"I guess we should set up some ground rules here," Dean answered. "This court business changes everything."
Fred's disappointment was apparent. "If the name Dawkins is involved, I can't hear it, but just slide around the names. I figure them bones is another matter. What did you find?"
"Whoa! Dawkins owns that mine! You're on shaky grounds even talking about the place-especially details of our going up there."
"How do you figure? Just tell me what happened and I'll decide what I shouldn't hear."
"That's the silliest thing you've ever said!"
"You're gonna keep me in the dark?"
"You're keeping me in the dark. You won't even say who all the Dawkins are!"
"That's different. That's court business-official like."
"Our talking about it is court business, too-it's violating your pledge to the court. Just like we were skirting the trespass law by poking around the mine. Legally, we had no business going in there in the first place."
"I guess it wouldn't help the election none to get busted for 'trespassing' either way, but it sure is tedious not knowing what's happening." The two were silent, waiting each other out. Finally, Fred broke the silence.
"Speaking of the election, the courthouse is all abuzz now that Fitzgerald's running against you."
Dean had blanked his campaign for sheriff from his mind, but now it returned with a headache fury. He could sympathize with Cynthia, who'd complained about the overload of problems jumping from every corner. Like it or not, he'd best get cracking. But first things first. He needed a little mind-clearing R and R.
Bird Song showed no damage from a day of substitute management. Most of the guests seemed content in the parlor, listening to Pumpkin Green ramble away about his upcoming Fourth of July water fight. Even the Dawkins seemed peaceful. Joseph passed him in the hall with a nod, the usual extent of his greeting, making no mention of the incident at the mine. That was fine with Dean. To escape the smiling innkeeper role, he plodded barefoot out back to the small patio, fired up the barbeque, popped the cap on the first of the last three Fat Tire Ales and stretched out on Cynthia's chaise. It was strange how quickly the trials and fears of the day could be put on the back burner with a couple of swigs of amber liquid.
Cynthia joined him with a tray of sacrificial pork chops awaiting controlled incineration. She glanced down at the three bottles and his mid-section. "What's that?"
He followed her gaze. "You mean the spot?"
"Mostly what's under it, but you should toss that tee shirt."