CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On the sidewalk outside the substation, Tom Neilson was waiting for Deputy Wroten.

“Bale’s delivered. Two of your boys stored it in the shed out back. It’s locked up. And they did it without getting bit. They did it very carefully.”

Wroten and Victoria laughed.

“Doc Anderson will have a look at it tomorrow. He’ll probably do some scientific mumbo-jumbo and prove without a shadow of a doubt that the residue of venom in Johansson’s blood and in the wound on his leg came from that very same sidewinder and no other.” Wroten was in a John-Wayne testifying before a jury of his peers mode but no one cared. We were just glad that everything was settled.

Except, of course, that young Eric Johansson was dead.

Some things can be explained but never changed.

“Richard, dear,” Victoria said after a long moment in which we all wanted to laugh but none of us quite dared, “would you mind driving me home? The Behemoth is in the shop and Lynn dear has been a wonder in traipsing all over the countryside with me, but I’m sure that she is tired of hearing my voice by now. Time to give her a break, I think.”

“Uh...sure, Miz Sears.” It was more than just us chickens now, so he was back to being a law officer.

“And I believe that there must be some paperwork you will need me to fill out. An affidavit or some such so that you can proceed with the charges against Mr. Snake.”

Oh, no. It was Helen Hayes again. What was she up to now?

Wroten looked slightly flummoxed but rose to the occasion like a gentleman.

“There’s no need to rush, of course, but now would be fine if you have the time. I can get Sandy”—Sandy was the receptionist at the substation—“to pull out the necessary papers.”

“Good to see you again, Mr. Tom Neilson,” Victoria said, extending her hand to him. “Hope to see you again soon. And give my very best to your mother.”

“Ma’am,” Neilson said, shaking her hand.

“And thank you, Lynn dear, for being so patient. I truly didn’t have any idea when I called you this morning that I would keep you out and about so late.” She gave me a quick hug, then glanced rather ostentatiously at her watch. “Why, it’s nearly five o’clock. Almost dinner time. I am so sorry. But thanks again, Lynn dear.”

With that, she slipped her arm through Deputy Wroten’s and steered him down the street toward the substation, already chattering to him about the details of her “case.”

I stared.

She didn’t just do what I was afraid she had done.

She couldn’t have.

I felt my ears turning red.

Okay, she had done it all right.

The old...sweetie.

“Ma’am, Mrs. Hanson,” Tom Neilson said after a moment, drawing my attention away from the pair that was just disappearing into the substation.

“Please, it’s Lynn. Only strangers call me Mrs. Hanson, and after sharing a...what was it, not a ‘crime scene’ but at least a place-of-the-cause-of-death scene, we are hardly strangers.”

“Okay, Lynn, then. It’s been good meeting you. I’d heard a little about you being in town, and Victoria has told me a little about...your family. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He dropped his eyes to the ground.

Oh, ‘Victoria dear’, I’m going to figure out a way to get even with you for this.

“I enjoyed meeting you too, Mr..., Tom. Even, or perhaps especially, under such unforgettable circumstances.”

There was a long silence.

Then Tom Neilson nattered on for a few minutes about nothing in particular, and I nattered back.

And then he invited me to dinner at the Timberline Place, the best restaurant we could boast of in Fox Creek.

And to my surprise, I accepted.

When I called Victoria later—much later—that evening to express my total and complete displeasure at what she had done, I also made certain to point out in no uncertain terms one more thing.

Dinner with Tom Neilson had been really quite lovely.