The Prodigal's Return. Lynn Bulock

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.”

      “Then this is your lucky day, ma’am.” It was fun to watch her startle and whirl to face him. Her look of surprise would have been gratifying—if Tripp hadn’t been so busy keeping his jaw from dropping at the beauty in her face combined with the force of her gaze. Those flashing hazel eyes could have done him in at twenty paces. It might be her lucky day, but in an instant Tripp stopped feeling as if it was his. This woman felt like trouble.

      “Mr. Jordan—”

      He