a safer subject. “City council meeting? Urgent political strategy session? Constituent meet and greet?” She needed something—anything—to get her mind off Jesse James Chisholm and the fact that he’d looked every bit as good as she remembered. And then some. “Surely Uncle E.J. left a big pile of work before he headed for Port Aransas to close on the new house?”
“Let’s see.” Trina punched a few buttons on her computer. “You’re in luck. You’ve got a meeting with Mildred Jackson from the women’s sewing circle—she wants the city to commission a quilt for your new office.”
“That’s it?”
“That and a trip to the animal shelter.” When Gracie arched an eyebrow, Trina added, “I’ve been reading this article online about politicians and their canine friends. Do you know that a dog ups your favorability rating by five percent?”
“I already have a dog.”
“A ball of fluff who humps everything in sight doesn’t count.” When Gracie gave her a sharp look, she shrugged. “Not that I have anything against humping, but you’ve got a reputation to think of. A horny mutt actually takes away poll points.”
“Sugar Lips isn’t a mutt. She’s a maltipom. Half Maltese. Half Pomeranian.” Trina gave her a girlfriend, pu-leeze look and she added, “I’ve got papers to prove it.”
“Labs and collies polled at the top with voters, and the local shelter just happens to have one of each,” Trina pressed. “Just think how awesome it will look when the new mayor-elect waltzes in on Adopt-a-Pet Day and picks out her new Champ or Spot.”
“Don’t tell me—Champ and Spot were top-polling animal names?”
“Now you’re catching on.”
Gracie shook her head. “I can’t just bring home another dog. Sugar will freak. She has control issues.”
“Think of the message it will send to voters. Image is everything.”
As if she didn’t know that. She’d spent years trying to shake her own bad image, to bury it down deep, to make people forget, and she’d finally succeeded. Twelve long years later, she’d managed to earn the town’s loyalty. Their trust.
Now it was just a matter of keeping it.
She shrugged. “Okay, I’ll get another dog.”
“And a date,” Trina added. “That way people can also envision you as the better half of a couple, i.e., family oriented.”
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“PerfectPolitician.com. They say if you want to project a stable, reliable image, you need to be in a stable, reliable relationship. I was thinking we should call Chase Carter. He’s president of the bank, not to mention a huge campaign contributor. He’s also president of the chamber of commerce and vice president of the zoning commission.”
And about as exciting as the 215-page car-wash proposition just submitted by the president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary for next year’s fundraiser.
Gracie eyed her assistant. “Isn’t Chase gay?”
“A small technicality.” Trina waved a hand. “This is about image, not getting naked on the kitchen table. I know he isn’t exactly a panty dropper like Jesse James Chisholm, but—”
“Call him.” Chase wasn’t Jesse, which made him perfect dating material. He wouldn’t be interested in getting her naked and she wouldn’t be interested in getting him naked. And she certainly wouldn’t sit around fantasizing about the way his thigh muscles bunched when he crossed a rodeo arena.
She ignored the faint scent of dust and leather that still lingered on her clothes and shifted her attention to something safe. “Do you know anything about Big Earl Jessup?” She voiced the one thing besides Jesse Chisholm and his scent that had been bothering her since she’d left the training arena.
“I know he’s too old to be your date. That and he’s got hemorrhoids the size of boulders.” Gracie’s eyes widened and Trina shrugged. “News travels fast in a small town. Bad news travels even faster.”
“I don’t want to go out with him. I heard through the grapevine that he might be cooking moonshine in his deer blind.”
Trina’s eyebrow shot up. “The really good kind he used to make for the annual peach festival?”
“Maybe.”
“Hot damn.” When Gracie cut her a stare, she added, “I mean, damn. What a shame.”
“Exactly. He barely got off by the skin of his teeth the last time he was brought up on charges. Judge Ellis is going to throw the book at him if he even thinks that Big Earl is violating his parole.”
“Isn’t Big Earl like a hundred?”
“He’s in his nineties.”
“What kind of dipshit would throw a ninetysomething in prison?”
“The dipshit whose car got blown up the last time Big Earl was cooking. Judge Ellis had a case of the stuff in his trunk at the annual Fourth of July picnic. A Roman candle got too close and bam, his Cadillac went up in flames.”
“Isn’t that his own fault for buying the stuff?”
“That’s what Uncle E.J. said, which was why Big Earl got off on probation. But Judge Ellis isn’t going to be swayed again. He’ll nail him to the wall.” And stir another whirlwind of publicity when Lost Gun became home to the oldest prison inmate. At least that was what Uncle E.J. had said when he’d done his best to keep the uproar to a minimum.
“I need to find out for sure,” Gracie told Trina.
“If you go nosying around Big Earl’s place, you’re liable to get shot. Tell you what—I’ll drop by his place after I get my nails done. My daddy used to buy from him all the time when I was a little girl. I’ll tell him I just stopped by for old times’ sake. So what do you think?” She held up two-inch talons. “Should I go with wicked red or passionate pink this time?”
“Don’t you usually get your nails done on Friday?”
“Hazel over at the motel called and said two reporters from Houston are checking in this afternoon and I want to look my best before the feeding frenzy starts.”
“Reporters?” Alarm bells sounded in Gracie’s head and a rush of adrenaline shot through her. “Already?”
Trina nodded. “She’s got three more checking in tomorrow. And twenty-two members of the Southwest chapter of the Treasure Hunters Alliance. Not to mention, Lyle over at the diner called and said the folks from the Whispering Winds Senior Home stopped by for lunch today. They usually go straight through to Austin for their weekly shopping trip, but one of them read a preview about the documentary in the TV listings and now everybody wants to check out Silas Chisholm’s old stomping grounds. A few of them even brought their gardening trowels for a little digging after lunch.”
“But there’s nothing to find.” According to police reports, the wad of cash from Silas Chisholm’s bank heist had gone
