The Summerland by T. L. Schaefer Page A

the kind of establishment she had in mind was directly across the street from her bed and breakfast.
    * * * *
    The food in the Sugar Pine was hot, greasy, and deliciously fattening. She hadn’t eaten gravy on everything since her childhood in Oklahoma. The décor was exactly what you would expect in a diner. Faded black and white linoleum, plastic covered booths and chairs in that odd speckly-gold color that was popular in the 70s, and off-white walls. A montage of Yosemite posters covered one wall, a nod to the few tourists who found their way into this neighborhood haven. Even the grill cook was stereotypical, a large balding man in a white tee shirt who bellowed out orders in a voice capable of scouring pans.
    As she tore into what the locals endearingly called a ‘garbage’ omelet, she listened to the conversations going on at the counter, where several of the town’s old timers were getting their daily helping of gossip along with a cup of truly excellent coffee. Sipping the unexpected ambrosia, she heard every topic from the upcoming county elections to the unseasonably hot weather discussed. But center to each conversation in the room was the subject of murder. Included was the Wiccan coven’s almost certain involvement in the gruesome deaths.
    Arden listened, putting each tidbit into it’s own place, it’s own category in her whirling mind. She drummed her fingers on the table, searching back through her memory, looking for the information she knew was there. Yeah, Fort Hood a couple years ago, in the late 90s, she thought. She remembered that a pretty big stink had hit the base when the local paper had shown a picture of a high-ranking officer participating in a Wiccan ceremony. Hmmm. She needed to go back to the library and have another look at The Dispatch . And maybe get a little Internet access before her computer arrived in the morning, if for no other reason than to sever the connection her mind was beginning to make between Samantha and the five dead girls.
    The next time she saw the Sheriff she wanted to be armed, both literally and figuratively, with the ammunition to get answers.
    * * * *
    And so the day slid into afternoon, then finally early evening. Doug Brewster was hip deep in missing person’s reports, Josie Galloway was trying to figure out if someone within her trusted circle could possibly be a murderer, and Frank Drebin was on the telephone, grounding himself in the loving voice of his wife.
    After spending the last two hours at the library, Arden decided that the best possible way to work off both lunch and her burgeoning stress level was to take a nice, cathartic run. The owner of the bed and breakfast was kind enough to tell her of the running track at the top of the hill behind the high school, only a few blocks away. Arden couldn’t help but grin at the look of complete bafflement on the proprietor’s face when she’d asked about a safe place to go running. She couldn’t decide if it was because she’d actually decided to exercise, or if it was because everyone seemed so safe in this town. Or at least they had until recently.
    Lacing up her Nike’s, she stretched and set out at an easy lope. As she climbed the hill behind the high school, the little town dropped dramatically behind her in the golden evening light. It was quite picturesque, she thought, pacing herself against the steep incline. The little county courthouse was quaint and ‘the oldest West of the Mississippi,’ or so the paper claimed.
    Even though the sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon, the heat was still thick, almost a living being. By the time Arden reached the top of the hill she was already drenched in sweat. Stopping to take a breath, she surveyed the terrace built into the side of the mountain. The track was enormous, fully encompassing two soccer fields and had to be at least half a mile around. At the far end of the track another intrepid runner was pacing the circuitous route. Not feeling