Samantha Walsh was following him, and Oscar wasn't quite sure why.
Four different people had assured him she was legal. That was probably because of the embarrassed way he’d asked about her, the pretty redhead with the golden eyes. He’d seen her in passing, he told the barista at the coffee shop, and he really just wanted to know her name. Instead, the barista and everyone else he asked gave him pieces of her life story.
She was an artist. She was an athlete – every sports team, or close to it. She was short-tempered, and no matter what the gossips told him he was pretty sure she hadn’t grown out of it, if the undertone of rage that sat just above her natural scent of cinnamon was anything to go by. She’d spent her whole life in Lockbourne, graduated the high school in Hamilton recently. And apparently, she had recently gotten out of some kind of close relationship.
This guy is cute, one of the gossips had said, when she thought Oscar had walked out of earshot. Do you remember that guy she dated in like her sophomore year? He looks like him, only way cuter. That guy Marcus definitely didn't deserve her. So good they moved. Maybe this will help her bounce back from Alice.
Alice wasn’t her ex, as he originally suspected. Not officially at least. They’d been close, but Alice had died during a mystery blackout. Heart condition, no way to give her medical attention. What she’d been doing in the Far South division of Columbus, and not Lockborne or Hamilton. She and Sam had been on the same soccer team, graduated from the same high school, two years apart. A tragedy that would repeat as long as hopeful teenagers with bright futures existed.
Between the news about Marcus and the fact that ever well-meaning older person in town seemed to be subtly pushing Oscar to introduce himself and ask her out, she wasn’t lesbian. That, and the moment of embarrassed attraction. The fact that she liked what she saw when she looked at him would be enough to give most potential suitors at least a little hope.
His interest wasn’t purely romantic. She was cute, even if he’d only seen her full face in the newspapers, but he had no doubt that she was stalking him. She was good at it. He hadn’t seen her yet. But the cinnamon that sometimes carried on the wind was unmistakable. The feeling of eyes when he was facing a different direction.
The fact that she’d told him he made her nervous.
But as promised, he didn’t do anything else to warrant those nerves. Even when he noticed her, he didn’t address her. He walked with his very slight slouch that helped soften his angles and made his height less intimidating. He went about business as usual. He ate at the local shops. He drove his Camry, repaired it once. He visited at the Messenger every once in a while, but Ann Ruth was busy on other stories for most of the week, so they’d arranged a time and place instead. He chatted up the locals and learned about the history of Lockbourne and the surrounding area, learned about the animals, showed off his own nature photos.
And, with some spare time on his hands, Oscar went hiking. It was refreshing to take himself out of town. There was plenty of wildlife, and the weather was accommodating the whole week. One of the coyotes had actually let him touch it on the last hike. He liked the scrappy little animals, and identified with them, somewhat. State parks and city dumpsters weren’t their usual habitat, but they’d adapted to the changes around them and had thrived far better than the larger predators that used to rule the area. Oscar wasn’t really built for small town life, but he wasn’t living here, just staying over until his job was done.
Which it should be today. He’d been waiting in the diner when she walked in – not his contact at first. Samantha Walsh, star at everything she touched, strange and beautiful and heralded by the smell of cinnamon and apples like a freshly baked pie. He didn’t have time to focus on her, though, because Ms. Ruth was right behind her and made a professional beeline to his table.
“Hey, Ann,” Oscar smiled, and waved one of the fried potatoes from the plate in front of him. “Have you tried their waffle fries? There was this place in Grand Rapids–”
“I don’t have a lot of time. Tell me what you’ve got, Oscar.” She sat down, her face serious. She looked worn. She smelled agitated, under her rose perfume. She’d spent the last month trying to get the story on what most people now knew weren't bear attacks. It wasn’t really her fault she had to turn to someone like Oscar Fowler to butt his nose in where it didn’t belong on her behalf.
He tilted his head at Ann, never losing his half-smile despite the woman’s gravity.
“Hey, relax. I deliver.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, and carefully removed the admittedly small packet of photos he’d managed to get from the trail. He slid the photo of the coyote and the photo of the claw marks to the reporter. “I’ve got the evidence here to exonerate the local wildlife. And, yes, your evidence that the police are hiding something from you. I haven’t had a chance to talk to officials, but I do have a reliable source who stated the area was a crime scene.”
Ann clicked her pen, and started to take notes in her legal pad. “Does your source have a name?”
“You’re not paying me to give you my sources, Ann, you’re paying me to be your source, remember? Anyway… look at this claw pattern. It’s a puncture, not a slash. A bear would’ve raked the tree. This almost looks like…”
“A punch.” Ann frowned at the photo as she picked it up.
“A punch, exactly. And the coyotes, well, they’re definitely around. But they’re not congregated on the spot. And look at this guy. He was on the scene, but if you notice, there’s blood on his paws and not on his muzzle. Probably walked through patches of Mr. Fitzgerald, but it doesn’t look like there was enough for him to clean any bones.”
“Is it possible it clean itself off in a river or something? Don’t coyotes groom each other as a social… thing?”
Oscar bit back the correction on the tip of his tongue. Not relevant. This wasn’t the time for a rant on coyote social patterns. “Could’ve, maybe. But there also weren’t any along the trail. Lots of scavengers eat bones and everything – most predators will eat the smaller bones without thinking about it. But coyote jaws aren’t made for human femurs.”
“Could that, at least, have been a bear?”
Oscar shook his head. “Maybe. You’d think there’d be more signs, though. A track. Scat. Those kinds of things.”
“So what happened to Mr. Fitzgerald’s body?” Ann didn’t look too good. He was sure she’d already had access to crime scene photos he didn’t have the resources to see, and she had a few sinking suspicions.
Oscar just shrugged and picked up his root beer. “Beats me. I’m supposed to get you evidence, not theories.”
She asked him some more questions. Some were more relevant, some less. Eventually Oscar realized that he was surrounded by that cinnamon smell – Sam was hovering nearby, maybe right behind him. This was her worst attempt at hiding yet, but he didn’t say anything. Not even when Ann finally produced her envelope full of cash with a short “Don’t go anywhere yet. I’ll be in touch.” Not when she left without ordering anything.
Instead of following her right away, Oscar stayed behind to count his payment and finish his waffle fries. They were almost as good at that place in Grand Rapids.
