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Jenna knew the dangers of too much information too soon; panic could spread faster than wildfire through a tight-knit community like Trentville.
“Mayor,” she said hastily as she and Jake stood to go, “I don’t think that calling a meeting would be wise. We’re still in the early stages of the investigation, and—”
Claire cut her off with an imperious wave of her hand. “This isn’t up for discussion, Sheriff,” she declared. “The people need to know what’s happening, and they need to hear it from me.”
“Surely you understand the danger of starting a panic.”
“The meeting will happen, with or without your approval. And I expect you to be there.” The mayor’s voice carried the weight of her office, leaving no room for debate.
Jenna met Claire’s gaze squarely, her mind calculating the implications this meeting would have on their case. But she recognized the futility of arguing with a woman who wielded her power with the confidence of a seasoned general, especially now that she was angry and distraught.
“Understood, Mayor,” Jenna said briskly. “We will be there.”
With that, Jenna and Jake both turned and left the mayor’s grandiose home. With a quiet click, the door closed behind them, sealing away the world of politics and power plays. But Jenna knew they would have to deal with whatever would be stirred up by the mayor’s impending actions.
As they reached the patrol car, Jake asked, “Next stop, the Centaur’s Den?”
“Right,” Jenna replied. They had to get on with the case.
“Place has seen better days,” Jake murmured as Jenna pulled her cruiser into the parking lot, and Jenna saw the underlying truth in his observation. The Centaur’s Den was a microcosm of Trentville itself—tired, frayed at the edges, but brimming with unspoken stories. Here, farmers rubbed elbows with ranchers, and the divide between them ran as deep as the roots of the ancient oaks dotting the landscape.
Jenna’s hand lingered on the door handle, the sun-warmed metal grounding her before she swung it open. A refreshing blast of cool air rushed out to greet them, an invisible barrier against the oppressive heat outside. Jenna stepped through, her senses immediately accosted by the familiar scent cocktail of stale beer and aggressive pine cleaner that somehow never managed to fully cleanse the air of its burdens.
Jake entered too, closing the door behind them, and they gazed around the cavernous space where scattered tables waited in silence for their nightly patrons, each one telling a tale of spilled drinks and confided sorrows.
Jenna’s gaze cut across the room to the bar where the bar owner stood, his large frame dwarfing the glassware he shelved with methodical precision. Aaron Hopper’s face was a map of hard-earned lines, carved from years spent resolving disputes more often with a look than with his fists, though both were equally effective. His shirt, once a darker shade, had faded much like the sign outside, and the bar towel over his shoulder seemed as permanent a fixture as the wood beneath his hands.
“Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins,” Aaron said, the surprise in his voice matched by the lift of his thick brows. His greeting carried a rough timbre but held no edge of hostility.
“Aaron, we need to talk about Clyde Simmons,” Jenna said. “He was here last night, wasn’t he?”
Aaron set down a glass with more care than necessary, a stalling tactic as he composed himself for the conversation. “Sure, he was here,” Aaron’s response came at last. “Clyde’s been a regular for years.”
“I’m afraid Clyde Simmons was found dead this morning, Aaron. Murdered.”
She watched the color drain from Aaron’s face. “Murdered?”
Jenna nodded, her response muted as she watched the man before her grapple with the reality of the situation.
“Damn it,” Aaron’s voice reverberated through the silence, laden with something Jenna couldn’t quite define—fear, perhaps, or regret.
“It happened last night, at the Hartley ranch,” Jenna said, the words deliberate as she held Aaron’s gaze. “We can’t go into details right now, but we need to know everything you can tell us about Clyde’s time here yesterday evening. This may have been the last place he was seen alive.”
His shock was genuine, Jenna concluded, not the practiced surprise of someone with something to hide. This was a man facing an unwelcome intrusion of violence into his domain, his sanctuary for the weary and troubled souls of Trentville.
“Anything you remember could be important, Aaron,” she urged gently.
“Of course, of course. Let me just...” With deliberate movements, Aaron filled a glass with water, his hands shaking – whether from nerves or the morning chill in the bar, Jenna couldn’t tell. As he leaned forward, elbows braced against the worn wood of the countertop, the light caught the premature streaks of gray in his hair.
“Have a seat,” he said to Jenna and Jake, motioning toward the stools lining the bar. They both sat down, and Aaron began, “Clyde came in around 8 PM, already half in the bag. It’s been like that a lot lately, ever since Myra left him. He’d sit there, nursing his whiskey, picking fights with anyone who’d listen.”
“Did anyone try to calm him down?” Jenna asked, her voice steady despite the surge of emotions that this case stirred within her. “Or did everyone just let him be?”
“Most folks just ignore him when he gets like that. They’ve heard it all before. But sometimes, you know how it is, tempers get heated. Especially after a few too many.” Aaron’s gaze shifted to a point over Jenna’s shoulder as he searched his memory. “Truth is, I probably saved Clyde’s life a dozen times during the last few weeks. He’d get belligerent, start throwing accusations and fists with no care for who was at the receiving end.” His eyes flicked to a corner of the bar as if expecting to find Clyde there, spoiling for a fight. “He was no match for most of the guys who come here. I always stepped in. Not just for him—I couldn’t let my place turn into a brawl every other night.”
“Did he get into any specific arguments last night?” Jake asked, his notebook open and pen poised.
Aaron shook his head slowly.
“Not really. It was more of his usual ranting.” He sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken regret. “How everyone in the county hated him, how he was just doing his job as a meat inspector. He kept saying people would be happy to see him dead.”
The bar owner’s voice caught, and he cleared his throat, visibly shaken. “I guess someone took him up on that.”
“Aaron,” Jenna said, her tone threading the needle between compassion and command, “we need to know about everyone who interacted with Clyde last night. Even the smallest detail could be important.”
“Well, there was Tom Buchanan,” he began, clearing his throat as Jake took notes. “He and Clyde had words, but that’s nothing new. Tom left around 10, I think.” Jenna nodded, her mind already cataloging the information, slotting it alongside countless other fragments.
Aaron continued reluctantly, “Maggie Peters was here too, kept to herself mostly. And then there’s Joe Metzger, you know him, always sitting at the end of the bar, nursing his beer.”
“Anyone else?” Jenna prompted, her mind whirling with possibilities. Aaron hesitated, his eyes flickering towards the clock above the bar as if time itself might offer up an alibi.
“Let’s see... there was also the Miller twins, Carl and Greg. They played pool most of the night. And Lucy Rafferty, came in late, left early.”
“Did any of them seem to have a particular issue with Clyde last night? Any altercation or unusual interest?” Jenna asked.
Aaron shook his head, his expression turning inward as he searched his memory. “They all keep to their own, for the most part. But you know how it is, Sheriff... words fly faster than fists in this place.”
Jenna’s gaze was unyielding. “What time did Clyde leave last night, Aaron?” she asked, her voice carrying the weight of the badge she bore.
Aaron’s fingers drummed an uneven rhythm on the polished wood of the bar. The memory seemed to play out behind his eyes before he found his voice again. “It was just after 11. I cut him off –” He stopped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “He was way past his limit. Tried to call him a cab, but Clyde…” Aaron’s voice trailed off, and he shook his head with a blend of frustration and sorrow. “He got all indignant, said he didn’t need my help. He stormed out before I could stop him.”
Jake’s pen paused against the paper. “Did you see which way he went?”
“No,” Aaron replied, and his head moved side to side, a physical echo of uncertainty. “But his truck’s still in the lot. Noticed it when I came in this morning. Figured he must have gotten a ride from somebody, or maybe walked home.”
At Aaron’s words, Jenna and Jake shared a look. If Clyde’s vehicle never left the bar, then the possibilities of what transpired between his departure and his death were rapidly narrowing.
“We need to see it,” Jenna said.
A few minutes later, Jenna’s boots crunched on loose gravel as she followed Aaron across the parking lot where Clyde’s truck sat isolated.
“Over there,” Aaron said, his voice subdued, pointing to the pickup truck that was a testament to years of hard labor under the relentless Missouri sun. It was battered, the paint faded and chipped, but today it was more than just a vehicle—it was a potential crime scene.
As they approached, Jenna’s senses sharpened at what she saw. There were scuff marks on the gravel, chaotic and telling, leading up to the driver’s side of the truck. Crouching, she saw the outline of a boot print. She stood and moved closer to the door, where a small smear glistened darkly on the handle. Blood? Her heart beat quickened.
“Don’t touch anything,” she ordered Aaron. “Don’t let anybody near this truck.”
The bartender nodded. “I guess I can close off this part of the lot for a while,” he said as he headed to pull a couple of sawhorses into place, blocking access to the truck.
“Jake, call Colonel Spelling about this,” she instructed. “He needs to send a forensics team here ASAP. And then get the truck impounded.”
Without hesitation, Jake pulled out his phone and dialed, relaying the urgency with a few concise words. Jenna glanced around the lot, hoping for an eye in the sky, a witness made of wires and lenses. But when she spotted the security camera, she saw that it was old, clinging to the bar’s facade like a relic, its angle too narrow, its range too short.
“Aaron, does that camera work?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the sun to get a better look.
“Kinda,” he grumbled, scratching his stubbled chin. “But it won’t show you much. Doesn’t capture clear images, especially not at night.”
A sigh escaped Jenna’s lips. It was a lead, however frail. “We’ll need whatever footage it has. Anything can help.” She stared at the camera, willing it to reveal its secrets, knowing the odds were against them. “Highway Patrol will want to look at whatever that camera caught last night.”
Aaron gave a slow nod, his face drawn and pale.
“I’ll show them anything they need to look at,” Aaron said.
Jake ended his phone call. “Forensics are on their way,” he confirmed.
“Let’s go back inside,” Jenna said.
As she led the way back into the Centaur’s Den with Jake and Aaron close behind, her mind was a carousel of theories and missing pieces.
“Let’s sit down and talk some more,” she suggested, motioning toward a wide corner booth. “Aaron, there’s an image we need to know if you recognize.”
At Jenna’s silent command, Jake pulled out his notepad, his hand moving deftly as he recreated the haunting brand they’d found on Clyde Simmons’ chest: a tree shape with intricate details. A symbol that spoke of mystery and, now, death.
“Does this mean anything to you, Aaron?” Jake asked, sliding the sketch across the table without mentioning the image’s grim context. His tone was casual, but his eyes were alert, searching for any flicker of recognition.
Aaron leaned over the drawing, squinting slightly. “Can’t say that it does,” he replied after a moment, shaking his head. “Looks like something out of those fantasy books, or a family crest maybe. But nothing I’ve seen around these parts.”
“Speaking of around these parts,” Jake chimed in smoothly, flipping his notebook to a fresh page, “do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Clyde? Any recent trouble he’s gotten into?”
Aaron was visibly wrestling with the weight of the situation. “Actually, there’s been talk,” he began cautiously, his gaze shifting between Jenna and Jake. “This activist, Lily Cummings, she’s been stirring things up around town—badmouthing Clyde to anyone who’ll listen. I never took it as more than hot air, but now...”
Jenna’s posture stiffened. Lily Cummings could be bad news, her passion for animal rights had often blurred into radical action.
Aaron continued, “Lily Cummings said that Clyde needed to watch his back.”