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He went back to his conversation and what she heard next pushed Laurel over the fence she’d been sitting on.
“Yeah. I’m back. I know, but we’re in the Dark Ages here. No caller ID, no extension in my room. No chance of my own phone line in this lifetime.”
He sounded so aggravated. Laurel looked down at Jeremy’s rangy form splayed across the floor, and saw a child who was being raised in an environment that was so foreign to her own memories of growing up that it felt like another planet.
If she had ever dared speak that way to her father, or even in her father’s presence, she couldn’t imagine the consequences. Jeremy knew there were no consequences, but Laurel wasn’t so sure that was a wonderful thing. Was this really the life she wanted for her son, while they faced his teen years? Was it the life she wanted for herself? The answer to the question was easy, and made her turn on her heels and leave the room to do some serious thinking.
“Poor Jeremy,” she murmured in the hallway. “You’ll never know how this one day changed your whole life.”
California was not the place for her to raise this young man. And today was the day to take steps to ensure she didn’t have to raise him here any longer.
It was hot in his office. Tripp Jordan wasn’t used to experiencing summers like this yet. Back in the detective room of the station house in St. Louis, the windows were always closed. There was temperature-controlled air all the time, summer or winter. Of course, it was often too hot in the winter and too cool in the summer, but it didn’t bring you into contact with nature, for sure.
Here there were all kinds of distractions. Not the least of which was the knowledge that he was now officially in charge here and wasn’t ready for it. He’d been in charge all week, but it hadn’t sunk in until this morning, when he’d faced the fact that Hank was in surgery and wouldn’t be back for weeks.
He still felt out of place in Hank’s office. His chair didn’t sit right and the desk was too low at one corner. Plus there was the temperature problem in here—it was hot. And the coffee wasn’t strong enough. Or maybe it was just that Verna made good coffee. He was still used to the sludge at St. Louis police stations. Real coffee, made lovingly by hand by his fifty-something secretary with her tight perm and plastic-rimmed glasses, was a new experience. The woman reminded him of his aunts, who looked sweet and old-fashioned but had every situation well in hand. And he’d always felt uncomfortable around them, too.
No matter how many faults he found with Friedens or his office in the tiny police station, he still wasn’t sorry he’d taken the job. So maybe he hadn’t been prepared for the changes of the past week, but being Hank’s deputy had been great so far.
When the town had been looking for a deputy, Tripp had jumped at Hank’s offer to take the job. The city council had liked him, the interviews had gone smoothly—and Tripp had gotten out of St. Louis, where it had felt as if the walls were closing in on him.
Once he had been hired on in Friedens, he rented a great apartment over a vacant downtown store, where the odds and ends of furniture he’d collected over the years looked dwarfed. He’d gotten settled in, and had even gotten used to seeing himself back in uniform after eight years in suits and ties.
He didn’t miss the tie, but he still missed the hat: the sharp fedora that was the trademark of the “hat squad” of St. Louis homicide. Deputies around here didn’t wear any kind of hat. Even the sheriff’s hat that he’d been issued when he took over for Hank was a poor substitute for that fedora.
He was running his hand around the brim, trying to break it in some, when Verna ushered in his first visitor of the day. His initial guess when he saw the woman was that she was the town’s version of the welcoming committee, bringing him brownies.
Although she looked old and delicate enough to be Verna’s mother, she dispelled his notion that she was a grandmotherly type in a hurry. The sweet-looking older lady in front of him proceeded to scald his ears with a scathing diatribe on the unsafe driving habits of some of her fellow senior citizens. She claimed to be a representative of the Women’s Club—and the PTO, although Tripp thought that she could have given birth to the school board members he’d seen. This lady hadn’t had anybody in the school system in decades.
Still, she was persistent. Tripp felt himself breaking out in a sweat just listening to her. Trying to get a word in edgewise was almost impossible. Might as well wait until Mrs. Whoever-she-was wound down on her own.
He nodded and made appropriate sympathetic noises for about ten minutes. Then he’d had enough and tried to break in. After three attempts he was successful. “So let me summarize this. You believe that I ought to be writing some tickets downtown?”
The old harridan’s nostrils flared. “Not just tickets. Citations. That Sam Harrison ought to go to jail. He’s parked in my flower bed twice this month. That old heap of his is a menace, even standing still.”
“Well, Mrs….” Tripp looked down at the desk, hoping he’d jotted down something when Verna ushered the lady into his office. “Mrs. Becker—”
“That’s Baker,” she corrected in a frosty tone.
“Mrs. Baker.” He had to learn to decipher his own handwriting better. “Sorry about that. I’ll go track down Sam Harrison and have a talk with him. If he’s as dangerous as you say, I’ll take appropriate action.”
Mrs. Baker sniffed. “You won’t have to go far. That awful car is parked two doors down from here right now. In front of a fire hydrant.”
Tripp stood up and put on his hat. “Then I’ll get right on it. Can I escort you out, ma’am?”
“I’m not that feeble, and you’re not a Boy Scout. Although you look like one in that hat.”
Tripp didn’t say anything else. He couldn’t, for fear of further offending an old lady on his first official day as sheriff.
It was going to be a long couple of weeks before Hank got back. How long did uncomplicated bypass surgery take to heal? He hoped it was uncomplicated. He didn’t know how many days of this he could take.
Chapter Two
“You’re kidding, right? Jeremy, tell me she’s kidding.” Gina Evans was in danger of spilling her café au lait all over Laurel’s kitchen table.
“Hey, Gina, you tell me she’s kidding. Then we’ll both think so.” Jeremy’s voice was hopeful.
His expression told Laurel that her son was sure she’d gone around the bend, to even suggest something as strange as moving back to Missouri. And her best friend agreed with him.
Laurel leaned against the door frame of the kitchen. That way she could stand in the family room, not invading Jeremy’s personal space, but still be in command of the situation. With a teenager, that was important. Especially when the teenager reached the point that Jeremy already had, at fourteen, of being taller than she was.
“Afraid not. Why would I kid about something this major?” She reached out to ruffle his hair, and Jeremy pulled away.
That part hurt, but Laurel had to remind herself that it was only natural. Jeremy wasn’t her little boy anymore. He was a young man, and this was going to come as a shock to him, no matter what.
His voice conveyed that shock and anger. “Help me out here, Gina. Make her see how crazy this is.”
The brunette shrugged and took a sip of coffee. “As much as I’d hate to see your mom move, it’s not so crazy. I could get her a small fortune for this house. She could probably buy the biggest mansion in that little town you guys are from—”
“It’s Friedens—and Mom, what would I do back there? You may miss it, but I sure don’t. I’ve never lived there, remember?” His brown eyes glowed with emotion.
“All too well.”
Gina watched them both, as if observing a game of ping pong. Wisely, she was saying nothing.
Jeremy kept glaring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’ve grown up in a different place both physically and emotionally. And I remember it every time you answer me in that tone of voice, every time you nag for the latest electronic gadget. You remind me each time you try to talk me into letting you sleep in on Sunday morning because you’ve stayed up too late in a chat room or with one of your buddies doing skateboard tricks out on that ramp you set up on the driveway.”
“Like none of that would happen in Missouri?” Jeremy huffed. “Well, I know the skateboard part wouldn’t happen, because I didn’t see another skater the whole time we were there for Grandpa’s wedding. Not one.”
Laurel suspected Jeremy might be right, but she replied, “There have to be some there. I can’t imagine even a place as backward as Friedens, Missouri, being totally devoid of skateboarders. And if it is, you’ll start a new trend by being the coolest guy in town.”
The light went out of Jeremy’s face. “So you’re serious about this?”
Laurel nodded. “I am. Jer, I miss my family. I feel really rotten that I wasn’t there when my dad and my sisters needed me this week. And I want to go back and help Grandpa Sam with stuff. Besides, I think it would be great if I could give you a lot more freedom than I’m ever going to be comfortable giving you here.”
That got his attention. Gina nodded while he wasn’t watching her, to give Laurel encouragement that she might be on the right track.
“What kind of freedom?” Jeremy asked.
Laurel tried to frame her thoughts, so that she could be honest and still appeal to her son. “A whole bunch of kinds, really. The freedom to wander around town without me worrying what kind of trouble you could get into every moment. The freedom to have lots of people you could go talk to about a problem if you didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Like who?”
His voice held challenge, but there was also interest. Laurel felt that maybe he was considering the idea. “Like your uncle Ben or either of your grandpas, or even that pastor at Grandpa Hank’s church that you thought was so cool.”
“The one that made the jokes at the wedding? He was pretty cool. I could probably even stand listening to him, if only I didn’t have to get up before daylight to do it.”
Laurel reached out and took his hands. She was amazed at how they dwarfed hers. Jeremy wasn’t anywhere near grown-up in intellect, but his body was making man-size leaps into maturity. She was in awe every day that this was the child to whom she had given birth. Fourteen years didn’t seem like nearly enough time for this kind of transformation.
“So you’d give it a shot? For me?” she asked.
“I guess. Are you going to let Gina sell our house right away?”
“No. We’ll go out and stay with Grandpa Sam. Don’t roll your eyes when I say this, but I’m going to have to pray a while first about any decision as big as selling the house.” She could see her son fighting a grin, and the urge to roll his eyes. “Hey, so you have an old-fashioned mother who prefers to take all decisions, no matter how large or small, to the Lord.”
Now Jeremy’s normal, rather impish grin was back. “Actually, I like that part. That way I can pray at the same time, and see if God might be on my side this time and move us back here.”
“Don’t hold your breath on that one, sport. Not right away, for sure.”
She let go of his hands, and Jeremy straightened. He dashed the brown hair out of his face.
“So how much time do I have?”
Somehow he reminded her of the valiant hero facing the firing squad. She was sure that was the image he wanted to project.
She did some quick mental calculating. “I can’t very well just pack up tomorrow. If I take a week, will it give you enough time to tell your friends, and skate all your favorite places a few times?”
“How about ten days. I have a lot of friends. And a lot of favorite places.” He sounded wistful. For a moment Laurel wondered if she really was doing the right thing.
As if to answer her, the telephone rang, and she looked for the handset to the cordless. Of course it wasn’t there.
Jeremy shrugged. “Not my problem this time. I haven’t 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 violations, and most of those were ridiculously small fees if you stopped in at the sheriff’s office and paid them the same day.
The system here really made the guys who ran the towing business in St. Louis look like pirates. One of his old buddies had told him on the phone just last week that the highest legal tow fees were approaching $500 with storage.
He ought to point that out to Mr. Harrison when the grumpy old guy came by the sheriff’s department later today, as Tripp expected he would. Maybe then, he’d appreciate the fifty dollars or so that Tripp was sure he’d work out with Max for the use of the tow truck and his “storage” lot in back of the station.
Right now, he didn’t feel like dealing with Sam Harrison. For the first time, Tripp felt like taking a cue from Hank and stopping in at the Town Hall restaurant for a cup of coffee and a chat with the unofficial city leaders who seemed to spend most of their mornings there. He got back in the car and told Verna over the radio what he was doing. She sounded as if she approved. This day was just full of first-time experiences.
Two cups of coffee and buckets of information later, Tripp strolled up the sidewalk to the office. He was beginning to get the hang of this sheriff thing. Maybe he’d look through the case files to see what he could work on before Hank got back. If things kept going this well, he might get a commendation from his boss for doing such a great job as acting sheriff.
With that fine thought in his head, he walked into the office. There was a stranger in the front room, and she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t somebody he’d met in Friedens before. No, he’d remember a woman this well dressed. Those nails she was drumming on the counter were professionally done in pale pink. The tailored summer pantsuit she wore hadn’t come straight off the rack, judging from the way it fit her slender form to perfection.
Even seeing just the back of her, Tripp could tell that the most recent cut and style of that lush cinnamon mane had cost more than his uniform. What was Ms. Society doing in Friedens, in his office? She wasn’t a stranger to Verna, at least, because the two of them were deep in conversation.
“Tripp can straighten it all out, honey” Verna was telling her.
“I’m sure.” Her voice was cultured and frosty. “Acting Sheriff Jordan is just the man I want to see.”
