he cultivated a beard to hide a weak chin and golf-ball-size Adam’s apple. The younger one was hamming it up for his fellow employees, telling them about a call from the night before.

“So Mel was cowering in the corner, Leslie waving around her big old frying pan, telling him if he’s late again, she’s gonna bash his damn brains in with it. He tried to explain—you know Mel, always got an excuse. So she swings that pan and he puts his arms up and, wham. He starts screaming about breaking his arm and you know what she says?”

The other officer answered in a falsetto. “Keep it up and I’ll bust the other one.”

The two guffawed, and the receptionist chimed in with creaky titters.

“You know what would make that story even funnier?” I said. “If it was the other way around, and ol’ Mel was whaling on his wife with the frying pan.”

The older cop scowled at me. “That wouldn’t be funny at all.”

“Kinda my point.”

They all continued to stare. I reminded myself that ignorance is not idiocy. Or so I’m told.

“I don’t get it,” the younger cop finally said.

I was tempted to explain. Damn tempted. But mocking them probably wasn’t the best way to make a good first impression. “I’d like to speak to Chief Bruyn.”

“He’s not here,” the receptionist said.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He went out.”

“Can I make an appointment for later?”

“He’s not here.”

Sometimes you’ve got to figure that small-town people pull the rube routine just for us city folks, a passive-aggressive way of telling us to go fuck ourselves.

“Can you give him my card then?” I asked. “I’d like to speak to him as soon as he gets a chance.”

The receptionist took it and laid it facedown on her desk, where I was sure it would accidentally slide into the trash the moment I left. The younger cop picked it up. He looked at me. Read it, lips moving, then pursing.

“Private investigator?”

“Yep.” I flashed my license. “That’s why I’d like to speak to Chief Bruyn. I’ve been hired to investigate Claire Kennedy’s murder and I wanted to touch base with him first.”

When no one said a word, I took that as a dismissal and left.

My first big solo case and I got redneck morons for law enforce-meant. Figured.

A tiny voice in my head—one that sounded a lot like Paige—said I should have kept my mouth shut about the frying pan incident. I doubted that would have helped, though.

I decided my next step would be to visit the diner I’d noticed downtown. As I walked, I tried to take in my surroundings, get a better sense of the town, but it was too damned depressing. Empty storefronts. Empty streets.