The bed and breakfast had a full complement of guests for the first time in this, their second season, the domestic help opening seemed about to be filled, the weather was beautiful, the flowers were blooming and David Dean's campaign for sheriff looked promising.
The ten-year-old girl had resided at Bird Song with David Dean, his wife Cynthia, and Dean's seventy-seven-year-old stepfather, Fred O'Connor, for the past six months.
It was Cynthia who volunteered for the nasty duty, turning down Dean's offer to join her.
The Dean's ages—both forty—and the financial limitations of their new business would make obtaining court approval difficult.
The Dean's private quarters, a sitting room-office combination and bedroom, were located in the rear.
"The thing about all this walking exercise is I can eat like a pig and stay thin," he replied to Dean's greeting.
Martha glanced over to the dresser and Dean's unused hairbrush.
To Dean's experienced ears, it didn't sound like a joke.
When Saturday's daylight arrived to David Dean's exhausted eyes, the time had slipped past his usual rising hour and voices and footsteps rattled the old timbers of Bird Song.
Dean's continued silence prompted her to explain.
Westlake's eyes met Dean's in knowing sympathy.
In spite of the protective gear worn, the challenge definitely excluded the weak of heart, and, in Dean's estimation, the strong of brain.
He publicly continued to express strong feelings about Dean's involvement.
Dean felt equally acrimonious toward the overbearing state official whom he hadn't seen since the winter and who, in Dean's mind, had no business being back in Ouray.
Joseph, smiling for the first time in Dean's memory, said he and Ginger planned to walk about town and perhaps hike up to the nearby Box Canyon waterfall.
The last item on Dean's list of pleasurable activities was punching one if you want this and two if you want that buttons, then sitting on hold while listening to elevator music from some bureaucratic office.
Even the cat looked up, more from the cessation of her patting than Dean's expletive.
A few feet further, in a dry grotto scooped out from the main walkway, something glinted in Dean's flashlight.
As they neared the first turn, something glinted in the beam of Dean's flashlight.
Dean's arm felt as if he'd taken on half the World Wrestling Federation.
Dean's question was met with a smile and a kindergarten finger to Fred's shushing lips.
"You haven't seen Ginger, have you?" he asked as he sat in a chair next to the chaise and eyed Dean's last ale.
"Kids," the woman said, as if that answered all the questions plaguing Dean's mind.
The man rose and came over to Dean's table.
Twenty-four hours after his hour-long downhill hike from the mine, Dean's stilts felt like he'd run a barefoot marathon on cobblestoned streets.
As Cynthia sat, the cat exchanged Dean's lap for Cynthia's in one effortless leap.
The three entered the Dean's office.
He grabbed Dean's arm.
He tugged on Dean's arm.
Liz plopped a straw hat with a red, white, and blue band on Dean's head just as three jets in close formation screamed overhead, buzzing the town in a deafening roar.
"Here," said Mrs. Worthington, shoving a bucket of hard candy in one of Dean's hands and a cluster of strung beads in the other.
The vehicle, older than Fred, sounded better than Dean's Jeep.
Cynthia scrunched close to Dean's ear, trying to hear the conversation, and offered a word or two as well.
After what seemed even longer than the Dean's first trip to the mine just two days earlier, they emerged into the basin where the valley floor was a sea of wildflowers.
A small rock trickled down, bouncing and skipping before stopping by Dean's shoe—the slight noise was a rumble in the mountain stillness.
Dean's only hope for an answer was if the woman volunteered it, but that didn't happen.
It was Dean's turn to give his wife a look of caution.
Dean's lack of proficiency at mountain climbing left him to make do instead of utilizing a more effective and safer method of descent.
His partner, a woman, lifted Dean's shirt from the body.
He tied the line around Dean's waist with practiced fingers, keeping it below Dean's naked upper torso.
All that was required on Dean's part was to remain standing upright and pick his path around obstacles while his position was monitored by blinding lights from below and above.
Dean's Jeep was at the uphill end of the line of cluttered vehicles and Lydia Larkin was long gone by the time he was free to leave.
Like Billy's friend who's staying at Mr. Dean's boarding house, Bird Song!
The remainder of the meeting rocked back and forth, but there was no doubt in Dean's mind that he'd been hurt badly—and unfairly—by Fitzgerald.
. .I took Mr. Dean's statement last night.
The combatants left the room together, with Fitzgerald not even acknowledging Dean's presence.
That or Dean's announcement about running his fingerprints.
The bike was a trophy from a time when Dean's budget contained more expendable income.
All had been collecting Social Security for a good part of Dean's lifetime.
Then there was Fitzgerald, Dean's prime candidate for any nefarious act, most notably some involvement in Billy Langstrom's death.