July 1996, Afternoon of Roseberry Music Festival Day 2
Screeeech! The sound man amps up the main stage with a squeal.
It’s an hour before the first set, but MJ licks dry lips and squints around the field of crushed grass as the audience begins to filter in. She sees pieces of trash needing to be picked up, vendors opening tents, their vats of oil heating for fries to feed hungry waves of concert-goers, and wandering photographers and band members. The sound man troubleshoots the system with recorded songs.
He has a penchant for old blues. “You better come on in my kitchen… there’s bound to be rain outdoors…”
MJ’s neck cranes. There’s Lucky. He smiles with a sharp nod at her. Ma’am, she swears he mouths. MJ blushes meeting his eyes. Last night was amazing. It’s a little scary—it felt so real, so serious, but such a turn-on that she can’t unknow him now. Nor does she want to.
She’s smiling a silly smile when a silhouetted figure enters the field. The afternoon sun moves slowly behind the barn. He’s walking to the stage.
“Who?” She stalls, frowning. His red and beige flannel is familiar. “But it’s so hot…”
It’s not a musician—is it? She’s met them all, except one or two. Why didn’t he show up with his band?
MJ’s stalking over to the intruder—“Hey!”—when the person behind him—the fed—bristles into MJ’s sight.
The Detective walks straight at her. Mr. Flannel rounds the steps to the stage. MJ glances between the fed and Lucky for help, but he’s securing a vendor’s tent corner. She bites her lip. She’ll get to it in a minute.
“Hello.” She pastes a pleasant smile and stands her ground.
“Mary Jane Kirsch.”
“That’s me.” She meets his silver eyes.
She’s met him before—when she got caught in the grocery, she remembers cringing.
His mouth flattens. “I need you to come with me. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
MJ frowns, “I’m working, Mister. You’ve already questioned me.”
She speaks loudly, spreads her hands wide to gesture to the whole Roseberry Music Festival. While she doesn’t want him to go after Aunt K, she also figures he should have realized by now that she’s not Murder Suspect No. 1.
He flashes his badge. “Nevertheless.”
“We can talk on my Aunt’s porch,” MJ grinds out, pushing one foot after another into the ground.
He follows her. MJ glances back, realizing she’s walking away from everything she’s ever wanted. The Kirsch barn and fields. Lucky. An identity of herself—as a concert event manager—that she actually likes.
She cranes to the stage. The weirdo in flannel vanished backstage. They creak onto the porch.
“This is fine.” The Detective balances at the edge of a rocker, hand resting on his holster. MJ leans back into the other rocker and puts her feet on the rail. They both watch the concert scene unfolding.
“I’m concerned for your safety, MJ.”
Her eyes widen. “Why?”
“One of the suspects is here. That man in the flannel. It that your father?”
WTF? Flashing eyes to the rose hedge, she detects a sunken area around Red’s body. What happened? Another scavenger? She hopes no bones show!
The Detective says, “I’ll shadow you while you work tonight. We have someone to watch the house. Stay in the light. Do not walk out into the fields. It’s best if you sleep at your aunt’s house. No camping. And if I give you any directions, I want you to follow them immediately. We might arrest your mother’s culprit tonight.”
MJ’s wide-eye staring at porch planks. Whatever happened to Angel, it wasn’t Red. The fact that they’ll never know what happened to Angel hurts like a spike to the heart. But what will happen when the Detective realizes he’s got the wrong person? Dead men don’t attend concerts, after all. Right? Will the Detective return to her and Kara as primary suspects?
MJ makes an effort. Looks him straight in the eye. “My father is unpredictable and brutal. If you find him, make him pay for my Mom.”
The Detective flattens his lips and nods. MJ feels a twinge of guilt—after all, whoever looks like Red could get hurt—but the man is about ready to squeeze her shoulder. She needs his sense of protection. She needs him to look in the other direction. After all, there’s still a body to move. She hopes.
MJ starts to say something helpful, but she sees another familiar face in the audience line that forming behind the barn. The blond is rolling her eyes and holding out a wad of cash, probably trying to get a last-minute ticket.
MJ stands. “If that’s all you need, Mister, there’s someone in line I need to go see.”
He eyes her face. She hopes she doesn’t twitch or something, giving away the whole thing. He nods. “I’ll be nearby.”
She gulps and takes her leave, squaring shoulders and pasting another, different smile on her face as she strides over to Amber and Co. in line.
*
March 1996, Downtown Roseberry
MJ’s wandering inside the old grocery. MB’s property.
“Geez,” she murmurs at the thick state of dust—bad enough to fill cracks in a walnut countertop. “Obviously she doesn’t care…”
MJ runs her hands along the sad wooden grains. “What a waste…” she sighs, imagining this counter reused in a bar or ice cream shop. She stops at a pile of papers at the end of the counter.
“What the…?” These papers aren’t dusty.
MJ leans in close, fingering the edges and flipping through the long-sided stack. They are drawings and maps of all the properties in Roseberry. “Plat maps…” The slightly unfamiliar words, which she’d probably ignored during an American history lecture on how the West was divided basically into squares, come back to her.
A flash through the window grabs her attention. Oh no! She grabs the stack and slides down to hands and knees. She rolls it up, tucks it into her backpack, then creeps to the window, tipping her head and using one eye to see who’s out there.
“Sh*t!” MJ hisses. It’s the fed’s car parked outside. Does she hear a truck? Lucky’s government ride is 500 feet behind the fed. “Oh, God, please don’t let them find me!”
No joy. Knock! KNOCK! On the front glass door. She knows he knows she knows.
MJ sighs, gets off her knees and wipes her hands on her pants.
“This isn’t what it looks like…” she cringes opening the door as the fed pushes it in, forcing her back, while he’s flashing a badge.
“Oh no, Miss Kirsch? How would you explain a break-in? What on earth are you doing in here?” The silver-haired fed, the one she’s literally waved to every single time she drove by him parked on Farm-to-Market Road, frowns down at her like a flunky high-school student.
Which she supposes, is kind of true. “I can explain…”
He glances behind her to see what looks out of place. Just then, the truck rumbles to a stop beside the building. Oh God, she thinks, could she get any less lucky? It is Lucky. Her final straw will be when Lucky realizes she’s basically a criminal. Just like Red. Now nobody will be left for her here. She’ll have to move away. Once she’s out of prison. Maybe to Canada.
She’s about to ask the fed to just take her into Cascade and fingerprint her when Lucky arrives at the open front door.
“MJ!” He calls and walks confidently in. “Did you find what I asked?”
The fed glances between them. Her eyes widen. “Um, yes?”
“What exactly are you looking for?” The silver-haired man notes Lucky’s USFS uniform.
Lucky casually leans on the walnut counter. “She was supposed to trace the source of these lead pipes. They come from here?” He questions her.
She nods fast. “Yes! Lead pipes!”
Lucky pins his gaze on the fed. “We’re gathering details for the historical restoration project being proposed to the State.”
The fed is appalled. “You can’t just break in!”
“Oh, this place ain’t locked. Anyone comes in whenever they like.” Lucky grins.
The Detective mulls this idea to see if he can swallow it. “Mary Beth Williams is owner.”
Lucky straighten up. “It’s a small town, sir. We’ve all played in here since kindergarten. And Mary Beth never’s posted it. Did she tell you it’s no trespassing?” The fed stalls. Lucky walks up to MJ. “Did you find them?”
“Yes,” She pats her bag gratefully. “I made some notes.”
The Detective backs down, she thinks, kind of like a cat sits back on its haunches. If anything, perhaps the rolled stack of maps sticking out of her bag validates her.
“Great, I’m starving. I want to go over the proposal over dinner.” Lucky eyes the fed. “Do you need anything else right now, Officer?”
The fed tweaks his head. “I know where to find you if I do.”
“Yes, sir.” Lucky takes MJ with the elbow. “Come on, MJ.”
*
Kara stands on her front porch, chamomile and feverfew tea in hand. This is the second time she’s come outside since MJ ran away. She called everyone she could think of looking for MJ. Now, the fed’s sedan and the government white truck were parked at the grocery. What if she hurt herself in there or graffitied MB’s walls or something?
Kara breathes relief when MJ gets into Lucky’s truck instead of the fed’s car.
“She’ll be fine.” Kara sits back in wicker chair, wrapping her quilt tight. “She has to come back at some point. I’ll be able to explain then.”
Kara can only imagine the suspicion that swells inside MJ. Kara knows because she was the same. She also experienced Red’s abuse. It’s taken a long time to build trust again, hasn’t it?
“Not just for MJ, but for me.” But Kara did make things right, didn’t she? “MJ has security, she just doesn’t realize it yet.”
Yes, the Kirsch property will go to MJ. Red’s piece once his missing status ended, but seven years wasn’t too long to wait. College would fill four or five of those. Kara already named MJ as her beneficiary—she’d tell her later. With Angel gone besides Red, there was no one holding MJ back, except perhaps MJ.
“It’s time she grew up.”
The only thing left, perhaps, was Kara. She tightened the blanket. She really did want the girl back. Kara would have to explain: Red’s real threat, his specific wounds from that night, and the tea Kara had made. And what happened with the tea.
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