“Yeah,” he said. “I think they did.”
He told his phone to call Janet. He described what they’d just heard. “Janet?” he said. “Have you heard of anything like that?”
Janet was silent for a bit. “You haven’t seen the bumper stickers that just say Psalms 109:8?” she asked.
He thought about it. “Maybe,” he said. “Didn’t pay any attention, I guess.”
“Now you know,” and she ended the call.
“Let’s get some pie,” Mac said. “Bumper stickers?”
Angie shook her head and looked out the window.
Mr. T’s had pie, Mac conceded. A dozen different kinds. Sue and Angie chatted about which ones were best.
“Rhubarb is in season,” Sue said. “I’m partial to the strawberry-rhubarb pie. The blueberry cobbler is made with fresh berries too.” She shrugged. “They’re all good.”
Angie agreed to try the strawberry-rhubarb pie. Mac opted for the blueberry cobbler. Maybe he’d try a bite of her pie, he thought. Maybe.
“Beatrice said she thought pie sounded like a fine idea,” Sue said casually. “She’ll be dropping by.”
Then she grinned. “So? How was church?”
Angie laughed, and told her all about it. “Have you been out there?” she asked.
“A couple of times,” Sue said. “Last Easter. That was something. They had the whole pageant — three crosses and everything. Dragged in a man, tried him, and sentenced him to die on the cross.”
Mac winced. “Did they actually nail him to a cross?” he asked. After this morning’s service he wouldn’t put it past them.
“No. He stood there, against the cross, his arms tied to the cross members,” she said. “Then Rev. Nielsen preached about him dying for our sins.”
“Interesting,” Mac said. “Isn’t Easter about the resurrection? Not the crucifixion?” That had been the theme of the sermon at Kate’s church, as a matter of fact. And everyone had greeted each other with ‘He is risen!’ He’d rolled his eyes a bit, then, but compared to a mock-crucifixion?
“Now where would the theater be in that?” Sue asked. He looked at her and gave one of his slow smiles of approval. He liked this woman. He thought she was in her 40s. Tall, spare, she had blond hair like the rest of the town with its Scandinavian heritage. About 15 percent claimed Scandinavian ancestry, Mac thought. He’d had to adjust to all these tall blondes when he’d gone to school in Bellingham. He wasn’t used to it. Add in that German was also about 15 percent? And you had a lot of tall, blondes wandering around. Still freaked him out a bit, even now, he admitted. Felt like he’d wandered into an Aryan Nation convention — well, given this morning’s church service, maybe he had. He’d always been the minority white guy until college.
She grinned back at him. “Iced tea?” she asked. He nodded.
The bell at the front door rang as stocky woman in a police uniform walked in. Sue waved her over.
“Beatrice, these are the reporters I was telling you about,” Sue said cheerfully. “They just got back from New Life service this morning.”
“Mac Davis,” he said smiling at her. “And this is Angie Wilson. She’s the photographer. I’m a reporter.”
“Heard of you,” Beatrice said, and slid into the booth with them. She ordered some cobbler and coffee. “And that was before Sheriff Norton went off about you to the police chief yesterday afternoon. He’s not happy with you.”
Mac shrugged. “Lots of people are unhappy with me every day,” he said. “It’s kind of how I measure if I’m doing my job well.”
Beatrice laughed. “Well, then, you did a very good job on Norton,” she said.
“What did he say?” Angie asked.
“He wasn’t happy with you either,” Beatrice told her. “Apparently you don’t know your place.”
“Sure, I do,” Angie said. “It’s just not where he thinks my place is.”
“He must be hell for women to work with,” Mac said.
She nodded. “This is off the record, right?” she said. Mac agreed.
“He’s hell. If you’re young and attractive, he’s hitting on you. Of course, he’s a good-looking man, so some don’t mind,” she acknowledged. “But saying no? He gets ugly about that, and isn’t afraid to talk with ‘the boys’ about it either.” She put air quotes around the boys.
“And if you’re not young?” Mac asked.
“He ignores you for the most part,” she said. “But that’s not good either if you work for him. Constant turnover out there — especially among the women. The police chief plays the game with Norton, but he’s actually good to work for. The couple of times that I’ve had run-ins, Chief has gone to bat for me, and made Norton back off. But I have to tell you, Norton has an anger problem that’s downright scary.”
“Saw a bit of that,” Angie said.
“What was he mad about?” Mac asked. The cobbler was damned good, he thought.
“I dispatched a couple of his officers out to the ranger station once,” she said. “Another time, I wanted to call up the reserves to look for a missing hiker. And he wasn’t having it. But I ask you, what are the reserves for, if not that?”
And that was a very good question, Mac thought.
“I talked to Peabody,” Mac said neutrally.
“Got an earful, did you?” Beatrice said with a laugh. She shrugged. “I’m no fan of him either. But he’s right — Norton should be responding when someone shoots at his rangers.”
“I was surprised that Peabody didn’t mention complaints about weapons being fired out there with those wilderness survival weekends,” Mac said.
She frowned. “I wonder why he didn’t? We get the complaints. I’m sure they do, too.”
“Those weekends causing problems?”
She shrugged. “Ken Bryson runs a tight ship,” she said. “Lots of people don’t like him. Think he’s cold, or scary, or even mean. But he’s been good for veterans in this area. He hires them for his business, gives them a routine they can handle. He’s almost like a half-way house for the PTSD among us. I have nothing but admiration for what he’s done over the years. Mind you, I’ve
