‘It seems like old times.’ Sam Cobb poked a chunk of his waffle into a mound of whipped cream.
I smiled at him, grateful for his solid presence, a big strong man with a kind heart. I smiled at my plate, loaded with Lulu’s breakfast steak and scrambled eggs and hash browns. Perhaps a bit hearty but I felt entitled. ‘A near thing for Fran Loring, but all’s well that ends well. And speaking of Shakespeare, I have an idea about Howie.’
Sam listened with an odd expression on his large face. ‘The mayor’s news conference is in five minutes. I’ll make a special announcement. And,’ Sam laughed, ‘I look forward to being introduced to Detective Loy, the special agent from OSBI.’
‘I hate to disappoint you but she’s turned in her report, which emphasizes the excellent leadership of Acting Chief Harris, and left town. I’ll be on the platform. But you won’t see me.’
‘Like I said,’ Sam grinned, ‘just like old times.’
Mayor Neva Lumpkin beamed at the reporters gathered in City Hall’s small auditorium, nodded graciously to city officials in attendance. ‘… and I will conclude by commending Acting Chief Howie Harris for a successful and swift – which saves taxpayers’ money – conclusion to the shocking crimes that occurred at the Chandler home this past weekend. The Chandler family has also expressed gratitude to Chief Harris.’
Sam clapped. Howie’s cheeks turned pink. The mayor smiled. Sam held out a big hand for the microphone. The mayor’s eyes narrowed, but with TV cameras whirring, she managed a brilliant smile and relinquished the microphone.
Sam looked every inch a police chief: thick graying hair, big broad face, massive shoulders. His brown suit appeared freshly pressed.
‘Returning to work after a leave of absence, it is especially gratifying to know that the police department has been in good hands. You’ve heard this morning the details of the investigation ably directed by my acting chief. I would like to announce a special recognition to honor Howie Harris. This will be an honor unique to the Adelaide, Oklahoma police department.’ Sam boomed, ‘In recognition of his extensive creative success in writing poetry, Detective Howie Harris will now be deemed the Adelaide Oklahoma Police Department Poet Laureate.’ Sam reached into a capacious pocket of his brown suit, pulled out a clump of tissue, removed the wrappings. ‘Howie, this is for you.’
Howie scrambled to his feet from the chair on one side of the mayor. His eyes were huge. He walked to Sam, held out his hand, squinted to peer at Sam’s big printing on a white card: Poet Laureate Howie Harris will receive a ceramic bust of Mark Twain to mark his ascension to creative heights in poetry.
Howie gazed at Sam with trembling lips. ‘A Mark Twain bust?’
‘The bust hasn’t arrived yet.’
Since Sam and I created the honor only this morning, I was quite sure the bust had yet to be ordered. But the bust would be ordered.
Sam’s smile was huge. ‘The bust is for your desk, Poet Laureate Howie Harris.’
I was at the end of the pier in White Deer Park when the red Corvette wheeled into the lot. Don and Fran piled out and came together to walk hand in hand toward the pier. The day was gorgeous, fluffy white clouds in a pale blue sky. The cool wind out of the northeast ruffled Don’s thick dark hair, tugged at his beige windbreaker and faded jeans. The wind stirred Fran’s golden ringlets. She buttoned her pink jacket. She carried a white sack. Don carried a cup holder in one hand, a backpack dangled from the other.
At the end of the pier, he balanced the drink holder on a post. Fran placed the sack on the next post, gave a tiny shiver.
Don moved near her, looking concerned. ‘Are you warm enough? Maybe it’s nutty to bring a picnic here in November.’
She looked up at him, her eyes happy, her face soft. ‘Not nutty. Fun. You make everything fun.’
His face lighted. ‘I want you to be happy.’ He took the backpack in both hands, unzipped it. He reached inside, pulled out two large tissue-wrapped objects, began to pull away the paper to reveal two gray leather ankle boots. He held one in each hand, turned them toward her.
‘Oh Don. Oh Don. My boots.’ She took the boots and held them close to her and then moved to him and he wrapped his arms around her.
Smoke swirled. Cinders glowed. Wheels thundered. The Rescue Express swooped down. I grabbed the railing of the caboose.
Wiggins grasped my arm, brought me safely aboard. ‘Well done, Bailey Ruth. And you achieved your most important task.’
‘My most important task?’ I hoped Don’s job was safe. Surely Howie Harris’s delight in serving as Poet Laureate of the Adelaide, Oklahoma Police Department would sweep away his rancor toward Don.
Wiggins leaned over the railing, gazed at Fran in Don’s arms. ‘Don and Fran.’ Wiggins’s brown eyes twinkled as he turned to me. ‘Love is what matters, Bailey Ruth. Yes, now and always it will be Don and Fran.’
I looked down too and my heart sang. Don and Fran. I touched my fingers to my lips, blew a kiss to Don and Fran. ‘Fare well, sweet souls.’