Drizzled with Death(3)
“Swishy, huh?” He smiled. “Bobcats have tails that swish, too, when they set their minds to it.”
“It was long and swishy. About the same length as its body. No bobcat has a tail that long.”
“Did you take a picture of it?”
“I didn’t think of that. I guess I was just too startled.” I was starting to wish I hadn’t called. His smile didn’t feel friendly and pleasant; it felt pitying or condescending.
“That’s what everyone says when they spot mountain lions. Or Big Foot. I’ve even heard it said about a monster someone saw in Lake Winnipesaukee.”
“I’m sure of what I saw.” I fought the urge to stamp my foot on the pumpkin pine floorboards. Graham shifted from peering out the window to scanning the room. His gaze landed on the wineglass.
“How much had you been drinking when you noticed the lion?”
“Only a few sips.” I felt my cheeks ignite and something that felt like heartburn but was probably righteous anger welling up in my chest. “I thought when you’d had too much, you were supposed to see pink elephants, not big cats.” I was not going to let my anger show. For one thing, it was beneath me, but more important, I look ridiculous when I get angry. My face gets splotchy and I break out in hives. My normally squeaky voice climbs up into dog whistle range and I sometimes punch the air with a fist scaled for a Barbie doll.
“In my experience with the department, I’ve noticed tippling causes all sorts of animal hallucinations.”
“Then I won’t offer you any.” I tried not to flounce around in a huff but I know it was exactly what I did. I could see it as clearly as if I were having an out-of-body experience.
“I’m on duty anyway, so even if you had been so gracious as to offer, I could not have accepted.” He sounded like a cop. After my disastrous and very public breakup with a local police officer, I didn’t consider that a compliment.
“Since we agree this isn’t a social call, shouldn’t you do some investigating? Poke around looking for tracks or something?”
“Did you see which way it went, whatever it was?”
“The mountain lion went that way.” I pointed behind the sugarhouse.
“I’ll let you know what I find. Or don’t.” He descended the steps and was out of sight before I could get back inside. I hurried through the sugar shack and into the attached shop to get a better view of him. He walked slowly into the sugar bush, stopping every so often to inspect something closely. Before long he disappeared through the trees.
I turned away from the window and moved around the cold shop, touching a syrup bottle on one shelf, a maple leaf shaped stack of plates on another. Maple leaf shaped wrought iron sconces hung on the wooden walls. Spread on the floor in front of the cash register lay a maple leaf motif hooked rug. All through the previous summer I had sourced merchandise with a maple theme for the shop. Now the store was stocked with products ranging from maple wood cribbage boards to maple liquor. We had opened just in time for fall foliage season, and the leaf peepers visited in droves. Encouraged by the success of our opening season, I planned to spend the winter developing a line of specialty food items to sell bearing the Greener Pastures name. I was thinking about a maple-flavored cheese spread when I heard footsteps in the sugarhouse. I hurried back out front and found Graham leaning over the evaporator.
“I didn’t find any tracks or scat.”
“Did you really look? I don’t think you went out there with an open mind.”
“I treat each and every call seriously, no matter how far-fetched the claim.” He crossed his long arms over his chest, his stance wide and appearing rooted to the spot. It occurred to me he might still be here when the rest of the family returned if I didn’t hurry him along. Then I’d be forced to explain how my migraine led me to entertain a visitor in the sugarhouse rather than to lie down in a dark room. Knowing them, they’d gleefully assume there was something romantic going on and I’d have to endure more disappointed tongue clucking when I explained what really happened.
“Well, don’t let me waste any more of your time.” I crossed to the door and yanked it open.
“I need to jot down a few notes to write up a report.” He pulled a small notebook from a pocket in his uniform jacket. “Do you have a pen?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be like a professional Boy Scout? I would have thought you’d always be prepared.” I shut the door, crossed to the workbench, and handed him a pen.
“Let’s say I never got all the badges. Since you seem to be in a hurry, I’ll just get a couple of particulars and fill out the rest later. Let’s start with your name.”