Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83331 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Sounds better than the Hungry Man dinners I usually eat.”
“You know you’re welcome here for dinner anytime,” Dad said, picking up the remote to turn on the TV over the fireplace. “I think the game is still in the first quarter.”
As soon as I sat down on the couch, my mom spoke from the open kitchen, where she was working at the island.
“Who wants apple pie?”
I’d put away a lot of food, but I couldn’t say no to my mom’s apple pie. I got up and walked over to the kitchen to help her.
“I’ll take some,” I said.
“Holding? What a bullshit call,” Dad muttered from the other room. “He barely touched him.”
My younger sister Shea came into the kitchen then, her brows knitted together with concern.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“Oh, just work stuff.”
Shea managed the kitchen at The Sleepy Moose, the lodge on the lake where everyone stayed when they visited the Beard. I was surprised she’d taken Thanksgiving off this year because the lodge was always booked full for holidays.
“Anything major?” Mom asked.
Shea opened the carton of vanilla ice cream on the island and used the scoop next to it to put ice cream onto a plate of warm pie.
“We didn’t get our full shipment of eggs and they replaced the mushrooms I ordered with turnips,” she grumbled. “I hate it when the produce supplier does that. We can’t make turnip risotto.”
Shea lived and breathed for cooking at the lodge. She’d gotten a job there the summer after her freshman year of college and never returned to school. I never turned down an invitation to test new menu items for her because she was a phenomenal cook.
“So what’s going on between you and the new Chronicle owner?” Shea asked as she settled a scoop of ice cream beside another slice of pie.
My mom looked back and forth between us, her eyes wide with hope. I scowled, trying to dispel the visions of grandchildren dancing through her head.
“Nothing,” I said.
Shea narrowed her eyes in a doubtful look. “I heard the two of you recently left The Hideout together on a Saturday night.”
That wasn’t surprising. There was no such thing as a secret in the Beard. Everyone talked about things that happened and speculated about things that hadn’t.
“I gave her a ride home,” I said, taking a plate of pie over to Dad.
Shea laughed and exchanged a look with my mom. “I heard you saw her with Austin Lawson and went over to the table like a jealous caveman and dragged her out of there.”
I grunted wearily because, as police chief, I was used to everything I did being gossiped about in my small town. But there hadn’t been a hint of “jealous caveman” in me that night at The Hideout.
At least, I didn’t think so.
“I’d help any woman Austin Lawson was trying to seduce,” I said dismissively.
“Her name’s Avon, right?” Shea kept going, undeterred. “Avon Douglas. I heard she’s beautiful.”
“I don’t really pay attention.” It was a lie, but a necessary one. “She comes in to get information for the paper and I give it to her. That’s it.”
Mom gave me a serious look. “Ryan, you don’t seem to have any interest in any women here, so if a pretty new face comes to town, maybe you should pay closer attention to her.”
I scoffed. “She’s a pain in the ass. She wants to start digging around in police business instead of just taking the information I give her. That’s how Pete always did it and it worked just fine.”
“Maybe she just wants to spend more time with you,” Shea said, grinning.
I swiped my plate of pie from the counter and went over to the couch, done with the conversation.
“I thought the paper would fold when Pete passed away,” Dad said. “I’m glad his niece is making an effort with it.”
“She’s not making any friends at City Hall,” I said gruffly. “She’s pesky.”
Dad gave me an amused look. “Since when is it a journalist’s job to make friends? Pete loved taking photos and keeping his staff in a job. The rest of it he just muddled his way through.”
“His system worked. We do things differently here than in California.”
“People tend to be set in their ways here,” my mom said, prompting me to give her a confused look.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said.
She shrugged as she walked over with a piece of pie and sat down next to Shea on a love seat.
“It can be,” she said. “Just don’t assume all change is bad.”
My mom was born and raised in Minneapolis, and she moved to the Beard after falling for my dad when they were introduced by mutual friends. She was past ready for me to get married and give her grandchildren, so she saw women in our town in a very rosy light.