Gwendy's Magic Feather

42

“MORNING, SHEILA,” GWENDY SAYS, a little too eager for the early hour. “I’m here to see Sheriff Ridgewick.”

The scarecrow-thin woman with bright red hair and matching eyeglasses looks up from the magazine she’s reading. “Hey there, Gwendy. Sorry I missed you the other day. Heard there was some fireworks.”

Sheila Brigham has manned the glass-walled dispatch cubicle at the Castle County Sheriff’s Department for going on twenty-five years now. She’s also in charge of the front desk and coffee maker. Sheila started on the job fresh out of community college, when bell-bottoms were all the rage and George Bannerman was patrolling The Rock. She got married and raised a family here, and took good care of Alan Pangborn during his decade-long stint, and, unlike most folks, didn’t let the fire of ’91 scare her away, even though she’d spent nearly three weeks in a hospital bed in the aftermath of that disaster.

“I’m afraid I didn’t inspire much confidence in our elected officials,” Gwendy says.

Sheila waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry yourself none about that. Carol Hoffman’s mean as a hornet on a good day—and she doesn’t have many of those.”

“Still, I feel horrible. That poor woman.”

Sheila makes a grunting sound. “You want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for that husband of hers.”

“Can’t argue with you there.”

She picks up her magazine again. “You can go on back. He’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you. Merry Christmas, Sheila.”

She makes that same grunting sound and returns her attention to reading.

The door to Sheriff Ridgewick’s office is open, so Gwendy walks right in. He’s sitting behind his desk talking on the telephone. He holds up a finger, mouths “one minute,” and gestures for her to sit down. “I understand that, Jay, I do. But we don’t have time. I need it yesterday.” His face darkens. “I don’t care. Just get it done.”

He hangs up and looks at Gwendy. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” she says. “Now what’s all the secrecy about? Why couldn’t you just tell me on the phone?”

The sheriff shakes his head. “Don’t like that cellphone of yours. Last thing we need right now is a leak.”

“You’re as paranoid as my father. He’s whipped himself into a frenzy. Thinks all the world’s technology’s going to collapse when the clock strikes midnight next week.”

“Tell that to Tommy Perkins. He claims he picks up a half-dozen cellphone conversations every day on that shortwave of his.”

Gwendy laughs. “Tom Perkins is a dirty-minded, senile old man. You really believe what he says?”

The sheriff shrugs. “How else did he know about Shelly Piper being pregnant before the rest of the town?”

“Probably did the deed himself, the old perv.”

The sheriff’s jaw drops, his mouth forming a perfect O. “Gwendy Peterson.”

“Oh, hush,” she says, waving a hand at him. “And stop stalling, Norris. Is the news that bad?”

The smile fades from his face. “I’m afraid it is.”

“Tell me.”

He gets up and closes the door. Returning to his desk, he opens a drawer and takes out a large envelope. “Take a look,” he says, handing it to Gwendy.

She opens the flap and slides out a pair of glossy color photographs. It’s hard to tell what the three small white objects are in the first photo, but the second shot is a close-up view and much clearer. “Teeth?” she says, looking at the sheriff.

He nods in response.

“Where’d they come from?”

“They were found inside the pocket of Carla Hoffman’s pink sweatshirt.”