The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [5]
In the kitchen Clayton stripped off his dirt-caked clothes, cleaned up as best he could at the sink, and slipped quietly into bed without disturbing Grace. He slept hard until his son, Wendell, jumped on the bed to wake him up.
“Mommy says you made a big mess in the kitchen,” Wendell said when Clayton opened his eyes.
Wendell, age three and fast approaching four, had recently turned into something of a motormouth, and Clayton was secretly hoping this new behavior wouldn’t last too long. “Your mother said that?”
“Uh-huh. The floor and the sink are all yucky.”
“Go clean it up for me,” Clayton said.
“Mommy already did.”
“Then go away and let me sleep,” Clayton said.
“No.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause it’s breakfast,” Wendell said.
“Okay, I’m up.”
Clayton pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, and with Wendell leading the way, found his wife and his two-year-old daughter, Hannah, at the kitchen table.
“I got him up,” Wendell said proudly as he slid into his chair.
The family took its meals at a table in a dining nook adjacent to the kitchen. After tearing out a partial wall that originally separated the two areas, Clayton had added a bay window to bring in light and create a feeling of openness. He took his chair at the head of the table, which gave him a view of the woods at the side of the house, and smiled at his wife and daughter.
In her high chair, Hannah, who considered herself an adult, spooned cereal into her mouth and looked at her brother with quiet, thoughtful eyes. Then she wrinkled her nose at him.
“She made a face at me,” Wendell said.
“Yes, she did,” Clayton said. “Eat your breakfast.” He turned to Grace. “I caught a homicide case yesterday.”
“You were so late coming home, I thought something important might have happened,” Grace said.
“What’s a homicide?” Wendell asked.
“A very bad thing,” Clayton said, rubbing Wendell’s head. “Almost as bad as interrupting people when they’re talking.”
Wendell dropped his eyes and stuck a spoonful of cereal in his mouth.
Keeping Wendell quiet with occasional long, cool looks, Clayton summarized his activities at the fruit stand for Grace.
She listened without interruption. “It sounds very complex,” she said when Clayton finished.
Clayton nodded. “It was.”
“Well, you said you wanted a job with a challenge.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” Clayton asked. He studied his pretty wife’s face, searching her calm dark eyes for any sign of discontent.
“What’s sarcastic?” Wendell asked.
“We’ll look it up together in the dictionary later, Wendell,” Grace said gently. “No, I’m not. You have to stop thinking that I’m unhappy because you changed jobs.”
“You’ve been complaining that I’m hardly home.”
“Not complaining, just noting.” Grace looked at her children and smiled. “We all miss you.”
“You should smile more,” Clayton said.
“It is not my nature,” Grace said, as her smile widened.
“You’re so modest,” Clayton said, teasing.
Grace lifted her chin. “Of course, I’m a respectable, married woman,” she replied, teasing him back. Her expression turned serious. “You’ve been among the dead. Wear something black today to protect against the ghost sickness.”
Clayton nodded. “I may have to go up to Santa Fe.”
“I’d like to go with you,” Wendell said.
Hannah banged her little fist on the high chair’s hinged table. “I get down now,” she said.
Grace released her and put her on the floor. She made a beeline for Clayton. He picked her up, put her on his lap, and gave her a kiss.
“When will you know?” Grace asked.
“I’ll call you later today.”
In the l960s a beautiful two-story redbrick courthouse on the main street in Carrizozo had been demolished and replaced by a nondescript building constructed on the same site. Clayton had only seen pictures of the imposing old courthouse, but those photographs looked a hell of a lot more inviting than the sterile functionalism of the present building.
Tucked away in part of the courthouse, the sheriff’s department suffered from a serious lack of space. Clayton used a small desk