The Witness

check it out later, when the crew and staff weren’t around.
    For now, he took the stairs down, since he was also mildly concerned about encroaching middle-age paunch, and walked outside into the heat.
    Pretty little town, he thought. Jen would like it—the shops, the art. He’d pick up something for her and the kids, including the as yet unnamed and unknown surprise, before he left.
    Plenty of tourists, he noted. A guy with a camera blended right in. He made use of it, taking a few shots of the hotel, zooming in on the windows of the suite in question, with their curtains tightly shut.
    He had a good eye for a picture. He thought when the time came to retire from private investigating, he’d try photography as a working hobby. He wandered, framed in, shot. An interesting window, a close-up of flowers in a half whiskey barrel. To the casual eye he’d look like someone meandering, without specific destination.
    But he had the salient addresses in his head. Lowery’s place would require a drive, but he could walk past the police chief’s apartment, and the house where his parents still lived. Just getting a feel for the place, the people, Roland thought and spent some time studying the windows of Brooks Gleason’s apartment above a busy diner.
    Shades up, he noted. Nothing to see here. He wandered around the back, took some pictures of flowerpots as he studied the rear entrance.
    Decent locks but nothing major, should he feel the need to do a little snooping inside. He’d avoid that, if possible.
    With the town map in his hand, courtesy of the hotel, he strolled down the sidewalk.
    And stopped, absolutely charmed and bedazzled by the mural house. He checked the address, and confirmed it was indeed the residence of the police chief’s parents. Information already gathered told him the mother was an artist, the father a high school teacher.
    He had to assume the woman with the rainbow kerchief over her hair currently standing on scaffolding in paint-splattered bib overalls was the subject’s mother.
    Leashed to the base of the scaffolding, a puppy curled in the shade and snoozed.
    As much for his own interest as the job, Roland took a few pictures, moved closer. When he got to the edge of the yard, the puppy woke in a yappy frenzy.
    And the woman looked down. She tipped her head. “Help you?”
    “I’m sorry to interrupt. I was just walking around, and … this is just amazing. Did you paint all of this?”
    “I did. Visiting?”
    “I’m spending a few days in town. I’m a photographer, and I’m taking a few weeks in the Ozarks. I want to put a show together.”
    “You won’t lack for subject matter around here. All right, Plato, I’m coming.”
    She climbed down nimbly, unclipped the dog, who instantly raced over to sniff at Roland. “Good dog.” He hunkered down to give the dog a rub. “I guess I woke him up.”
    “He’s a fierce guard dog, as you can see. Sunny O’Hara,” she added, offering a hand dotted with paint.
    “Roland Babbett. Would it be all right if I took some pictures of the house? It’s wonderful.”
    “You go ahead. Where are you from, Roland?”
    “Little Rock.”
    “My son lived there some years. He was a police detective. Brooks Gleason.”
    “Can’t say I know the name, but I try to stay out of trouble.”
    She grinned along with him. “That’s good, because he’s chief of police here now.”
    “It feels like a nice town. I hope he doesn’t stay too busy.”
    “Oh, well, there’s always this and that. Where are you staying?”
    “I’m splurging, since I’ll do a lot of camping on the second part of this trip. I’m at the Inn of the Ozarks.”
    “Couldn’t do better; it’s one of the brightest jewels in Bickford’s treasure box. We had some trouble there a few days ago, as it happens. Town troublemaker and a couple of his minions tore up the Ozarks Suite.”
    “Is that what it is? I’m on that floor, and they told me there’d be some noise. Repairs going on.”
    “A lot of them. You may want to get yourself on another floor.”
    “Oh, I don’t mind it. I can sleep through anything.” Casual andfriendly, he let his camera dangle by its strap. “I’m sorry to hear about the trouble, though. It’s a really beautiful hotel. The architecture, the furnishings. It has the feel of a family home—with benefits. Why’d they tear it up?”
    “Some people just like to break things, I guess.”
    “That’s a shame. I guess even nice little towns