Tucker Peak

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I glanced over Snuffy Dawson’s well-padded shoulder at the snow drifting by out the window. It was falling in thick, light flakes, like goose down meandering earthward after a well-conducted pillow fight.

An avuncular man, Snuffy was the sheriff from the county next door-called Daniel only by his oldest female relatives-and as canny a politician as he was old-fashioned a police officer. He liked things simple and straightforward, or so he said, which put him increasingly at odds with a complex and confusing world. It also prompted him to affect a slow and deliberate manner, which helped explain why my attention was beginning to wander. He’d been standing awkwardly in the woodworking shop attached to my small Brattleboro, Vermont, house for fifteen minutes already, and I still hadn’t figured out why.

“You sure you don’t want some coffee?” I asked for the second time. “I have a fresh pot in the kitchen.”

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