The Harem on the Hill (Part XXXIV) (Patreon)

"What a view!"

Officer Morgan stands in the middle of your living room with her hands on her narrow hips.  Although you're certain she's using the 180-degree panorama of the surrounding woods, distant city, and even more distant mountains as an excuse to push further into your residence for possible clues, you can hardly blame her.  It is impressive.

A lush carpet of green extends for miles before a haphazard scattering of squares and rectangles--like a child dropped a handful of Legos--marks the adjacent township.  Beyond that, the green transitions to pale blue as it reaches the base of a mountain range twenty-five miles away.  At that distance, your humble hill appears level with its summits.

Morgan does a deliberate 180-degree pan, one eye on the view, and the other on your furniture and the contents of your sitting table.

"What's behind that door?"

If only you could show her.  Still, you can't begrudge her the question.  With its vertical oak planking and iron strap hinges, it looks like the entrance to a medieval dungeon.  Maybe it was a bit on the nose, in retrospect.

"My wine cellar."  Among other things, you think.  "Officer Morgan, don't tell me you have an acute nose paired with that green thumb?"

"Me?  Oh, no.  All I know is white goes with fish and red goes with beef."

You're tempted to ask her what goes with pig.  "It's a bit early for wine, but can I offer you both some coffee?"

"That would be nice," Officer Petty says.   He's right on your heels as you return to the kitchen and beckons for Morgan to follow.  He's clearly uncomfortable with her thinly veiled trespassing.

Morgan and Petty sit at barstools running along the kitchen's island divide as you rummage through drawers looking for a measuring scoop.  You haven't made a full pot of coffee in months, preferring single cups from your office Keurig machine.

"If it's too much trouble..." Officer Petty says.

"Not at all," you say, holding up the discovered scoop.

"I guess it's an adjustment making coffee for yourself now that your barista babe's gone."   Morgan's playful smile belies her jab.  You can only hope the thin smile you return similarly disguises your thoughts.

"How can I help you, officers?"

"When was the last time you saw Tina Jordan?" Petty asks.

"I don't know," you say, dumping a scoop of grounds into the brewer.  "What was her last day on the job?"

Usually, police ask a few innocuous questions before they get to the incriminating ones.  Maybe Petty's fed-up with Morgan's games, or worried she'll violate procedure more than she already has, or perhaps they already have enough evidence they don't need to pussyfoot around.

The glance Morgan and Petty exchange at your non-answer suggest it may be the latter.

Morgan pulls a small spiral notepad and a pen from her breast pocket.  "How did you say you got that scratch on your chin?   Wrestling with a hoe?"

"A rake, actually."  You press the button on the brewer and it begins to drip.  "This will take a few minutes, I'm afraid."

"That's fine," Morgan says.  "That'll give us some time to check-out that garden of yours."

Officer Petty slips a paper from his pocket and pushes it across the island's countertop.  Your blood goes as cold as the marble surface it rests upon.  Official seal.  Multiple signatures.  Today's date.

It's a search warrant.

Morgan arches her brows so high they disappear beneath her police cap.  "And then maybe you can show us that fancy wine cellar?"

"This is ridiculous," you say.  "What are you expecting to find?"

"I think you know what we're expecting to find."  Officer Petty places the photo of your 'barista babe' next to the search warrant.  "Tina Jordan."

Suddenly, the creak of a floorboard announces a foreign presence in the room.  The officers whip their heads to find an even more foreign body standing in the kitchen's arched entryway.

"You've found her."

Author's Note: Sorry, I couldn't find an appropriate spot for choices this week.  Next week, for sure!