The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco by Laura Disilverio Page B
Authors: Laura Disilverio
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evenings. My hair was the same. Weight ditto. I was in a rut. I made a face at my reflection and resolved to do something about it.
Tomorrow I would make a list of things to do to shake up my life. I remembered I was lunching with Detective Lindell Hart and smiled. That would be item one on my list. Item two would be sneaking into Ivy’s house and searching it, definitely not a “rut”-type activity. Item three . . . I fell asleep before I came up with a third task.
Chapter 8
I managed to keep my nose to the grindstone all Friday morning, even after Kerry called to say Ham was enthusiastic about listing Ivy’s house and would meet us there at two. That would leave just enough time for my lunch with Detective Hart. By noon, I had completed preparations for Ivy’s funeral tomorrow, checked fourteen items off my to-do list for the Boy Scout picnic Sunday, resolved a minor catering crisis related to the Finkelsteins’ fiftieth, and made an appointment with Sheena to do something new with my hair. I left to meet Detective Hart feeling like I’d accomplished a lot.
We arrived at the Munchery simultaneously and exchanged greetings. His smile warmed me, as did the admiration in his eyes as they swept over me. I was glad I’d worn the moss-colored blouse that made my hazel eyes more green than brown and somehow brightened my complexion. We entered the café side by side to be greeted by the clang of cutlery and the babel of dozens ofconversations from the packed room. I turned toward Hart.
“Why don’t we get sandwiches to go and take them up to Lost Alice Lake?” I suggested. “It’s a beautiful day, and if you’re hiring me to be your Heaven tour guide, I might as well start earning my pay.” I laughed.
“Your pay is a free lunch,” he said promptly. “Excellent idea. I’m hoping you can tell me where the lake got that strange name. It’s not a morbid story, I hope.”
I merely grinned and said, “I’ll tell you when we get there.”
To-go bags in hand, we got into his official Tahoe with HEAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT on the sides and headed up the narrow road to Lost Alice Lake on the southern side of town. On a perfect spring day, exercisers, picnickers, and hardy sunbathers dotted the trail around the lake and the expanse of grass sweeping down to it. A lone kite flier struggled with his kite as we got out of the SUV. A strong breeze created some chop on the lake, roughing up the reflection of the mountains on the blue water. The wedding gazebo where Doug would get married in two weeks shone whitely from the left, surrounded by a copse of aspens. I turned my back on it and headed toward a picnic table occupied only by a pair of scavenging magpies. Their black wings gleamed bluely iridescent against their white chests.
“This
is
heaven,” Hart said, drawing in a deep breath of the pine-scented air. “I think I could live here forever and never get used to how clear the air is.”
I was pleased by his admiration for my town. “It’s a beautiful place,” I said. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
Shooing the magpies off the table, I inspected the seat for debris and sat, opening my lunch. The smell of warm pastrami drifted out and I lowered my nose into the bag, making Hart laugh. He maneuvered his long legs over the bench and said, “So tell me the story behind the lake. Did someone named Alice drown here?”
I shook my head while I finished chewing the first spicy bite of my sandwich. “Nope,” I mumbled. “Nothing so depressing. For a start, Alice wasn’t a person. She was a goat.”
“A goat?”
“Uh-huh. According to local lore, the town’s founder, Walter Walters, arrived here in the late 1800s, intending to do a little prospecting. He set up camp on the lakeshore. His letters home—you can read them at the historical society—make it clear he wasn’t having much luck and was planning to move on to what’s now Nevada come the spring. Apparently, he had this goat
Tomorrow I would make a list of things to do to shake up my life. I remembered I was lunching with Detective Lindell Hart and smiled. That would be item one on my list. Item two would be sneaking into Ivy’s house and searching it, definitely not a “rut”-type activity. Item three . . . I fell asleep before I came up with a third task.
Chapter 8
I managed to keep my nose to the grindstone all Friday morning, even after Kerry called to say Ham was enthusiastic about listing Ivy’s house and would meet us there at two. That would leave just enough time for my lunch with Detective Hart. By noon, I had completed preparations for Ivy’s funeral tomorrow, checked fourteen items off my to-do list for the Boy Scout picnic Sunday, resolved a minor catering crisis related to the Finkelsteins’ fiftieth, and made an appointment with Sheena to do something new with my hair. I left to meet Detective Hart feeling like I’d accomplished a lot.
We arrived at the Munchery simultaneously and exchanged greetings. His smile warmed me, as did the admiration in his eyes as they swept over me. I was glad I’d worn the moss-colored blouse that made my hazel eyes more green than brown and somehow brightened my complexion. We entered the café side by side to be greeted by the clang of cutlery and the babel of dozens ofconversations from the packed room. I turned toward Hart.
“Why don’t we get sandwiches to go and take them up to Lost Alice Lake?” I suggested. “It’s a beautiful day, and if you’re hiring me to be your Heaven tour guide, I might as well start earning my pay.” I laughed.
“Your pay is a free lunch,” he said promptly. “Excellent idea. I’m hoping you can tell me where the lake got that strange name. It’s not a morbid story, I hope.”
I merely grinned and said, “I’ll tell you when we get there.”
To-go bags in hand, we got into his official Tahoe with HEAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT on the sides and headed up the narrow road to Lost Alice Lake on the southern side of town. On a perfect spring day, exercisers, picnickers, and hardy sunbathers dotted the trail around the lake and the expanse of grass sweeping down to it. A lone kite flier struggled with his kite as we got out of the SUV. A strong breeze created some chop on the lake, roughing up the reflection of the mountains on the blue water. The wedding gazebo where Doug would get married in two weeks shone whitely from the left, surrounded by a copse of aspens. I turned my back on it and headed toward a picnic table occupied only by a pair of scavenging magpies. Their black wings gleamed bluely iridescent against their white chests.
“This
is
heaven,” Hart said, drawing in a deep breath of the pine-scented air. “I think I could live here forever and never get used to how clear the air is.”
I was pleased by his admiration for my town. “It’s a beautiful place,” I said. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
Shooing the magpies off the table, I inspected the seat for debris and sat, opening my lunch. The smell of warm pastrami drifted out and I lowered my nose into the bag, making Hart laugh. He maneuvered his long legs over the bench and said, “So tell me the story behind the lake. Did someone named Alice drown here?”
I shook my head while I finished chewing the first spicy bite of my sandwich. “Nope,” I mumbled. “Nothing so depressing. For a start, Alice wasn’t a person. She was a goat.”
“A goat?”
“Uh-huh. According to local lore, the town’s founder, Walter Walters, arrived here in the late 1800s, intending to do a little prospecting. He set up camp on the lakeshore. His letters home—you can read them at the historical society—make it clear he wasn’t having much luck and was planning to move on to what’s now Nevada come the spring. Apparently, he had this goat
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