Page 5

As Jenna maneuvered the patrol car through the outskirts of Trentville, her mind drifted back to the girl in her dream. The haunted face of Patricia Gaines lingered in Jenna’s mind. What had that girl’s spirit wanted to tell her?

But for now, there was a job to do—a town to serve and protect. She glanced at Jake, grateful for his unwavering support, and together they prepared to mediate yet another chapter in the ongoing saga of Mrs. Fitzgerald and her neighbor’s troublesome rooster.

She turned a final corner, and the quaint houses of the town gave way to open fields dotted with grazing cattle and weathered barns. Out here, the pace of life slowed, and nature held sway.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald’s place is just up ahead,” Jake said from the passenger seat beside her.

She pulled the patrol car off the main road onto a gravel driveway leading to a modest farmhouse surrounded by a white picket fence. Jenna parked the car, and as they stepped out, the reality of their immediate concern brought her back to the present.

“Time to play peacemaker,” Jake quipped, closing the door behind him.

At that moment the raucous crowing of a rooster filled the air, its sound discordant against the otherwise tranquil morning.

“It’s a loud one, for sure,” Jake commented. “I wouldn’t want to live around this racket. On the other hand, Mr. Thompson has a right to keep his own livestock, I guess.”

“Let’s hope these two neighbors are feeling cooperative today,” Jenna replied, allowing a small smile to form on her lips. It was these small-town disputes, these moments of levity, that provided a counterbalance to the heavier burdens she bore.

However, the scene before them didn’t look promising: it was a domestic battlefield marked by the vibrant blooms of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s petunias and marigolds. Mrs. Fitzgerald herself stood close to her garden, lips a thin line of indignation, eyes fixed on the man facing her.

Mr. Thompson, a figure carved from the very soil he worked, leaned against the weathered fence that marked his own property, arms folded as if they were roots dug deep into the earth. Some distance away, hens and chicks wandered about the farmer’s fenced yard, clucking and peeping contentedly. Just behind him strutted the rooster, chest puffed out, its Rhode Island Red feathers glistening like burnished copper in the sunlight. The bird seemed to wear an air of defiance, crowing again as though mocking the human contention it had sparked.

Mrs. Fitzgerald’s hands flew to her ears in a dramatic gesture. “That bird is a menace!” she declared, the pitch of her voice scaling upwards. “I told you, I’m taking this to court. I’m going to sue.”

Jenna knew well the theater of small-town disputes, where every actor played their part with conviction. The rooster’s insistent crowing was merely the soundtrack to this daily drama. She exchanged a glance with Jake, noting the mirrored expression of wry recognition. With the practiced ease of a mediator stepping onto familiar ground, she moved forward to address the discordant neighbors.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” Jenna said as she and Jake approached, “I can see you’re upset.”

The elderly woman’s gaze snapped to Jenna, the silver waves of her hair almost shimmering with indignation. “Wouldn’t you be, Sheriff Graves? Every morning, like clockwork! Before dawn. And at random times all day long.”

Mr. Thompson stood his ground, his arms crossed on the fence. His chin showed a hint of stubble, a testament to the dawn’s early work already done.

“It’s a rooster, Margaret. That’s what they do. Been that way since the dawn of time,” he said. His voice was the rumble of the earth, deep and unyielding, much like the land where he tilled and toiled.

“Mr. Thompson,” Jenna addressed the farmer with respect, knowing the value he placed on his rights and traditions, “your rooster certainly has a strong set of lungs on him.”

“Always has,” he replied, voice gruff but not unkind. “Nature’s alarm clock, he is. These big reds aren’t quiet, but the hens are good egg layers. That’s a big part of my income right there.”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald, I can appreciate how disruptive the noise has been,” Jenna said to the irritated woman, her tone a careful blend of empathy and authority. “And Mr. Thompson, I understand the importance of tradition and the natural behavior of your poultry.” She eyed the rooster, now pecking nonchalantly at the ground, blissfully unaware of its role in this human tension.

“Folks,” she added, her voice authoritative, “I understand you both have valid concerns. Mrs. Fitzgerald, you have a right to peace and quiet. And Mr. Thompson, you have a right to keep farm animals on your property and to earn a living with them. But we need to find a compromise that works for everyone.”

Seeing that both of them were listening, she took another breath and continued, “Perhaps we can find a solution that respects both your sleeping schedule and Mr. Thompson’s farming practices,” Jenna suggested, looking from one set of narrowed eyes to the other. If only she could nudge them towards common ground. Her words were met with skeptical silence, a momentary ceasefire as each party weighed the possibility of peace.

“Let’s discuss some options that could alleviate the situation,” she suggested, watching for any sign of concession, any flicker of willingness to bend. Her words seemed to momentarily bridge the gap between the neighbors, their expressions softening ever so slightly. Jenna held their gazes, conveying with her steady gaze that she was there not just as an enforcer of the law, but as a mediator, a shepherd guiding her flock to common ground.

Jenna led them through potential remedies, Jake at her side offering his own insights. They considered sound-proofing measures for Mrs. Fitzgerald’s bedroom—a proposal that met with an initial nod of approval from Mr. Thompson. Mrs. Fitzgerald, however, scratched her chin, skeptical about the costliness of such measures and their effectiveness against the announcement of dawn from his coop.

“And I guess I wouldn’t even be able to keep a window open,” she added glumly.

“Or perhaps,” Jenna offered, shifting her direction as she saw both of the neighbors’ hesitation, “we could think about relocating your chicken coop farther away from Mrs. Fitzgerald’s property line.”

But then Mr. Thompson insisted that his chicken coop had been carefully constructed, and to build another one wouldn’t be a simple or inexpensive task. Even this close to town, he said, chickens had to be secured at night if they were going to survive.

“The chickens have to be kept safe from hungry raccoons,” Mrs. Fitzgerald admitted.

“Not just them,” Mr. Thompson muttered. “Skunks and coyotes and foxes. Opossums too. And black snakes will eat the eggs or baby chicks if they can get to them.” After a moment’s silence, he added, “But Margaret, I understand how you feel. I guess maybe there’s a solution to this problem.”

Jenna watched as Mr. Thompson’s weathered hands, rough from years of tending to his land, carefully sketched out the design of a small chicken house on the back of an old receipt. His brow was furrowed with concentration, but there was a softness in his eyes that betrayed his willingness to compromise for the sake of peace. It was a small box-like structure, insulated for sound, where he could put the rooster at night then let him out with the others at a later morning hour.

“Why, that might just work,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, almost smiling.

“Alright,” Mr. Thompson grumbled finally, “I’ll build the blasted thing. But it’s going to be small and no frills.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” Jenna said, her voice even and steady. She turned to look at Mrs. Fitzgerald, whose posture had relaxed slightly. “And you, Mrs. Fitzgerald, will you agree to keep this matter between neighbors? And no lawsuits, please.”

The elderly woman hesitated, her lips quivering in thought. Then, with a sigh that seemed to release all the tension of the morning, she nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s fair. No lawyers needed if that rooster is out of my earshot at dawn. I think I can manage to put up with that noise during the day.”

The agreement hung in the air, fragile but intact. Jenna felt the knot in her stomach loosen; the simple joy of resolution, even in a dispute as trivial as this, was its own reward.

“Shake on it?” Jenna suggested, gesturing to the pair.

With reluctance, Mrs. Fitzgerald extended her hand towards Mr. Thompson, who took it in his own with surprising gentleness. Their handshake was brief, their faces marked with relief but still laced with irritation—not quite friends, but no longer adversaries.

“Good work,” Jake murmured, giving Jenna an approving nod.

“Let’s head back,” Jenna said, her mind already shifting gears from mediator back to law enforcer. The early July heat was beginning to assert itself, hinting at the sweltering afternoon to come.

Jake fell in step beside her, a grin cracking his usually stoic demeanor. “Well, that’s one crisis averted,” Jake said, his voice carrying over the hum of cicadas in the nearby trees. “Though I have to say, I never thought I’d be negotiating the sleeping arrangements of a rooster.”

Jenna let out a genuine chuckle, feeling the absurdity of their situation.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you never expected a lot of things we have to deal with in Trentville—like escaped parrots and attics that are haunted by raccoons.”

She and Jake had, indeed, dealt with those very issues, and many others of a distinctly local color.

“It sure is stuff being a city cop never prepared me for,” Jake said with a chuckle.

“Just another day in the exciting life of small-town law enforcement,” Jenna added, her voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and fondness.

It was moments like these that reminded her of the unique charm—and challenge—of serving Trentville. She glanced sideways at Jake, noting the lightness in his eyes, so unlike the intensity they often held during their investigations.

They had just gotten back into the patrol car when the radio’s static burst cut through the silence, followed by a question, “Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins, do you copy?”

Sally’s voice, usually steady and detached, now carried an edge that made Jenna’s skin prickle. Jake’s eyes met hers, a silent exchange of concern passing between them as they braced for what would come next.

“Go ahead, Sally,” Jenna replied.

“We’ve got a situation at St. Michael’s Church,” Sally continued, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her usual composure. “Father Walsh just called in. They’ve... they’ve found a body.”

“In the church?” Jake asked in surprise.

“That’s what they said. Right there in the old church.”

“Do they have an ID?” Jenna asked.

“No,” Sally replied. “But they said it’s definitely a murder. I didn’t ask any more questions. Knew I had to get you.”

“Copy that, Sally,” Jenna said, her voice steady as she marshaled her thoughts into action. “We’re on our way. Alert the coroner and tell her to meet us there.”

She paused, her gaze flickering over to Jake, who sat rigid beside her, his own expression a mask of professional concern. “And Sally?” she added. “Keep this quiet for now. The last thing we need is the whole town showing up at the scene.”

“Understood, Sheriff. Be careful out there,” came the reply, the line crackling briefly before falling silent.

Jenna glanced at Jake, finding a shared surprise reflected in his eyes. The quiet sense of accomplishment from moments before evaporated, replaced by the grim realization that this day had taken a dark turn.