Page 39 of The River We Remember

Graff came to the desk and stood near Quinn in a relaxed way. “You really want to know what I think, Terence? I’ll tell you what I think, since you asked. I’m thinking that if I were you, I’d be mighty upset. And I’m thinking that it would be best to let cooler heads work out the truth of your father’s death. And I’m thinking that it does no one any good to be making accusations at this point. Again, since you asked.” Graff removed his Stetson, hung it on a wall peg, and smoothed back his grayed hair. “Have you talked to your sister Fiona?”

“I’ve talked to her. What of it?”

“Just wondering how she’s doing with this.”

“How do you expect she’s doing? Sick with grief.”

“I’m sure,” Graff said. “And I’m sorry for her loss.”

“My loss, too.”

“Of course,” Graff said.

Brody said, “Anything else, Terry?”

“Nothing, I guess. For now. But I expect you to keep your promise.”

“What promise was that?” Graff asked.

“You’ll keep me in the loop,” Quinn answered for Brody. “What you know, I’ll know.”

“You promised that, Brody?” Graff gave the sheriff a look that wasn’t hard to interpret.

“I did.”

Graff swung his gaze to Terry Quinn. “Well, sir, I’ve never known Sheriff Dern to go back on a promise. So I guess you have your answer.”

“I guess I do.” Quinn turned and, without any formal words of parting, left the jailhouse.

In the quiet and calm afterward, Graff said, “They don’t fall far from the tree, do they?”

“He told me he’d heard it was murder and that it was Bluestone.” Brody shot his deputy an accusatory look.

“Small town, Brody. People are going to talk, you know that.”

Brody’s stomach growled, long and low.

“You get yourself any lunch?” Graff asked.

“Meant to. Got distracted.”

“You want me to take care of this? Dust for prints?” Graff nodded toward the shotgun and other evidence Brody had been examining. “You are planning on dusting for prints, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Brody said.

“You can go on over to the Wagon Wheel. Bet Angie might have a little something for Hector there, too.”

Brody stripped off his gloves, said, “Let’s go, boy,” and left the old lawman to the work of dusting for prints, work Brody knew would yield nothing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BRODY AND HECTOR returned an hour later. Graff was still at the desk but appeared to be finished with what he’d stayed behind to do.

“I got a call from Bob Magruder out in Lincoln Township,” Graff told him. “Says he parked his truck at the edge of his cornfield when he was cultivating this afternoon. Somebody stole it. Asa’s out there now. He’ll take the report, then he’s going to call it a day.”

“How do we stand with things here?”

Graff sat back, stared at the evidence on the desk, then gave Brody a long, penetrating look. “There’s nothing.”