book, but she figured she could handle it.
“I’m Jill Strathern,” she said, walking around the desk and holding out her hand. “How nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” the older man said.
Mr. Harrison was one of those thin elderly men who seemed to shrink with age. His hair was white and thick, as were his eyebrows. Wrinkles pulled at his features, but his blue eyes were clear and sharp and his handshake firm.
When he’d taken the leather chair in front of her desk and just to the right of the fishing net, Jill returned to her seat and smiled.
“I didn’t find any notes in Mr. Dixon’s file on your case. Had you been in to see him before?”
Mr. Harrison dismissed the other man with a flick of his wrist. “Dixon was an idiot. All he cared about was fishing.”
“Really?” Jill murmured politely, as if she wasn’t aware of dozens of beady eyes watching her. “So what seems to be the problem?”
“Those bastards stole some land from me. Their fence is about twenty or twenty-five feet on my side. I want it moved.”
He spread out several large sheets of yellowed paper showing deeds and land tracts. Jill stood and leaned over the desk while Mr. Harrison traced the various property lines. She found her interest piqued.
“We’d need an official survey to determine the boundaries, but from what I can see here, you’re right. Your neighbors have put a fence on what is clearly your property.”
“Good. Now they can take it down.”
Jill grabbed a legal pad and sat. “What kind of fence is it?” she asked as she began to make notes.
“Stone. About six feet wide.”
Her head snapped up as she stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I’m not saying it’s not a nice fence and all. It works, but it’s in the wrong place.”
A stone fence? She’d been picturing chain link or cedar. “Why didn’t you stop them when they started to put up the fence? A project like that would have taken weeks.”
“I wasn’t around. Besides, it’s not my responsibility to patrol my own borders. This isn’t Iraq.”
“Fair enough.” But a stone fence. That had to cost a fortune. “Have you talked to your neighbors about this?”
His mouth tightened. “They’re young and they listen to rock music. Cotton wool for brains. No point in talking to them. They probably take drugs.”
She sent up a quiet prayer of thanks that Mr. Harrison didn’t live next door to her. “When was the fence built?”
“Near as I can tell, 1898.”
The pen slid from her fingers and landed on the hardwood floor. Her mind simply wouldn’t wrap itself around the information.
“That’s over a hundred years ago.”
His gaze narrowed. “I can do math, little lady. Why does it matter when it was built? It’s stealing, plain and simple. I want that fence moved.”
Jill might not know a lot about real estate law, but some truths were universal—one of them being that a fence in place for a hundred years was unlikely to be moved anytime soon.
“Why are you dealing with this now?” she asked.
“I don’t want to leave a big mess after I’m gone. And don’t bother telling me no one will care. Dixon already tried that argument.” He glared at the nearest fish.
Jill felt the first stirrings of a headache. “Let me do some research, Mr. Harrison. There might be a legal precedent for what you want to do.” Although she had her doubts. “I’ll get back to you next week.”
“I appreciate that.”
Mr. Harrison rose and shook her hand, then headed for the reception area. As he didn’t close the door behind him, she heard him clearly when he spoke to Tina.
“What were you going on about?” Mr. Harrison asked the receptionist. “She doesn’t seem like she has a stick up her ass to me.”
MAC CROSSED THE STREET from the courthouse to the sheriff’s office and pushed through the double glass doors. He nodded at the deputy on duty and did his best not to make eye contact as he walked toward his office in the back corner, but Wilma caught up with him in less than two seconds.
“You have messages,” the gray-haired dispatcher said as she thrust several pink pieces of paper into his hands. “You can ignore the ones on the bottom, but the top three are important. How’d it go in court?”
“Good.”
He’d managed to keep one bad guy behind bars for a couple of years. That had to count. He glanced down at the notes as he kept walking.
“The mayor called?” he asked, knowing that couldn’t be good.
“Uh-huh.”
Wilma had to take two steps for every one of his. She barely came past his elbow and, according to legend, had been around since before the earth’s crust cooled. She was a tough old bird and one of the first of his staff he’d known was a keeper.
“Mayor’s calling on behalf of the pier centennial committee. They want a temporary alcohol permit to serve beer at the car wash.”
Mac stopped in the middle of the room and glared at her. “What? Serve beer? High-school kids are going to be doing the work.”
“The mayor said the beer was for the patrons.”
He felt his blood pressure climbing. “He wants to serve beer to people who are going to get back in their cars and drive around town? Of all the stupid, ill-conceived, ridiculous, backward—”
“I said you wouldn’t like it,” Wilma told him. “But he didn’t listen.”
Mac had already had a few encounters with the mayor and he hadn’t enjoyed a single one. “Does he ever?”
“No.”
He swore. “Fine. I’ll call him back and tell him there’s no way he’s getting the permit.”
“He won’t be happy.”
“I don’t care.”
She grinned. “That’s one of the things I like about you.” She poked at the messages in his hand. “You also have a call from someone named Hollis Bass. The boy sounded like nothing but useless trouble. He’s not a relative, is he?”
Mac flipped through the notes until he found the one with Hollis’s number. “No. Not a relative. A social worker.” Just what he needed—one more thing. “What else?”
“Slick
