used the phone since I was on the computer last night with Bill playing games…” His voice trailed off. “Which means it’s probably there, huh? I’ll go get it.”
He headed off in search of the phone and Laurel sat back down with Gina. “So what do you think? Am I as crazy as Jeremy believes I am?”
“Don’t ask me. I’m in trouble either way I answer. If I tell you you’re making a crazy impulsive decision, you’ll argue with me. And if I tell you it sounds great and to go for it, I’m losing my best friend.”
“I guess it’s hardly fair to ask you to take sides,” Laurel conceded. “But tell me more about selling this house. I never thought I’d say this, but I think it’s time.”
Friedens—Ten days later
Every new day as acting sheriff brought Tripp more challenges. He was near the two week mark now. At least he wasn’t bored. The temperature in the office didn’t bother him as much anymore. He’d gotten used to drinking decent coffee on a regular basis. Now that he was in the office as sheriff, instead of out patrolling as a deputy, he had developed more of a rapport with Verna. She didn’t intimidate him as much, although he did still feel as if he were being inspected.
Mrs. Baker and a few of her friends seemed to stop by daily with something that got under their skin. Sometimes he could hear Verna out in the main office pacifying them. On those days he considered whether Verna needed a raise. But some times the Old Ladies Brigade couldn’t be stopped that easily. Tripp told himself he had to stop referring to them that way even in his own mind, or he’d slip and end up saying it out loud. Even if he were only talking to Verna it wouldn’t be a good idea: she was probably related to half the brigade.
Over the past couple of days, they appeared to be on a rampage. Their problems were so petty. They ranged from kids still shooting off leftover bottle rockets from the Fourth of July, to threatening dogs, to parking tickets he’d missed.
After years of solving real problems in big city homicide, Tripp now kept telling himself that Lillian Baker and her friends should be a piece of cake. He was having a hard time holding his temper in check when their complaints turned out to be so minor that they weren’t worth his time to investigate.
Didn’t they ever have any real crime here? He knew that Hank had broken up a methamphetamine ring, because Tripp had worked some of the busts himself. It was the only major crime he could recall since living in Friedens. No murders, no other drug rings or even major burglaries. If somebody had a gun, they were probably hunting animals in season, and had a legal permit. Even the local merchants didn’t report much shoplifting.
Tripp could hear Lillian Baker out there again, talking something over with Verna. His department secretary and part-time dispatcher was beginning to grow on him. She had the patience of a saint, and more common sense than most people he could name. She knew when to pay attention to the complaints of Lillian and the crew, and when to soft-pedal them as well. So far she hadn’t been wrong. And since Hank was still recuperating from his surgery and couldn’t come in to lend a hand for quite a while yet, Verna’s good judgment was a precious commodity.
Tripp considered himself to have pretty good judgment himself, where crime and criminals were concerned. It was just that he was used to the kind of slime who shot each other on whims, dealt street drugs to their own grandmothers if necessary, and in general valued life very little. The primarily honest, fundamentally sane people of Friedens were a new experience for him. It did take a little getting used to.
Today Mrs. Baker seemed to be in the outer office by herself. He could hear her voice, sharp with complaint. Maybe it was time to go out there and give Verna a break. His coffee cup was nearly empty anyway, so he could stroll out and see what the problem was this time.
“About time you got out here,” Lillian Baker said with a sniff.
Prickles of aggravation made him want to run a finger under his collar. Who did she think she was? He tried not to sputter as he answered her. “Do you have a real problem this time, Mrs. Baker? I am not rescuing any stray animals or taking any reports of burnt bottle rockets.” He tried to look as stern as possible. Not that it had any effect on the silver-haired lady in front of him. Nothing phased her.
“No, this time it’s not anything minor. This time I think we have a federal offense on our hands.” She sounded triumphant.
She had his attention. “Tell me more.”
“I didn’t get my mail this morning. And what I had in the box didn’t go out, either. That old boat of Sam Harrison’s is parked right in front of my house, blocking the mailbox. Dorothy couldn’t get anywhere near the box. Obstructing the mail—that’s a federal offense, isn’t it?” Her bright eyes glittered with intensity.
“It probably is.” Not the kind of federal offense he was hoping for to liven up his morning, but in the long run it was easier to deal with than bank robbery. “And you’re right in coming in to report this. I told Mr. Harrison weeks ago that I didn’t want to see that car anywhere near downtown.” He turned to Verna. “I’m sure I should know the answer to this already, but do we have a boot? A car immobilizer?”
“I didn’t think you meant the kind to wear when it rains.” Verna’s tone was more humorous than sharp. “Sorry to disappoint you, but we’ve never really had the need for one. And before you ask, there’s no city tow truck, either.”
“Not like working for the city of St. Louis. There I could get a car towed in twenty minutes flat, every time.”
Verna shook her head, making iron-gray perm ringlets bounce. “I didn’t say there wasn’t a tow truck in the city—just that the city didn’t own one. Max down at the Gas ’n’ Go would be more than happy to send his son down with their tow truck. They’ve been serving the sheriff that way for years.”
Tripp was learning something about small-town politics by now. “Is that why the city-owned cars fill up at the Gas ’n’ Go instead of having our own pump?”
Verna smiled. “Now you’re getting it. Should I call down there and have him meet you in front of Miz Baker’s house?”
“Please do.” He turned to Lillian Baker who stood in front of his desk, tapping a foot on the worn linoleum. “Would you like to be driven home in the sheriff’s car?”
Mrs. Baker recoiled. “I couldn’t possibly. What would the neighbors think?”
“They’ll be fine. I’ll let you ride in the front, and I promise I won’t turn on the lights or the siren. If anybody asks, you can tell them it was your reward for reporting a serious crime.”
It was the first time Tripp had seen any member of the Old Ladies Brigade smile.
An hour later Mrs. Baker had gotten her ride home in the sheriff’s car, and Tripp was done getting Sam Harrison’s aqua horror out of the Bakers’ flower bed. The car was probably a classic, and Tripp expected he should be congratulating Mr. Sam for keeping it running this long. If only the older man didn’t have the habit of leaving it in such inconvenient, not to mention illegal, places. Mr. Sam hadn’t been exactly receptive to Tripp’s last warning: this parking job was evidence of that. Fine. Let him get the heap back from behind the Gas ’n’ Go.
How much did one charge for a towing job and parking ticket in Friedens? Tripp had no idea. It just hadn’t come up since he’d got here. The few parking offenses he dealt with had been downtown meter
