Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Jesse

A fter alerting dispatch that the suspect is in the wind, I return to town, recapping what transpired for my report later. As I near the turn that leads toward Daley's farm with its wide open golden fields that somehow make the sky seem bigger, a memory of an afternoon on my motorcycle surges forward.

We were going nearly eighty in a fifty-five. She was so far out of my league, I wasn't even in the same ballpark. But those hours together were enough to knit hope into my heart—the idea that someday I wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps some of her good rubbed off on me, exposing a speck of something shiny.

I snort through my nose, ironic that all these thefts involve shiny, glittery objects.

With that memory comes the flash of someone waving at me on Main Street earlier when I was chasing the suspect. In the split second I saw her, I almost swerved off the road .

It couldn't be T that I saw in town, could it?

Compiling what I know, I check the facts.

T, the good girl is from Hogwash.

It stands to reason she'd someday return.

Last I heard she'd gone to Los Angeles to pursue an acting career.

The license plate on the Lexus was from California.

Her blonde hair was like a beacon, a halo of light, reminding me that the world doesn't only consist of criminals and closets filled with skeletons.

As I roll back through town, the new coffee shop sticks out like a sore thumb among the buildings with more peels and less paint, a community pool that doubles as a sanctuary for all things creepy and crawly, and roads with enough potholes to keep Cory's Automotive Repair doing realignments until the Department of Public Works gets funding to repave it. I veer to avoid one now, parking in front of the Hogwash Hairwash & Style Salon.

Betsy and Thelma are reliable resources. Likely, they can give me information about what transpired outside their shop earlier.

As I get out of the SUV, I take a deep breath, underwhelmed by the state of the town, but overwhelmed with a sense of duty to make sure the swamp—and the Bling Ring—don't take what remains.

Sure, it's rough around the edges, but there are good people here and I don't want them to be forgotten—not like I was. This place isn't home, but it's no longer the enemy either.

Bells jingle on the door as I enter, and the scent of a cinnamon candle along with the sting of hair chemicals fills the air.

Betsy and Thelma dish about a famous television star who visited the salon, regaling me with how gracious and sweet she was. My mind drifts as I surreptitiously observe my surroundings—an old habit made new, but now for arguably more honest purposes.

As far as I know, there isn't a central figure that represents autumn holidays—not like Santa at Christmas, Cupid for Valentine's Day, or leprechauns during St. Patrick's Day. I suppose there are ghosts and bats, and witches and werewolves, but those are primarily for Halloween. Gnomes could fit for fall in general. Whatever the case, it's as if they collectively got together and threw up cutesy little pumpkins, gourds, and wooden acorns in a variety of colors.

Sorry for the visual and don't get me wrong, Betsy's decorations are endearing, but it's a lot.

"I wish I got to see Tallula," a third female voice says.

Ding, ding, ding. At that, I have confirmation of the identity of the woman on Main Street—Tallula Swan. In my mind, she's T—add more letters and her name carries more meaning than I can afford. For a long time, I walked around with a chip on my shoulder like the world owed me a debt. Now, I don't expect anything, least of all that a woman like T would remember me.

Molly whines, "Totally not fair."

"Molly, if you'd come in on time today—" Betsy starts .

"I'm tired of your excuses," Thelma says, cutting across her business partner.

I see who plays good cop and who plays a bad cop.

"I was doing research," says Molly Hazelwood, Hogwash's #1 Pest, and the brains and buzz behind the Pest Digest.

"Had you been here, maybe you could've gotten an interview with Llula," Betsy says.

"Speaking of interviews..." Molly's penetrating gaze turns toward me.

"I'm not available. Have work to do." She's been trying to get me to blab about the Bling Ring for weeks. I refuse to add to the speculation.

"Please, Officer Lawson. I only have a few questions."

More like inquisition. "I explained the rules, Miss Hazelwood. During an open investigation, I am not at liberty to discuss details."

"Are you available for comment about today's activity on Main Street?"

"If I thought it would be helpful to share what I know, I might consider it, but no. Not at the moment."

"Residents are starting to get worried, deputy," Molly says, needling me.

"My recommendation is to keep items that are shiny safe. That's the only real threat at present."

She scribbles something down. "Sir, what are your thoughts on root-knot nematodes?"

"I haven't been in my backyard since I returned to Hogwash. I don't have a garden and if I did, I couldn't rightly tell the difference between a grasshopper and a hornworm."

"I find that hard to believe."

I chuckle. "Ladies, it's been lovely chatting with you. Thanks for the information. I must be on my way." I gathered what I needed without having to ask a single question.

It takes another ten minutes for me to get out the door as Betsy and Thelma draw me into a debate about which is better—pumpkin spice or apple cider. Betsy, with her Team Pumpkin Spice shirt, clearly chose a side. As if only to be argumentative, Thelma insists cider is superior. Molly listens to my every word, not because she has a crush on me like she has for JQ over at the service station—along with at least half the other women of a certain age in Hogwash, but because she's hoping for a crumb. A little something I let slip to use in her newspaper.

Next, I stop by the Laughing Gator Grille for tea and to jot down some unofficial notes about the activity today, including the date, time, and location, along with the description of the parties involved. The suspect had on a hoodie. Meanwhile, I'm still in a button-down shirt with short sleeves. True fall is slow to come to us this far south unless we have a cold snap. The farmers claim we'll have a true fall by the end of the month.

I think back to the rest of the suspect's attire. Dark or dirty pants. I could make out very little else about him. Same as the others—nondescript bulky clothing must be the Bling Ring's uniform. They're like ravens seeking shiny things...unless it's only one person and not a crime crew.

As for the woman, she didn't look like she belonged in town. I have no business revisiting the memory of the afternoon we spent together after detention. Thinking about that will only get me into trouble, and I've had enough of that for a lifetime.