Bernie’s Shrinking Fishbowl

I’d met the sheriff’s ex on two occassions, neither of which made me at all excited about there being a third.

But the mayor insisted.

“We have to pay our respects and see if there is anything we can do,” she’d said in the car on the ride over. “Paul’s been gone for some time now, I have a police department to answer to, and we need to get these cases off the books. Mick’s AND this body-part thing.”

Bentley was behind the wheel, grinning, taking it all in. I think that boy has a crush on Mayor Granger, but I digress.

“Mick Righteous, yeah,” he said, pumping his fist as he looked in the rear view mirror. “Big fan.”

Mayor Granger smiled as I ignored him.

“Why do we need to do this?” I asked. “They’re not going to give any money. She doesn’t have two dimes to rub together. This doesn’t make sense.”

Charlotte smiled.

“We’re going.”

What I didn’t tell her was that my hesitation, dear reader, was well-founded.

The first time I met Trish had been innocent enough. She had been dating Paul for a year. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was three months along with their daughter, Stacey, who you may recall was the marjorette who stepped on the severed hand on National Jenny Day at the start of all this mayhem.

Elyse and I had just set up shop in town and we literally ran into him on the street, in uniform, walking out of the donut shop without irony, carrying a fresh dozen to his patrol car where Trish was waiting. He handed the box to her through the window and looked up.

“Bernie! Back in town! What happened, downstaters scare you away?”

I’d known Paul from school. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, certainly no match for me, I was certain. I didn’t want to engage, but his outstretched arms suggested he did, so I hugged him.

“This is Trish,” he said, pointing toward his car as she waved.

I put my arm around Elyse’s shoulder. “You remember Elyse, right?”

“Oh my God, Elyse! Sure!”

He leaned in for a hug from her and she obliged, feeling equally obligated to do so.

“You guys … um, together?” he asked, using air quotes around “together.”

I nodded. “Yup, living down the block. River view and everything.”

He looked at me, puzzled. “I thought you were heading for the city.”

(Not many people know this, but “the city” around here means New York City.)

The question didn’t please me given that I was standing next to Elyse, who was already disenchanted with my career developments and the fact that we were still in Middle Valley.

“I’ll get there,” I said, glancing quickly in Elyse’s direction.

Trish leaned out the window, her mouth full of donut. From where I stood, I could see three vacant spaces in the box.

“Paul, let’s go,” she whined. “My story starts in 10 minutes and the cop that arrested Victor is gonna testify. I need to get home.”

Paul took his hat off his head and held it in front of him. He rolled his eyes. “Sorry … duty calls.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

When Elyse and I talked about it later, she found it off-putting that Trish hadn’t bothered to strike up a conversation with her. Of course, then it became my fault … somehow.

The second time I met Trish she was, shall we say, incapacitated. A better word would be drunk.

Stacey, the aforementioned most popular girl in school, was well into junior high at that point. Most days, she stayed late after classes four days a week – Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday for cheerleading squad, then band practice on Friday. Trish knew she had hours to kill between her soap (she was still addicted to Victor and his exploits) and when she’d have to go fetch Stacey, so most Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, she could be found, holding court at the Whiskey Barrel, a well-known dive bar on the North Side that catered to an element, as Mrs. McMurtry would say, were considered “undesirable.” It being two blocks from Trish’s house, she often showed up as early as two o’clock in the afternoon, as soon as her show ended. She’d always fancied herself a Hollywood type – someone in-the-know. So when she put on her act for the daydrinkers at the bar, she had the boys in there eating out of the palm of her hand.

One day, I’d heard Paul’s voice on the police scanner in the newsroom calling out the bar’s address, so I walked over from the office to see what was happening. Rather Paul arresting a drug addict (and, as it turned out, dealer), I found him arguing with Trish in the parking lot.

Paul turned away from her when he saw me. “Why’re you here?” he asked.

“Heard the scanner,” I said. “Everything alright?”

He nodded. Trish turned away, her face tear-stained but her vibe defiant.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

He motioned for Trish to get into his car, which she did without looking at me. He turned on his siren and they sped off.

So you understand my apprehension.