Strait Out of Nowhere (#3)

Chapter 1

“Sam?” a woman’s voice called.

Samuel Strait looked up as he stuffed a hot dog into his mouth. “Mff?”

“Jordan,” she said and tapped her chest. “Jordan Withers. Remember me?”

She wore a red Lulu Lemon baseball cap with an expertly curled brim, a T-shirt that hugged all the right places, and white shorts that rode high up on toned thighs. Her deeply tanned skin shimmered as if a healthy dose of protective lotion had just been applied. In her left hand was a plastic cup of beer.

Sam nodded, chewed, then swallowed. He apologetically waved as he did all three.

“Crazy seeing you here,” she said.

Here was the Downtown Coeur d’Alene Brewfest. Hundreds of people milled about the northern Idaho community. Like Sam, most of them were in McEuen Park, but the wave of humanity continued along Front Avenue, past the resort, and onto the city’s beach.

“Small world,” he said finally.

“I figured you would be at your place with what’s her name.”

An unleashed puppy bounded along while chased by a giggling young girl.

“I wanted to do something different today,” he said. “Get out among a crowd.”

“Screw crowds.” She smirked. “If I had a lake cabin like you, I don’t think I’d ever leave.”

The little girl’s father jogged by and hollered for the dog. “Stop, Skitter, stop!”

Sam glanced down and considered the hot dog in his hand. There were three bites left—two if he crammed it into his mouth, but that would be rude and most definitely gross. Those were two traits Sam didn’t want to have, especially in front of someone like Jordan. Reluctantly, he held on to it. Ketchup and mustard oozed onto his fingers.

Music played from large speakers mounted onto the back of a nearby pickup. The logo of a local classic rock radio station wrapped the truck. Along with its call letters were a set of sunglasses and the tagline Bringing Cool Back. Sam liked the song they were playing, AC/DC’s “Back in Black,” and wished it could have been louder. However, it wasn’t something blasted at noon during a city-sponsored event.

The classic rock was only a break from the live music that would resume once the next band took the stage. Sam preferred rock & roll over the country band that previously played. They sounded okay, but how many songs can a listener tolerate about a good ol’ boy drinking beer with his friends, his girl, or his dog. Then there were those songs about drinking beer by the creek, at the old sawmill, or outside the county jail? The band hadn’t performed a song that didn’t include some repeated reference to beer. Maybe that was the point, though. The assembled crowd—already sunburned and day drunk—cheered enthusiastically with each new tune.

While the country band shared their love of alcohol, Sam had perused the food trucks, looking for something to eat. A hot dog seemed like an appropriate summertime choice, but now a drop of ketchup fell to the grass, and he regretted not getting something in a bowl. Noodles or rice might not have felt quintessentially American, but he wouldn’t have condiments splooging through his fingers.

He looked up to find Jordan expectantly watching him. She’d freed one foot from its sandal and rubbed the back of the other leg with it. Sam tried to recall her last statement. It was something about a cabin. But what was it?

Right, he thought—never wanting to leave the lake. “You get used to it,” he said.

“Where did you go for the winter? Or did you even leave this year after what happened—”

“I leave every year,” he interrupted. Then added, “Phoenix.”

She frowned and muttered an unimpressed, “Huh.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I would have expected something more exotic. Maybe a little more exciting. Phoenix is where old people go when they retire.”

“I went for the fall baseball league.”

“Baseball in the winter?”

“The fall,” he corrected.

She raised her eyebrows. “Still doesn’t sound exciting.”

“I liked it.” He didn’t tell her that he found much more than baseball—friendship, romance, murder, adventure, and eventually heartbreak.

Jordan sipped her beer and slipped her foot back into her sandal. “Still, I bet it was nice to come back, see your friends, and what’s her name.”

Sam glanced around. “What are you doing here? This seems to be a little off your beat.”

“My beat?”

“You’re a crime reporter, right? A culinary event doesn’t seem to be to your skill level.”

She smiled. “Culinary is a big word for a former deputy.”

“Is it better if I say ecumenical?”

“You mean epicurean.”

“If you say so.”

Jordan laughed. “I’m here with an old friend who moved back to the area. She invited me out…” Her voice trailed off as she stood on her tiptoes. “She said she had to meet someone over at the Buoy.”

Sam looked in the direction of the small restaurant that sat at the edge of the park.

“I don’t see her, though.” Jordan tried to stand taller on her tiptoes. “She said she’d find me after she was done.”

“That’s why we have cell phones.”

When Jordan dropped back to her heels, she faced Sam. “Where’s what’s her name?”

Sam said, “Who?” but he knew exactly who she meant. He was hoping she’d let it go when he didn’t provide answers to her first two tries. However, Jordan wasn’t picking up the hints that his feigned ignorance was supposed to provide, so here she was pulling at the thread again. That’s what reporters were expected to do, and if he didn’t answer her soon, she would continue to pick at it until it became an issue.

“You know who.” Jordan’s brow furrowed. “The redhead.”

Like that, Sam thought. “Yeah, I know. Sonja. Her name is Sonja.”

Jordan cringed. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“She’s got a boyfriend.” He paused, then muttered, “A dentist.”

Sam didn’t need to mention the occupation of Sonja’s love interest. He had nothing against dentists in general and went to them whenever required, but it bothered him that Sonja had made a big deal about how stable a dentist’s career was. She called Sam immature when he commented they were basically teeth mechanics.

Besides, it was no secret how Sam intended to live his life, and Sonja was the one who demanded they get involved. He tried to dissuade her from the idea, but when they were finally in a relationship, she wanted Sam to change and—

“Oh,” Jordan said, interrupting his thoughts.

“What?”

“I didn’t think she’d ever let you go. She seemed— What’s a nice way to put this?”

“Possessive?”

“I was going to say crazy, but let’s go with possessive. What happened?”

“I left. Or was about to leave.”

“The snowbird thing?”

“Yeah.”

“She broke up with you because of it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“To protect her heart, I suppose.”

He cocked his head. “That’s probably the right way to look at it.”

“What other way is there to look at it?”

Sam wanted to stuff the hot dog in his mouth. Jordan studied him like an overanxious therapist.

“Seriously,” she said, “what did you think she was doing?”

“I thought she was teaching me a lesson.”

“A lesson? You’re a grown man. Why would she teach you anything?”

Was Jordan always this forceful? Sam wondered if it was a by-product of her profession. Or maybe the beer she was holding wasn’t her first.

“I guess that’s sort of a selfish way to look at it,” he said.

The plastic cup paused at Jordan’s lips. “Ya think?”

Sam felt defensive. “You don’t know how she thinks. She might have done it to teach me a lesson.”

Jordan’s eyes flared, and she lowered her beer. She seemed to enjoy this discussion far more than he. “Let’s say I agree with you, which I don’t, but let’s say I do for the sake of argument. Sonja did it to teach you a lesson. Did you learn anything?”

Reporters, Sam thought. They never stop with the questions. He should really add them to his list of people to avoid. Maybe dentists, too, while he was at it.

He lived his life by a particular set of rules. Currently, there were six, and they were built to give his life the thing he valued most—freedom.

The fifth rule was simple.

Avoid people with repulsive careers—lawyers, accountants, IRS agents, politicians, real estate brokers, preschool teachers, and bikini baristas.

He’d developed his list of rules over the past several years, and they’d been a helpful tool to keep him on a focused path. If reporters were on the list, he would be justified in rudely turning away and moving on with his life right now.

At least, he liked to think so. The rules weren’t as hard and fast as he wanted them to be. He’d proved that over the last year by repeatedly violating the No drama!!! rule.
Jordan lifted her beer in another toast. “I’m taking your silence as a tacit admission you didn’t learn anything.”

“Are you writing a story?”

“Nope. This is Saturday-me. I’m interested in what happened with you two. She didn’t seem the type to go without a fight.” She sipped her drink. “I thought you liked her.”

Now, Sam desperately wanted to shove the hot dog into his mouth. He didn’t enjoy talking about his feelings with anyone, least of all a woman he’d only met a year ago. Last summer, Jordan hounded him for a scoop after he’d returned home to find a dead woman in his boat.

“She knew you did that, right? Left every winter.”

“She did.”

It was the same story with Morena, the woman he’d met in Phoenix. He hadn’t expected a relationship to start so quickly into the season down there, but they’d spent almost seven months together. Early on, Morena found out about his rules and nearly broke it off. Instead, she became determined to get him to stay—she even promised as much.

As spring approached, his time to leave became more apparent. Major League Baseball’s Grapefruit League—the winter league in the Phoenix area—had ended, and the regular season kicked off. Sam and Morena attended many of the training games. He loved baseball, and she went because of him. That time in Arizona had been his best snowbirding experience ever, so much so he was considering returning to Phoenix annually.

Which was why Morena’s phone call caught him off guard. It was quick and efficient but not painless. She said she could no longer invest time and energy into Sam. It was clear to her that he was returning home and she couldn’t travel with him. She owned a salon and had responsibilities to employees, clients, and family. She also had a life she cherished in Maricopa County, and she didn’t want to leave it behind. Though Morena refused to beg him to stay, she’d done everything short of it, which meant she had to leave Sam before he could leave her.

Then the line went dead.

A woman walked up and stood next to Jordan. She wore a red top that exposed her shoulders, tight white pants, and red wedge sandals. Sam wondered how she walked in the grass with those shoes.

When she smiled, the woman’s teeth were as bright as her pants. Sam suddenly became self-conscious and returned her smile with a closed-lip one. His teeth were white, but hers were brilliant.

She eyed his half-eaten hot dog. “You eat that?”

“I’m holding it for someone.”

Jordan lightly put her hand on the woman’s back. “Sam, this is my friend, Tasha Hadley. Tasha, this is Sam Strait.”

Standing together, Jordan and Tasha were a comparison in contrasts. Even though they were roughly the same height and age, that’s where the similarities ended.

Jordan was athletically thin and wore little make-up. She seemed the type of woman who would jump on a mountain bike and ride all day.

Tasha was full of wonderful curves, and her make-up appeared to have been applied by a team of professionals. She looked as if she were about ready to walk on stage somewhere. On her left hand was a large diamond wedding ring.

“You introduced me as a friend, but not him.” Tasha kept her eyes on Sam as she spoke. “Is he not a friend?”

“We’re—” Jordan paused as she hunted for the appropriate word, “acquaintances.”

“Meaning what?”

“I wrote a story about him.”

Tasha raised her eyebrows, and Sam shrugged in kind.

“Too bad,” Tasha said and gave him another healthy appraisal. “I was going to say you should bring him along to the flotilla. He has the appropriate look.” She studied his flip-flops now.

“Flotilla?” Sam asked.

“A tie-up. Where a bunch of boats get together and party.”

Jordan smiled at Sam. “I think Sam would rather hang out at his own cabin.”

Tasha’s eyebrows popped up. “You’ve got a place on the lake?”

“Over on Newman.”

“Oh, that’s cute. Not much of a lake, though, is it?”

Jordan’s eyes widened. “Tasha,” she whispered harshly.

“What? I’m only teasing.” To Sam, she asked, “Have they gotten control of their milfoil problem yet?”

“They treated it earlier this year.”

She waved him off. “They’ve done that for years, haven’t they? It hasn’t solved anything yet.”

Again, Jordan harshly whispered, “Tasha.”

“What? It’s not as if the milfoil is a secret. You can see it along the shore.” Tasha appraised Sam further. “What do you do, Sam?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, but he fully comprehended her question.

“For work.” For the third time, her eyes traveled his length. He felt like a show pony she was trying to put a price on. “What do you do for a living?”

If she wanted to put a value on him, he would give her one she wouldn’t be interested in. “I guess I’m working on myself.”

Tasha’s lips pursed, and she inhaled sharply through her nose. “That sounds like you’re unemployed.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not when there’s a freedom to it.”

Her face flattened. “What did you do before?”

“Moved furniture. It was hard but fulfilling. We used to—”

At the mention of manual labor, Tasha disengaged from the conversation. Her attention moved to the crowd as she pretended to search for something. “I’m hungry,” she said flatly. “Jordan, come get me when you’re finished here.”

Without further word or acknowledgment to Sam, Tasha simply walked away. He watched her approach a food vendor and consider the menu.

“Nice girl,” Sam muttered.

“I’m sorry about that. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”

“Don’t hold it against her,” Sam said. “She lives on this lake. Pretension is part of the requirement.”

“That’s a bit hyperbolic, isn’t it? Not everyone out here can be a snob.”

“You’re from this area, so you should know this. There’s a perceived hierarchy to the lakes, and the people who live on this one think they’re top of the heap.”

“You sound bitter.”

He did, and he knew why. It was a sore spot that lingered from his childhood. He once liked a girl—a girl whose name he stubbornly refused to recall—whose family owned a cabin on Coeur d’Alene Lake. When she found out he lived with his grandparents, she said she couldn’t go out with him because she didn’t want to spend any time on Newman Lake. The way she said it made it sound like Sam lived in a ghetto. As stupid and shallow as it was, Sam never forgave that slight.

“I guess I should go follow her.”

“You don’t have to,” Sam said automatically and almost cringed at doing so. He didn’t want to encourage Jordan to stay. She was attractive, but the conversation had soured, and he wanted to finish his now cold hot dog. Ketchup and mustard had stopped oozing through his fingers.

“We’re going back out on her boat. We only stopped by for her to meet her friend and grab a beer.”

“You don’t seem very happy about going back out.”

“I’d rather do this all day—” She motioned toward Sam with her cup. “—than hang on her boat, but I said I would.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do.” Sam raised his hot dog in a toast.

Jordan wrinkled her nose. “She’s right, by the way. You shouldn’t eat that. It’s not good for you.”

He watched her stroll away. When her white shorts and long tanned legs disappeared into the crowd, he stuffed the hot dog into his mouth.

He finished it in two bites.