Lies We Bury(14)

She wraps a knot around the middle of a strip then sets it aside. “What do you think? Can you help your mama that way?”

I try one out myself and beam at her when I line ours up side by side. Mine is almost the same as hers but the knot is more lumpy.

“That’s okay,” she says, putting her hand over mine. “They don’t have to be perfect.” She pauses and leans over the wrinkly sheet on the table. “You don’t have to be perfect, either. You’re pretty great as is.”

Sisters squeal and laugh about something from the other room. “But they won’t play with me.”

Mama Rosemary smiles. “They will, honey. One day, all they’ll want to do is spend time with you. Trust me.”

I slip my hand into hers and her skin is warm. “Can I get in your lap?”

“Oh, baby, you’re a big girl. I’m not sure—”

But I already climb onto her knees and curl up under her chin. She wraps her arms around me and starts humming a song about rowing boats down streams.

“Why are you humming that song, Mama?”

She kisses my head and I feel all safe and squishy. “To remind us to keep going, baby. Even when it’s upstream.”





Seven

Jenessa waits out front of the brewery, her face twisted up in exasperation. “How did I beat you when you left before me?”

Opaque walls beside her reveal nothing of the interior. The reviews online suggest it’s a great place to grab a pint and brush up on American history. Maybe American leaders? I withdraw my camera from its case and frame a shot of the door to include PATRIOT BREWERY in Gothic cursive above.

“I’m still not great at navigating these one-way streets,” I reply, lowering the lens. “Sorry.”

She huffs, then pulls the brass door handle open for me. I slide inside first, wondering whether I should have invited her. Jenessa under normal circumstances can be terse, while Jenessa hangry—hungry and angry—is something to be avoided.

Most summers growing up, we spent two weeks together when she came down to Arch, to—as Nora put it—give her mom a G-D break. One visit, Jenessa went four hours without eating when we went to a movie marathon at the local theater, then threw a fit in the parking lot as we were leaving. I was shocked, but Rosemary later told me I was guilty of the exact same moodiness; she often kept a bag of almonds with her in case hunger struck.

Jenessa and I settle into a high-top at the bar with a view of the advertised thirty-plus beers on tap—not the twenty that the note suggested would be at the next location. Maybe only twenty beers relate to leaders.

“Have you been here before?” I ask, still waiting for my sister’s icy layer to crack.

“First time.”

The bartender comes by and takes our order. He returns with a Diet Coke for Jenessa and an Aaron’s O’Duel for me, the only nonalcoholic beer available; I have another stop after this and want to be alert.

He drops off a basket of unshelled peanuts. Jenessa grabs a handful and tears into them. She chews and swallows the first two, then breaks into a smile. (H)anger abated.

I scan the names on the tap handles behind the bar: Jefferson Ale. Adams Apple Cider. Hamilton Hops Summer Wheat. “So how is working at the doughnut shop? You’ve been there—what—six months?”

Jenessa pauses between bites. “A year.”

“That’s right.” I shake my head. “I remember.”

None of the beers on tap stands out to me. None of them seems related to either Four Alarm Brewery or the murder—or myself, for that matter. Without knowing anything else about the note’s author, I can’t guess what their favorite might be or where another dead body may be, waiting to be discovered.

A barback arrives and sets our plates on the table. The scent of french fry grease instantly makes my mouth water.

“Are you okay?” Jenessa pauses in wolfing down her toasted tuna sandwich. “You look flushed, and I know your beer isn’t to blame.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I lean back in my seat. She resumes telling me about a guy she’s seeing, whom she met on a dating app. Apparently, he starts singing immediately after sex, and she’s not into it. I take a bite of my BLT, but I’m too distracted to enjoy it.

A giant American flag covers the wall behind Jenessa. The bartenders hit an imitation Liberty Bell each time someone orders a Betsy Ross Saison—the thirty-fifth beer on the menu. The ambience is festive and seemingly without any connection to the note.

Jenessa advised me to ignore it. But what if I could stop another death by pursuing this message? Aren’t I obligated to try?

The thought in and of itself rings hollow, the fresh influx of money in my wallet from Pauline countering my supposed altruism. I do have an ulterior motive in this, if Pauline keeps paying for pictures. What if I arrive at the next crime scene first—before it’s an official crime scene—and take photos of the space? Will there be another paycheck in it for me?

Just the idea turns my stomach. I’m not an opportunist. I want to help prevent another murder, someone else losing their life, for God’s sake.

Then again, if I really think the note is a threat or a clue, why haven’t I told the police yet?

Years ago, I went on a date with a cop. We hit it off and saw each other a few more times. I really liked him. When I hinted at my difficult background and childhood, he looked happy about it—no, elated. He said he was into researching the gory details of Oregon crimes that make national news and was aiming to become a detective one day. When I understood he was more excited by my parentage than by me, I cut him off—but that didn’t stop him. He abused his connections in the police department to access archived files on me, to get the real story, as he later put it when he asked me to confirm some of what I’d said in police interviews when I was seven.