Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [79]
“Nah. I’ll see what new goodies Pete has today. Nothing to do at the cabin anyway. I can’t believe you don’t have cable TV.”
“I can’t believe you care. Hell, A-Rod, you used to be happy if we got to sleep in an actual tent. Next you’ll be expecting chocolates on your pillow.”
“Fuck off. I’ve been living in my car for a month.”
I wasn’t surprised, given the state of her car and her nomadic tendencies. “I thought you were on assignment.”
“I was. The job ended earlier than I’d planned and I had no other place to live, so this became Casa Anna.”
“Why not chill with your mom in California?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t wanna deal with family drama. You know how that goes.”
The drama in my life owed nothing to my family for a change.
Anna double-parked in the fire-and-ambulance zone in front of the one-story sandstone building. “What are you doing at an elementary school anyway? Judging a paste-eating contest? Because, dude, these ankle biters can’t vote.”
“Ask my campaign manager. I think she’s filling my hours with busy work so I don’t get discouraged.”
“Having second thoughts about running for sheriff, Gunny?”
“And third thoughts. And fourth.” The earlier conversation with Dawson bothered me on a level I couldn’t explain.
“Nice to see you have a human side.”
I turned in my seat to face her. “What do you mean, a human side?”
“Sergeant Major Gunderson, the ideal American soldier. Honorable. Noble. Dedicated. Always accepts the call to duty. An inspiration to us all.”
“You want to come into the school with me and wave the flag while I hum the national anthem?”
Anna grinned at me. “No, it’s just different hanging out with you as a true civilian, Mercy. In uniform you never showed insecurity. Rarely questioned our orders or our part in the war machine. It was as intimidating as hell. Well, that, coupled with the fact no one could outshoot you, made you one scary mo-fo.”
“You’re boosting my confidence already. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
The main entrance to the building still had the welded-steel handrail that we’d used as monkey bars. I’d skinned my knees, bruised my elbows, and fallen flat on my face on the sidewalk more times than I could count.
Hopefully, history wasn’t about to repeat itself.
Anna and I hung out at the cabin the rest of the afternoon.
She took off the same time I headed to my next campaign gig.
By the time I finished the second event at the county high school, it was close to nine o’clock. I was starved and needed a beer.
Stillwell’s in Viewfield was a throwback to the small-town taverns that served cholesterol-laden comfort food and cheap booze. The interior hadn’t been updated in forty years. Cheap paneling covered the walls. Neon beer signs were tacked up for “atmosphere” and burnt-orange Naugahyde bar stools were tucked around the shellacked bar. No karaoke machine. No digital big-screen TVs. No fancy brands of whiskey or tequila. No buffalo wings or nachos on the menu.
Stillwell’s had one TV. One pool table. One dartboard. One electronic trap-shooting game. One bartender. One cocktail waitress. One short-order cook.
But lots of customers. It’d been my dad’s favorite hangout.
Steve Stillwell, a fiftysomething bachelor who’d inherited the business from his father, gazed at me curiously as I straddled a bar stool. His resemblance to an owl was striking, given his round face, black eyes, and beard layered in colors from white to gray that looked like feathers. His head nearly spun around when a customer called his name, reinforcing the owl comparison. “Steve, you haven’t aged a day in twenty years.”
He flapped the bar rag at me. “Charmer. You needing to absorb a little class away from your other watering hole, Miz Gunderson? Or out campaigning?”
I wondered if Steve would poke me about working at Clementine’s. “Neither. I’m looking for a beer and a break. What’s on tap?”
“The usual domestics.”
“Bud Light. Small one.” I admired his pour