True Colors

“She might forget what you did, Winona, but I haven’t. You betrayed her, pure and simple. So you remember this: I’ll be watching you. She might forgive. I won’t.”

Winona sat in her car, parked outside the police station.

She shouldn’t go in. She knew that. Some things were better left unknown.

If only she were the kind of person who could ignore information. But such feigned ignorance was impossible for her to achieve.

Once an idea got in her head she was like a crocodile death-rolling its prey. And suddenly she was worried that Dallas was actually dangerous.

She got out of the car and walked toward the station, opening the door. Inside, the place was empty but for a few uniformed officers walking from one office to another.

At the receptionist’s desk, Helen looked up from filing her hot-pink nails. “Hey, Winona.”

“Hey. Is Sheriff Bailor in? I’d like to see him.”

“Course he’s in. You’ve got an appointment, dontcha? He’s in his office. Go on back.”

Winona walked down the busy hallway and found Sheriff Albert Bailor in his office, eating a breakfast sandwich.

“Hey, Winona,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Have a seat.”

She didn’t bother with small talk. It was a skill she’d never really mastered anyway. “I need to do a background criminal check on someone.”

“This the Indian?”

“Yes.”

“I had the same questions myself when Vivi married him. To be honest, I expected you in here before now.” He left the room and came back a few moments later with a file, which he set down on his desk. “I’ll be right back. Nature calls.”

As soon as he was gone, Winona opened the file.

Dallas Raintree, DOB 5/05/65.

She scanned through his criminal record, reading charges, arrests, and convictions. There were almost a dozen theft or possessing stolen goods charges, two assault charges that were pled down, an assault and battery conviction, and a couple of weapons charges. A notation was made that his juvenile record was sealed per court order and that he had, on several occasions, been ordered to undergo psychiatric evaluations. It appeared that he’d been a juvenile the first time such a recommendation was made.

“Holy shit,” Winona said.

“Holy shit is right,” Al said, coming back into the office, closing the glass-topped door behind him.

Winona looked up at him. “What does all this mean?”

Al sat down at his desk. “I read it as your brother-in-law is a man with a bad temper and not much respect for the law. And somethin’ bad happened when he was a kid. There are a lot of psychiatrists’ reports in there. More’n a few think he’s unstable.” He leaned back. “Rumor is that you’re the one who hired him. I would have expected you to do a background check.”

She gritted her teeth. “What can I do now?”

“Now?” Al shrugged. “He’s married to your sister, Win. There’s nothing to be done now.”

“Is he dangerous?”

Al looked at her. “Under the right circumstances, we all are. You just keep your eye on him.”

“I will,” Winona promised.

In late November, an icy wind blew across the Canal, whipping the normally calm waters into a whitecapped frenzy. Waves smacked against the cement and stone bulkheads along the shore; foamy water sloshed onto the well-tended yards, turning the green grass brown. All at once, the birds disappeared, taking their early morning song and afternoon chatter with them. Bare trees shivered in the cold, their last multihued leaves plucked away by the wind. Those same leaves now lay in slimy, blackening piles in the ditches on the sides of the road.

As if a memo had been sent to the trendy East Side, the tourists stopped coming. No boats dotted the Canal, no motors were heard purring in the afternoons. Instead, the portable docks were pulled ashore for the season and the permanent ones were shut down, their water spigots covered and turned off. All up and down the shoreline, barbecues were hauled off the decks and placed in garages for the winter months; planters full of precious, fragile flowers were taken in, too. Without sunlight, everything looked washed out, especially when it was raining, and it was almost always raining. Not hard, pounding storms, rather a steady, thready mist. On the day after Thanksgiving, the Bits and Spurs 4-H Club members and their families gathered at Water’s Edge to make wreaths. It had been a tradition for years. Vivi Ann had always been a part of it, first as her mom’s helper, then as a 4-H member, and now as the leader.

The event went from morning to night, and to be honest, she had never enjoyed it more than this year, and when it was all over and the day was done, she and Dallas walked up the spongy road to their cabin. “I saw you talking to Myrtle Michaelian,” Vivi Ann said.