minutes trying to determine if the colors were supposed to run like that, or if a previous guest had dropped some pizza.
Just when she concluded that the carpeting was
She stared like a hypnotized cobra, counting each blink of the cursor. She counted two hundred and forty-seven flashes when a shriek split the still night and propelled Hope to her feet.
“For the love of God,” she gasped, her heart lodging in her throat. Then she realized it was her Viper alarm and dug into the bottom of her purse for the transmitter hooked to her key ring. She shoved her feet into her sandals, then ran outside and wove her way through the small parking lot filled with pickups, minivans, and dusty SUVs with kayaks strapped to the tops.
The manager of the Sandman stood by the hood of Hope’s Porsche. The sponge rollers were still in her hair, and a deep scowl narrowed her eyes as she watched Hope approach. Fellow guests looked out their windows or stood in the doorways of their rooms. Dusk had settled over Gospel, painting deep shadows across the rugged landscape. The town appeared laid-back and relaxed, except for the six tones of the Viper piercing the calm. Hope pointed the transmitter at her car and disengaged the alarm.
“Did you see anyone trying to break into my car?” she asked as she came to stand in front of Ada Dover.
“I didn’t see anything.” Ada placed her hands on her hips and tipped her head back to look up at Hope. “But I about choked on a chicken bone when that thing went off.”
“Someone probably touched the door handle or the windows.”
“I thought it was the alarm going off down at the M and S Market, so I called Stanley and told him someone was breakin‘ into his store and to get down there huckuty buck.”
“Oh, great,” Hope groaned.
“But he says he doesn’t have an alarm. Just the signs and such so people think he does.”
Hope didn’t know Stanley, but she doubted his lack of security was something he wanted spread around town.
“I was just about to call the sheriff’s Dispatch,” Ada continued, “but decided to find out where all the racket was coming from first.”
The last thing Hope needed was to have the sheriff dragged to the Sandman, not after she’d assured him he wouldn’t even know she was in town. “But you didn’t call, right?” In L.A., no one called the police for a car alarm. On any given day, chances were good one was going off in a parking lot somewhere. Chances were just as good the police were driving by and not even bothering to stop. Didn’t these people know anything?
“No, and I’m glad I didn’t. I’d have felt real stupid. As it is, I just about died on that chicken bone.”
Hope stared at the shorter woman in front of her; night was rapidly falling and she couldn’t see much more than the outline of rollers on her head. The cool air raised the hairs on Hope’s arms, and she knew she should feel a little bit bad that her Viper had caused Ada Dover to choke, but honestly, what kind of idiot chewed on a chicken bone? “I’m sorry you almost died,” she said, even though she sincerely doubted the woman had been close to death. She glanced over her shoulder and was relieved to find that the motel guests had gone back inside and had shut their curtains.
“That thing isn’t going to go off again, is it?”
“No,” Hope answered and returned her attention to the motel manager.
“Good, ‘cause I can’t have that thing screeching and waking up the other guests all night. These people pay good money for a quiet night’s rest, and we just can’t have that sort of ruckus.”
“I promise it won’t go off,” Hope said, her thumb itching to engage the Viper. She turned to leave, with Ada Dover’s parting shot trailing after her:
“If it does, you’ll have to leave, huckuty buck.”
The woman had Hope over a barrel and she knew it. She would have loved to tell her to kiss her huckuty buck, whatever the hell that meant, but there was only one other hotel in town and Hope was sure it was as full as the Sandman. So she kept her mouth shut as she walked to her room and shut the door behind her. She tossed her keys into her purse and returned to her seat in front of her laptop.
Entwining her fingers on top of her head, she scooted down in her chair. The night before, she’d stayed at the Doubletree in Salt Lake City. She clearly remembered waking that morning in the nice, normal hotel, but at some point she must have driven into the twilight zone where women ate chicken bones.
A slow smile curved her mouth, her hands dropped to the keyboard, and she wrote:
INSANE WOMAN CHOKES TO DEATH
ON CHICKEN BONE
During a ritualistic ceremony, bizarre chicken worshiper Dodie Adams…
The next morning, Hope rose early, took a quick shower, and dressed in jeans and a black tank top.
While her hair dried, she pulled on her boots, then plugged the telephone line into the side of her laptop and fired off her chicken bone story. It wasn’t Bigfoot, but it was good enough to print in next week’s edition. Most important, she was writing again. That she had Ada Dover to thank didn’t escape her, and the irony made her smile.
After she pulled her hair back in a ponytail, she drove three blocks to the M & S Market. She’d slept a total of four hours but felt better than she had in a long time. She was working again, and it felt good. She didn’t even want to contemplate the possibility that it might have been a fluke, and tonight she might again face hours of a blank computer screen.
The first thing she noticed when she entered the M & S was the antlers behind the front counter. They were huge and mounted on a lacquered plaque. The second thing was the mingling scent of raw meat and cardboard. From somewhere in the back, she heard a radio tuned to a country station and the heavy whacks of what sounded like a cleaver hitting a butcher’s block. Other than herself and the unseen person in back, the store appeared empty.
Hope found a blue plastic basket next to the cash register and hung it from her arm. She made a quick scan of the newspaper-and-magazine rack.
The hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet as she made her way through the cereal and crackers aisles toward the refrigeration section.
She opened the door to the glass case and placed a pint of low-fat milk in her basket. Next, she read the sugar content on the back of an orange juice bottle. It contained more corn syrup than actual fruit juice, and she put it back. She reached for a bottle of grape-kiwi, decided at the last moment she wasn’t in the mood, and grabbed cran-apple instead.
“I’d have gone with the grape-kiwi,” drawled a now familiar voice from behind her.
Startled, Hope turned and the glass door slammed. Her basket swung and bumped her hip.
“Of course, grape-kiwi might be a bit wild for this time of morning,” the sheriff said. He wasn’t wearing his black Stetson today. He’d replaced it with a battered straw cowboy hat that had a band made of snakeskin. A shadow from the brim fell across his face. “You’re up pretty early.”
“I’ve got a lot to do today, Sheriff Taber.”
He opened the glass door and forced her to take a few steps back. “Dylan,” he said as he grabbed two pint-size cartons of chocolate milk and shoved them beneath one arm. He looked very little like the lawman of the previous day. His blue T-shirt was old and slightly wrinkled and tucked into a pair of Levi’s so faded that only the seams gave a hint of the original color.
The glass door fogged except where it pressed against the back of his broad shoulders and his behind. His back pocket was torn and an edge of his wallet poked out. He bent and picked up what looked like two small Styrofoam containers of ice cream. “Did you find someone to help you today?” he asked as he straightened.
“Not yet. I thought I’d call my neighbors like you suggested, but I wanted to wait in case they are still in
