"Charlaine Harris - Grave Sight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harris Charlaine)

was tired.

“Terry here misled us somewhat as to your credentials.”

“Okay, you all decide, while I get me some sleep,” I said, abruptly giving up. I pulled myself to my feet,
feeling as old as the hills, or at least far older than my actual age of twenty-four. “There’s another job
waiting for me in Ashdown. I’d just as soon leave here early in the morning. You’ll owe us travel money,
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at the least. We drove here from Tulsa. Ask my brother how much that’ll be.”

Without waiting for anyone to speak, I left Harvey Branscom’s office and went down a corridor and
through a door into the reception area. I ignored the dispatcher behind the desk, though she was looking
at me curiously. No doubt she’d been aiming the same curiosity at Tolliver until I’d redirected her
attention.

Tolliver tossed down the aged magazine he’d been riffling through. He pushed himself up from the
fake-leather chair. Tolliver’s twenty-seven. His mustache has a reddish cast; otherwise, his hair is as
black as mine.

“Ready?” he asked. He could tell I was exasperated. He looked down at me, his eyebrows raised
questioningly. Tolliver’s at least four inches above my five foot seven. I shook my head, to tell him I’d fill
him in later. He held open the glass door for me. We went out into the chilly night. I felt the cold in my
bones. The seat on the Malibu was adjusted for my legs, since I’d driven last, so I slid back behind the
wheel.

The police department was on one side of the town square, facing the courthouse, which stood in the
center. The courthouse was a massive building erected during the twenties, the kind of edifice that would
feature marble and high vaulted ceilings; impossible to heat or cool to modern standards, but impressive
nonetheless. The grounds around the old building were beautifully kept, even now that all the foliage was
dying back. There were still tourists parked in the premium town square parking spots. This time of year,
Sarne’s visitors were middle-aged to old white people, with rubber-soled shoes and windbreakers. They
walked slowly and carefully, and curbs required negotiation. They tended to drive exactly the same way.

We had to navigate around the square twice before I could get in the correct lane to go east to the
motel. I had a feeling that all roads in Sarne led to the square. The stores on the square and those
immediately off of it were the dressed-up part of the town, the part primed for public consumption. Even
the streetlights were picturesque—curving lines of metal painted a dull green and decorated with curlicues
and leaves. The sidewalks were smooth and wheelchair accessible, and there were plenty of garbage
bins carefully disguised to look like cute little houses. All the storefronts on the square had been
remodeled to coordinate, and they all had wooden facades with “old-timey” signs in antique lettering:
Aunt Hattie’s Ice Cream Parlor, Jeb’s Sit-a-Spell, Jn. Banks Dry Goods and General Store, Ozark
Annie’s Candy. There was a heavy wooden bench outside each one. Through the bright store windows,
I caught a glimpse of one or two of the shopkeepers; they were all in costume, wearing
turn-of-the-century clothing.

It was past five o’clock when we finally left the square. In late October, on an overcast day, the sky was