the turn onto the major thoroughfare of the little town. A crowd had gathered outside the police station. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been arrested, let alone drawn a crowd. She saw her aunt Elizabeth in the middle of things. And there was Axel Johnson, Felicia, Carol from the bakery. What on earth could have happened?
“Hi, Aunt Elizabeth!”
Gillian saw that Eli had unbuckled his seat belt so he could lean out the window and shout. “Get down,” she said. “And buckle up.”
“But it’s a party!”
“It’s not a party.”
“Then why’s everybody there?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with us.”
“Can’t we find out?”
“No, we can’t.” She drove past the police building slowly, determined not to get involved. Bradley Goodwin spotted her and pointed, but instead of waving her to a stop, the whole crowd surged inside the building, practically trampling one another in their haste. Before she got to the stop sign, the entire street had emptied.
“Where’d everybody go?” Eli asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “That was certainly odd.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Can I get a large fries?”
She smiled. “Not a chance.”
Eli sighed. It was such a tough life. The poor kid. Deprivation at every turn.
She rounded the next corner, then pulled into the restaurant parking lot. Eli was out of the car and halfway to the door before she’d finished locking up. All that energy. All that enthusiasm. It made her feel 128 years old. She really must find the time to exercise.
Yeah, right.
CONNER COULDN’T believe it. He was actually in jail. For saying damn. A whole bunch of better curses had been swirling through his head, and it was everything he could do not to direct them at the sheriff. He figured it must be a scam, like a speed trap. Extortion. Plain, ugly extortion.
He had a phone call coming and he had an attorney who would have a thing or two to say about this. Conner didn’t care if they had to take it to the Supreme Court. He was going to fight this and win.
He heard a lot of people talking in the other room, but he was alone in his cell. Just him and two cots. And all those bars. He had a sudden urge to play the harmonica.
The noise from the other room increased, but no matter how he twisted and turned, he couldn’t see a damn thing. So he went to the cot on his left. Hmm. It was better than he’d expected. Firmer. A real bed, not straw matting.
He never should have come out here. He should have listened when his instincts told him to go home. But no. He had to stay for his precious antiques. Who the hell cared about antique medical equipment anyway?
The outside door opened and Conner leaped to his feet. It was the cop. The son of a—
“I brought you something to read,” he said.
“Something to read? What about my phone call? What about my rights?”
“Now don’t get yourself all worked up,” the sheriff said. “You’ll get your phone call soon enough. In the meantime, I figured you might want something to do.” He held up a small stack of paperback books.
Conner felt a headache coming on. A doozy. He put his hands to his temples and rubbed, but it was no use. “Can you give me some aspirin?” he asked.
“Got a headache, eh?” The cop slipped the books between the bars.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He left, closing the outside door after him. No phone call. No explanations. Just old Zane Grey Westerns and Stephen King horror novels. He could write his own horror novel. He’d call it Trapped in Miller’s Landing. It would scare the bejeezus out of city dwellers everywhere.
He went back to the cot and put the books next to him. He didn’t feel like reading. Even if he had, he’d want his own book. The one sitting on the front seat of his car. What he did feel like doing was committing real crimes. Crimes that made sense. Like strangling a certain small-town sheriff. He went back to rubbing his temples, but that proved useless after a while. There wasn’t enough room to do any real pacing, so he stretched out, putting his arm over his eyes. He’d never sleep, but at least he could rest.
“DOC. HEY, DOC.”
Conner awoke with a start. He didn’t know where he was for a moment, and then he remembered.
“Doc, you awake?”
As he sat up, he realized the headache had hit full force. The pain in his temples throbbed along with his pulse. “Yes, I’m awake.”
“I’ve brought you some aspirin,” the sheriff said. “And a phone.”
“It’s about time,” Conner said. The sheriff opened the door, and Conner got up. “What’s your name?”
“Tracy,” he said, handing Conner two pills and a glass of water.
Conner looked at the man as he swallowed. He’d taken off his cap, revealing an almost totally bald head. What hairs remained were mostly gray. He was a big man, with a big belly and broad flat hands. But for some reason, he wouldn’t look Conner in the eye. Guilt, probably. He knew this whole thing was a travesty.
“You wanna make that phone call now?”
Conner nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“Follow me.”
Tracy led him out of the small back room to the front of the sheriff’s office. Two desks took up most of the space, with a wide counter separating the officers from the public. A fan whirred from the corner, and Wanted posters lined the far wall. On the right were file cabinets. Three of them. They each had one drawer open, and Conner could see they were stuffed to the gills. This scam of theirs must pay off nicely for them to have so many cases.
The sheriff nodded at one of the desks, and Conner sat down. He had to call Information to get Dan’s phone number. Luck was with him, though. Dan’s phone only rang twice before he picked up.
“Leoni.”
“Dan. It’s Conner.”
“Hey, how you doin’, buddy? Long time no see.”
“This isn’t a social call. I need your help.”
“Okay, shoot,” Dan said, his voice immediately calm and businesslike.
Conner explained the situation. He left out nothing, including the bulging file cabinets. “It’s got to be a fraud,” he said softly so the sheriff couldn’t hear. “No one can go to jail for saying damn.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Dan said.
“Are
