by AR DeClerck
“Franny, there’s nothing that points to the Russians specifically.” He paced this time, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Franny almost felt sorry for him. She knew he wanted to do well as the Sheriff and having the only coroner nearly beaten to death in his own business wasn’t going to make the town feel any safer. “There were no fingerprints because they wore gloves. No witnesses other than your father, and he isn’t talking.”
“He can’t talk, you mean.” Franny narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious. “Why are you telling me this? I thought you didn’t want my help.”
“I don’t.” He paused in his pacing, his eyes locked on her. “The farther you are from this the better off you’ll be.”
“But?”
“But,” he said reluctantly, “now it’s personal and no matter what I say you’ll never leave this alone.”
“You act like you know me.”
His lips twitched. “I do, a little. I remember the way you used to be. Once you were on to something you never let go. Like a dog with a bone.”
“This doesn’t have to do with the fact that you’re no closer to solving this thing than you were this morning and you know you need me?”
“I want my town and my citizens safe.” He stepped closer, and she tried to ignore the inviting warmth of his body. His breath ruffled the curls at her temples. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen.” He leaned closer, and she wondered if he was going to kiss her right here in the hospital hallway. It was inappropriate to hope for such a thing while her father lay in his bed a few doors down, but she hoped it all the same. His lips were a breath from hers when he said, “Even work with a woman as stubborn and high-handed as you.”
Franny had the urge to slap the dickens out of the man for his comment, but the grin on his face and the sparkle in his eye eased her anger a little, and she burst out laughing instead. All the stress of the last few hours had wound her tighter than a clock spring, but with one small joke he managed to help her ease the knot in her gut.
When she’d finally had her fill of laughing she went back to crying again. He looked uncomfortable, but she was done quickly enough. “Pardon me for the waterworks. It’s been a trying day.”
He nodded, and she looked down the hallway to where Greevy Nielson stood watch outside her father’s door. “Do you think they’re safe?”
“It was the body they wanted, and they got it. I think it’s going to be okay.”
“I’m hungry.”
His eyebrows went up. “Are you asking me to dinner, Ms. Calico?”
“I’m asking you to buy me some pasta, Sheriff. Think you’re up to the challenge?”
“I can manage,” he assured her. He held out his arm and she took it. At the doorway of her father’s room she poked her head in to let Geneva know she was off for a bite. Her sister nodded and promised to stay close to their father until she returned. At the doorway to the hospital Franny paused.
“Sherman, may we stop off at my store before we get to the diner?”
He looked puzzled. “Is there something you’ve forgotten?”
“Yes.” She touched her hair to adjust the part and pulled on her gloves. “I need my pistol.”
OF COURSE, HE HADN’T wanted to stop for her small Modele 1935. She tucked the pistol into her handbag and tried to ignore his objections. She whirled on him and leaned her elbows on the counter.
“Just what part of a woman carrying a handgun do you have a problem with?” She ignored the way his eyes trailed to the tops of her breasts pressing against her dress. “The woman part, or the gun part?”
“Bit of both, actually. I have no doubt you can shoot a gun on a target range, but...”
“I’ve shot a man, was good enough to wing him and not kill him, though I’d wished I could at the time.” Franny tucked the bag under her arm and straightened. “I need my gun if men are running around town who would beat an old man nearly to death for a body.”
He opened his mouth to argue and thought better of it. “I need to hear more about this ‘shooting a man’ thing,” he told her as he followed her from the shop and waited as she locked the door.
She took his arm and they headed down the street toward the diner. “It’s a story best told over pasta,” she assured him. “I hope you have a strong stomach.”
“I can handle it.”
She could see the white of his teeth in growing gloom. It wasn’t the most ideal of situations, but he’d asked for help, at least. The next challenge would be getting him to trust that she could take care of herself when the time came.
He pulled out her chair and then took his own seat, his manners as good as any Frenchman’s. She placed her napkin over her lap and looked around at the diner. “Nothing has changed.”
“Nothing around here does,” he agreed. He leaned back in his chair, the dim lighting suiting him. His uniform stretched over his shoulders and accentuated his muscled arms. The waitress, a woman named Sarah, had once been a classmate. She smiled at Sherman and ignored Franny.
“Sheriff, good to see you!” Sarah handed him his menu and dropped Franny’s on the table. “What can I get you this evening?”
Sherman was trying not to smile at the woman’s blatant show of irritation with Franny. “Franny and I would like the spaghetti special. We’ll have sweet tea to drink.” He glanced at Franny and she nodded her okay for the order. Ted’s spaghetti wasn’t true Italian, but it had always been one of her favorite dishes.
“I’ll get that.” Sarah flounced away, her backside swaying for his benefit.
“You’re the most eligible bachelor in town, aren’t you?” Franny asked with a bit more spite than she’d intended.
“I don’t think she’s forgiven you for winning Miss Corncob in high school. She really wanted that crown.” Sherman’s eyes were sparkling with humor.
“I didn’t want the darned thing. I never did.” Franny hadn’t cared one whit about the pageant and had only joined to showcase the dresses she made.
“As for being an eligible bachelor, the life of a policeman’s wife is a worrisome one. I don’t think she’d last.”
Franny had to smile. Sarah was too high-strung to sit at home without nightly dramatics, she’d have to agree. She sobered as she remembered her father lying in the hospital. “I really want to catch these guys, Sherman.”
“So do I,” he assured her. He fiddled with his fork. “I worked cases in Chicago that were similar to this, and they never ended well.”
“What happened?”
His eyes raised to hers and she could see the worry that he was trying to hide. “A lot of bodies.”
“Theirs or yours?”
“Both.” He sighed. “Violence begets violence, Franny.”
“I was in France these last years. I know about violence. There’s a war coming and it’s going to be big.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“Yes.”
Sarah returned and put their iced tea on the table, slipping a sly smile and a wink in Sherman’s direction. Franny wondered if the woman had any idea how desperate she looked. She picked up her glass and sipped it, grimacing when she realized it was unsweetened. Another dig at her, she was sure.
“Tell me about shooting a man. Did that happen in France?”
“Belgium, actually. A group of ladies took the train to Brussels, and a man insisted he escort us from the train station to ‘keep us safe’.” She thought back to the darkened alleyway and the man’s intended violence. “His intentions were nothing of the sort. As he attempted to attack us, I shot him.”
She saw the way Sherman’s eyes darkened with anger, and the sudden tight grip on his fork. “You should have killed him.” His voice was tight.
“I wished I had, at the time. Thanks to a very understanding policeman I narrowly escaped imprisonment myself.”
“Nothing like an understanding court system.”
She could laugh about it now, but back then she’d been terrified
out of her wits. Jean-Pierre Gustalt, the policeman she’d mentioned, had been the only person who’d managed to keep her sane during the difficult days following the shooting. “Jean-Pierre, the policeman, had a daughter about my age, and he took me under his wing. He gave me further instruction in the operation of my firearm and now I’m a crack shot.”
“I admit, I do feel a bit better about the weapon in your bag.”
They glanced up at Sarah’s gasp. She’d approached just as he’d mentioned her pistol. Franny tapped the bag and shot the woman a glare. Sarah dropped their plates on the table and almost ran away.
Sherman’s laugh echoed through the small diner, and several patrons looked their way with knowing smiles. Franny tried to hide her dismay. By tomorrow morning the entire town would know that she and Sherman had dinner together.
“What is our next move in the search for the men who hurt my father?” She wrapped the perfectly cooked spaghetti around her fork and took a bite. It was perfectly seasoned, and the sauce was just as she remembered it. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and waited for Sherman to finish his bite.
“We’ll go back to the mortuary in the morning and have a second look around. You’re familiar with the set up and can tell me if you see anything we’ve missed. After that, we’ll have another talk with the Russians at the boarding house.”
“We also need to talk to Tom.”
“Tom?” He wiped his mouth. “What about Tom?”
She looked at her plate, and knew he was going to be angry. “I found a book in the dead woman’s suitcase. He thought it might be a code book, or a cipher. Possibly a bookie’s debt book. He took it home to study it further.”
“You gave an old farmer a valuable piece of evidence?” Sherman lowered his voice and leaned over the table to stare at her incredulously. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that you were too high-handed to appreciate my help, so I was going to solve that murder to prove to you that I can be helpful.” She leaned toward him and stared into his eyes. “Tom volunteered to go through the book.”
“Your sidekick is an eighty-year-old farmer? Franny...”
“He used to work in army intelligence. Tom knows more about codes and ciphers than you ever will.” She felt a flash of satisfaction at Sherman’s surprise. The galoot didn’t know everything, did he?
“Still.” Sherman sat back and took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. When he was done he sighed. “I guess we’ll go to Tom’s first, then.”
She smiled and began to wrap up more spaghetti. “I guess we will.”
THE MORNING DAWNED hotter and drier than she liked, and Franny knew that her bag had best contain a lipstick and a kerchief if she expected to survive the day with her face intact. She patted the carefully coiled curls at her temple and stared down the street again. Sherman had informed her as he dropped her off at her home the night before that he would pick her up promptly at nine in the morning in front of her shop.
She glanced at her slim watch and sighed. She’d spent enough time with policemen over the years to know how often they were late. A bar brawl or cattle dispute had probably pulled Sherman from his bed too early, and now she was left sweltering in the heat waiting.
Just as she’d decided to return to the cooler air of the shop and drink some tea, she saw his police cruiser turn the corner and head in her direction. She raised her chin and tried to erase the irritation from her face. It wouldn’t do to vex him in the first five minutes. Lord knew, she’d most likely get around to it by minute seven or eight.
“Sorry for the delay, Franny.” He jumped out of the car and came around to the passenger side before opening the door for her with a shake of his head. “The Rogers boys went cow tipping last night and gave Martha Goddard a fit this morning.”
Franny grinned. Her imagined cattle rustling hadn’t been too far off the mark, then. She felt a little sorry for him when he climbed inside the car and ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired. The life of a policeman, even in a small town like Prudence, was not an easy one.
“Troy and Dylan Rogers are good boys, but their mama can’t control them much since their Papa died,” she told him as he pulled away from the curb and headed out of town toward Tom’s farm. She pulled the hem of her skirt over her knees and tucked her bag into her lap. “It was a shame.”
“Gordon Rogers was killed a year or so ago, wasn’t he?”
She nodded. She’d been away at the time, but she recalled the details in her father’s letters. “He left his job at the tanning factory and walked home, like he did every night. When he didn’t come home the next morning, his wife called Sheriff Paulson. They found his body in a ditch off the new highway. The going theory was that a passing motorist struck him in the dark and just kept driving.”
“That is a damned shame,” Sherman agreed. “Gordon was a grade or two ahead of me in school. Good man from what I recall.”
“His wife Greta comes into my shop from time to time. She’s convinced that Gordon was killed because he was involved in something he shouldn’t have been.”
Sherman’s eyebrow went up. “And she just volunteered this information to you instead of coming to the police?”
“She knows that I used to help the Sheriff.” Franny narrowed her eyes at Sherman. “She trusts me.”
“What was Gordon involved in?”
“I don’t know.” Franny shook her head. She’d never had time to look into Greta’s information. The accident on the road and her father’s attack had taken it from her mind until now. “She said he started coming home with more money than usual. Cash. And he had no explanation about where it came from. He became paranoid and defensive and made her lock the doors and windows every night, like he expected someone was going to come for him.”
“It might have been pertinent information for the Sheriff’s office,” Sherman said with a frown.
“Do you think this is connected to what’s going on now?” Franny had only just realized that Gordon’s money may have come from gambling, and the dead Russian woman just happened to have what appeared to be a bookie’s ledger in her suitcase.
“Nothing can be ruled out at this point,” Sherman agreed. He signaled the turn and pulled into Tom’s long driveway. Franny put her hand on the roof as the car bounced over the ruts in the road.
They turned the deep curve that lead up to Tom’s house, and Franny grabbed Sherman’s arm. “Look out!”
A late model black sedan roared toward them, driving on the wrong side of the narrow driveway. The driver didn’t slow but barreled toward them at breakneck speed. Sherman cursed, cutting the wheel hard to the right as the car missed them by a fraction of an inch and threw gravel all over the car as it sped away.
“Hold on!” Sherman grunted as the car bounced. He tried to hold it in the road, but the loose gravel let the back tires spin. Franny felt the car slide toward the deep ditch filled with boulders where the run off from rain would divert from the driveway. Sherman’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, hauling her from the passenger seat and into his lap as the cruiser slid into the ditch on the passenger side. The crunch of metal and breaking glass told Franny they hit hard.
She found herself wedged tightly between Sherman and the steering wheel of the car. She could feel the hard pounding of his heart beneath her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” His hands were warm against her thighs.
“Thanks to you.” She looked at the mangled mess of the passenger side door. She might have been seriously injured if his quick thinking hadn’t moved her from harm’s way. “That person needs a driving lesson!”
“I wonder what they were doing up here. Tom doesn’t get many visitors.” Franny looked up at his face and saw the worry in his eyes.
“Let me out!” she demanded as she reached for the door handle. If the same men who’d hurt her father had touched a hair on Tom’s head, there would be hell to pay.
“Hold still,” Sherman grunted as he tried to
extricate his arms from around her body. “Let me get it.”
“If they hurt him I’m going to string them up from the nearest tree!” she vowed.
Sherman laughed but managed to get the door opened. She tried to turn to crawl out of the car, but found she was soon stuck face to face with the handsome Sheriff. Her body was wedged so tightly between him and the steering wheel that she couldn’t move.
“Well now, this is pleasant,” he murmured with a grin. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her skirt hiked up so that her intimate parts were perfectly aligned to his. It wasn’t unpleasant, but her mind was on Tom and not the press of his body against hers.
“We have to check on Tom,” she reminded him with a glare. “Now is not the time to let your libido get away with you.”
He laughed, and the rumbling made her whole body ache. She tried to ignore the feeling. “I mean it, Sherman. Push the seat back.”
“Another day, another time, Franny Calico, and I would make you forget about that old man,” he told her with a serious, hard stare. “But this time I think you’re right. We’d best go check on him.”
He leaned down for the seat handle, and his mouth pressed against the tops of her breasts. She could tell he was smiling, but she jumped when she heard a throat clear from the top of the embankment.
She craned her neck to see Tom standing at the top of the ditch, his shotgun in his hand. He had a grin as wide as the Mississippi on his face.
“You two all right down there?” he called.
“Fine. You?” Sherman hollered back as he fiddled with the seat handle.
“Reckon I’d be better if I was you,” Tom joked. “Otherwise, yeah.”
“Who was that in the car, Tom?” Franny tried to ignore the old man’s knowing smirk. Of course, it looked like she and Sherman were in the middle of a lurid tryst down here in a ditch with her body draped provocatively all over his.
“Don’t rightly know, but they were armed.” He held up the shotgun. “So was I. They took the hint and left.”
“Hit anybody?” Sherman asked as he finally got the seat to slide back. Franny let out a sigh of relief as she climbed off him and leaned on the car.