Repose

[Right after this.]

[Locked to Dane Blake]
There is NO WAY your scientist isn't dead somewhere.

[Word gets around town fast, over the forums, local paper, and just through word-of-mouth: there's a new sheriff in town.

Important, oft-shared details include: his name is Cris Martin something something, he looks... "exotic," Spanish?, mid-30s, no wedding ring (no crucifix either...), no apparent children, from New York City and talks like it, left because of something hush-hush, possibly in a gang?, was already seen by a pair of eagle-eyed residents leaving Sonrisa Arts & Crafts early in the morning before he went to the police station (possible link between him and the unwed, pregnant junkie? is he the father of her child??? but, she's so young!), and, looks good in his uniform, you know, if you're into that kind of thing.]

Who: Sylvie
What: Prowling the woods
Where: The woods
When: Just after midnight this morning
Warnings/Rating: TBD

( Read more... )

Who: Max and Matt
What: Poison Coffee taster.
When: Early morning, following this
Warnings: Nada

The diner on Main was easily recognizable. It had a logo out front that had been there as long as the town could remember, which was practically the years immediately following Pearl Harbor. It was painted blue and red, and had a yellow sign and while the paintwork had faded considerably over the years, the windows were significantly cleaner than they had been the previous week. The owner had sold up, gone somewhere, possibly even fishing. He had left behind a staff who had, to some degree, scattered and now the place was Max's.

It was well-known only in as much as it was convenient. The hours (six, to eight) were part of the much faded, laminated menu in a sign out front which was presumably where the new owner had got his antiquated notions of how long diners were meant to stay open and when they were supposed to close. In practice - historically - the place had been left open as long as those behind the counter wished it to be, and for as long as the chef could be kept in whiskey and cokes.

The door was open now, at twenty of the hour. Inside it was brighter and cleaner, although the booths were still faded blue leather and the interior was washed-yellow walls and booth tops and a row of seats along a bar, immediately opposite a partial wall beyond which lay the stove and what consisted of the kitchen. This was noticeably empty.

Max himself was leaning against the bar-top, with a newspaper rolled up in a half, in his fist. A pencil was shoved behind his ear, and he was absently groping around for it with fingertips on the bar without actually raising his eyes from the page. He wore glasses, sliding down his nose, and a cup of coffee (untouched: cup on a saucer, rather than a mug) sat to one side, in precarious danger of being lost in the search for the missing pencil. He wore a shirt, a little too good-quality, but rolled up at the sleeves and loose at the neck -- and a dishtowel, draped over one shoulder.

how come hot new sheriff didn't visit the b&b? we're a fine, upstanding establishment.