SHERIFF FRANK BIDDLE headed over to the Bryan house in his dusty cruiser and parked as close to the place as he could get, which wasn’t all that near.
Tucked against the bluff to one side of River Bend’s tiny harbor, the Bryans’ address had no such convenience as a driveway. Frank left the car in the harbor lot, which consisted of gravel ringed by railroad ties. He walked across grass and mud, past the docks, where a dozen small boats bobbed against the ropes binding them. The opaque brown of the Mississippi water that flowed into the inlet gently slapped the muddy banks.
The fishy odor of the river invaded his nostrils, and Frank found himself holding his breath. He got across the wooden bridge that led onto the Bryans’ property before he exhaled again. He should have been used to the smell of it by now. He’d been working in this cozy town on the Mississippi for more years than he cared to count. But then, Frank had seen even longtime River Bend residents pinch their noses when they got too near the water.
The grass grew high on the other side of the bridge. When he stepped into it, the blades came up past his trouser cuffs. Weeds poked their way through a cracked concrete path snaking up to the house. For all its neglect, the place looked peaceful enough sitting in the shade of the trees. Its foundation was notched into the side of the bluff so it almost seemed a part of the rocks behind it.
As he approached the door, Frank realized the whitewashed exterior looked about as ragged as the craggy bluffs themselves. The paint peeled in long strips; the yellow of the trim had flaked away almost entirely in spots.
He shook his head.
Ray Bryan, at eighty-some-odd, was simply not fit enough anymore to keep up the house, and he had no spare funds to hire someone else to do it. He did have Charlie, his grandson, living with him, but the kid was no help. All he seemed to do was make trouble for the old man.
In fact, Charlie was the reason Biddle had come.
He knocked on the door, trying to peer through the gritty panes of glass.
“Ray? Charlie? Hey, anyone home?”
The door came open slowly. A suspicious brown eye peered out. “Sheriff Biddle? Yeesh.” The door cracked wider, and the disgruntled face of a boy stared at him. “Can you keep it down? My grandpop’s sleeping.”
“I need to talk to you, Charlie. So either you step outside, or I’ll have to ask you to let me in.”
“All right already.” The boy slipped out and quietly shut the door behind him. He plunked down on the front porch step. He had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head, and his dark jeans had about as many holes as his sneakers. “What’s it this time, huh? And can you make it quick? I got a lot of things to do.”
Frank descended the stoop and stood on the broken walk, facing Charlie. “You got anything you want to confess?”
“Confess? What are you now, a priest?” The boy pushed his hoodie off and ran a hand over his stubble of hair.
Biddle wondered if Charlie had done the crew cut himself. The close-clip added further menace to the boy’s permanently scowling features. “I’m only trying to cut you some slack.”
“Yeah, right.” Charlie rolled his eyes.
“You remember what I came ’round to see you about last month and the month before that?”
“Like I could forget.” Charlie started picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails. “A few rich old biddies had stuff stolen from their houses, and you thought I had something to do with it.” Charlie glared at Biddle from beneath the thick slant of his eyebrows.
Biddle sighed. “I didn’t accuse you, son. I merely asked if you might’ve been involved or if you knew who pulled it off.”
“I’m always the first one you blame, aren’t I?” Charlie scuffed the heel of his sneaker against the ground.
“Well, you have gotten yourself in enough messes before.”
“Hey, I’m sixteen. I’m supposed to rebel.”
Biddle lifted a hand and began counting off on his fingers. “Twice you’ve been caught skinny-dipping in the community pool drunk as a skunk—”
“So maybe I was hot and thirsty.”
“You broke into the mayor’s car—”
Charlie grunted. “That piece of junk? I was just seeing if it would actually run.”
Biddle put a foot up on the first step and leaned forward, looking Charlie right in the eye, but the kid just turned his head. “I asked you before if you were the one who broke into Mavis White’s and Violet Farley’s—”
“And I told you I didn’t!” Charlie’s nostrils flared.
“I’m asking you now if you hit Mattie Oldbridge’s house while she was out of town.”
“And I’m telling you again that I didn’t do it!” Charlie jumped to his feet, face flushed and hands balled into fists.
“You have an alibi?” Biddle stared at the small, wiry kid poised to fight. Why did short guys always seem to have such big chips on their shoulders?
“Why do I need an alibi?” Charlie scoffed. “I know I’m no Goody Two-shoes, but I didn’t bust into any of those old ladies’ houses, okay? So get off my back!”
He glowered at Biddle before he stomped up the steps and disappeared inside.
Biddle didn’t move for a moment. He stood and stared ahead at the paint-peeled façade and then up at the gray spiderwebs that crisscrossed the eaves. “Well, okay then,” he said to himself before he turned around and walked away.
Charlie might have denied committing the burglaries, but Frank wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. The kid could lie with the best of them. He’d done it before, and the sheriff didn’t doubt he’d do it again at every chance.