by Lyn Cote
He dragged in a ragged breath. "Miss McCracken, this is useless. Now, give me the money and the ladies won't press charges against you."
Caught up short, she seethed at him, rapidly breathing in and out in wheezing puffs. "What if I don't?"
Her bullheadedness shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. He pressed on. "If you don't give it to me now, I'll have to serve you with a search warrant—it's in my pocket. Then this deputy will keep you in that chair while I tear your house apart looking for the marked bills. And if you make me do that, you will be arrested and everyone will know what you've done."
"Everyone will know anyway!" she growled. "You don't think those old biddies will keep quiet."
"Some of them may talk, but that's much different than this appearing in the newspaper." He raised his eyebrows at her. "It's much different than going to jail." He stood. "Now let's get this over with. Just give me the money and we'll leave."
She glared at them, and then with a vicious curse she rose. She stomped out of the room and returned with a wad of cash in hand. She threw it at Rodd. "Here! Take it and get out of my house!" Another stream of obscenity.
Noting the tiny incriminating marks, Rodd counted the money, then pinned her with his gaze. "You owe the bazaar another fifty cents."
She dug into her pocket and threw a handful of change at him.
He didn't bother to pick it up but stared at her. "A word to the wise: Don't volunteer to be the treasurer of any other cause in the future. Good night, Miss McCracken." He and his deputy walked out. She slammed the door behind them.
"Whew!" the young deputy observed. "She turned out to be an ugly customer."
Rodd nodded. The expression on Veda's face had been murderous. Mrs. Benser said that the women had grown suspicious over the past three years, but had been unable to oust Veda as self-appointed director and treasurer of the bazaar. Whenever they had put someone else in the position, Veda had simply barreled in and taken over anyway. In desperation, they'd finally come up with the plan of the separate tallies and marked bills. It had worked. Veda's skimming had been unmasked.
His past experience with people like Veda caused Rodd to be seriously concerned now. Would she take her anger out on the women who had worked together to catch her stealing? Her kind of hatred would seek vengeance. He'd keep his eye on the honest women and protect them as best he could. Evidently, they'd hoped in the safety of numbers; he hoped it worked. He'd have to watch his own back and—a gut feeling alerted him—Wendy's too.
Veda might be the Weasel. The idea stunned him. But Veda had the strength to batter down a door. He'd seen her snowmobile beside her garage. She'd do anything that might cast suspicion on the Rieker family. And now he knew she wasn't above larceny. Could it be possible? Maybe he'd find out this Saturday night after bingo. The waiting was killing him.
Chapter Twelve
Out of the frosty mid-December night Rodd walked into the brightly lit VFW hall in LaFollette. A haze of cigarette smoke hung above the crowded hall. Small children ran around the tables playing tag while the adults with multiple bingo cards in front of them sat shoulder to shoulder along long institutional-looking tables.
The size of the crowd affirmed what Wendy had predicted. This Bingo Night would bring in a large sum of money—one that should tempt the Weasel. God, just give me a clear shot at him. That's all I need.
As Rodd stood in the back of the long room, he saw heads turn toward him, then away. He was used to that. People always noticed a police officer in their midst—kind of like a Martian dropping in. His khaki-and-brown uniform with its badge, and the belt with handcuffs and gun, pointed him out as different.
"B-3!" The caller at the front of the room barked into the microphone.
"...letter from that old bat in Steadfast. She really laid into him...."
Rodd caught a snippet of conversation and felt himself stiffen. Of course, by now everyone in the county had read Veda's letter to the editor in Friday's Steadfast Times. She'd vented on him all her anger at being caught red-handed stealing from the Senior Bazaar, vowing to start a petition to have him removed from office for malfeasance for not stopping the burglaries.
"N-34!"
"If she thinks anyone would sign a petition, she'd start—" someone to his left said, then cast a glance over his shoulder at Rodd.
He hadn't thought of that, but Veda's own unpopularity would work for him. But if I can't catch the Weasel I'll resign anyway. The thought pained him more than he'd thought possible three months ago when he'd taken his oath as sheriff. Even though he knew she wouldn't be here, his eyes sought out Wendy's golden head. Would he be forced to leave her, never knowing if they could have had a future together? But what right did he have to let her know of his feelings when he might have to go back to Milwaukee—beaten by a small-town thief?
"0-65!"
Suddenly the large number of the people congregated in the room bothered Rodd. After doing a rough head count, he walked back to the entrance and read the sign specifying the allowed occupancy of the building. The number in attendance exceeded the limit. What could he do? If he emptied the room, he'd spoil his plan. Why was it always something?
"G-52!"
He walked toward the front of the hall. Only a half hour left till midnight, but he had to do something to mitigate the possibility of injury. He put his hand over the mike. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said to the veteran calling the numbers, "but everyone needs to make sure that all personal items on the floor are under the tables. I need unobstructed aisles in case of emergency—"
The players stood shouting, "Go on with the game!" "What's the problem?" "Don't stop now!"
The vet, a tall white-haired man, held up his hand for quiet. "Sheriff, why—"
Rodd interrupted him. "I should clear the room. You have exceeded the occupancy of this hall, but since the game's nearly over, I just want clear egress in case of emergency."
The vet nodded. "Okay."
Rodd took his hand away, then walked to the nearest exit to check that it was clear and unlocked.
The vet explained the concern, and the crowd, though grumbling, shifted everything under the tables. Then the vet called out, "1-29!"
As the game proceeded, Rodd checked all exits, making certain everyone would be able to get out safely. Gus Feeney sat at the front table, his gaze never meeting Rodd's. The big clock behind the bingo caller ticked away the minutes till midnight.
"Bingo!" a woman in the third row shouted and stood up. "That's my fifteenth one!"
Some applauded and some groaned.
After her card had been checked for accuracy, Gus rose and walked to the scoreboard. "That makes you the big winner so far! Come on, folks, just seven more minutes!"
The caller stepped up his pace. The anxious players eyed their cards intensely. "B-5! N-39! 0-70!"
The caller's rapid announcements kept rhythm with Rodd's heartbeat. He had all his deputies stationed to anticipate any contingency on the road to Gus's house and at Gus's house. Two of them were on snowmobiles—one along the way to the house and one at the house. He'd follow Gus home at a discreet distance. By now, Rodd realized that he had to be prepared for anything.
The clock struck midnight. The plump woman who had won fifteen times went forward and received her five-hundred-dollar prize. Other people accepted lesser awards. Then Gus announced that the Bingo Fund-raiser had brought in nearly nine hundred dollars. The crowd whistled and applauded.
As everyone gathered up their belongings, children, and grandchildren, Rodd's insides were jumping. People streamed out through the exits, laughing and talking. Rodd hung back by the main entrance to the parking lot, nodding to people who greeted him.
BOOM!
The sound of an explosion brought screams and shouts from everyone.
Rodd pushed his way through the crowd out into the parking lot in front of the VFW. Flames lit up the sky farther down the street. Rodd raced toward them, barking into his cell phone, "Fire on
Turner Street—LaFollette!"
The crowd ran close to his heels. "It looks like Garvey's Garage!" someone shouted. "Yes!" and "That's right!" others agreed.
He reached the fire, which engulfed a garage behind an aged storefront. "Stand back!" he ordered. "We don't know what kind of fire it is! Get back! There could be another explosion!" Surging in front of the crowd, he had to shove a few men back for their own safety.
BOOM!!!
A second explosion behind the fire detonated. People covered their ears and screamed. A few dropped to the ground, shielding their heads with their hands and arms. Burning debris showered all around. Rodd prodded everyone back farther, helping up an older woman who'd fallen.
"Everyone back to the VFW!" He began herding them back down the street. He bent down and picked up a crying stray child. "Stay in the middle of the street! Something else might explode!"
Fear now ran with the crowd. The people huddled together as they hurried, helping the older ones keep pace, picking up children and running, running. Infected with the alarm of the adults, children screamed and babies cried out, sobbing, "Mommy! Mommy!"
The child trembled against Rodd, clutching his jacket. Protecting the rear of the crowd, Rodd kept urging everyone on with calm, even shouts. "Just head to the VFW! The firefighters are on their way—"
The siren of the LaFollette Volunteer Fire Department drowned out his voice. The sound bolstered the crowd. They ran, but the hysteria waned They funneled back into the VFW hall, suddenly a haven in the chaos. Inside, a mother came and lifted her son from Rodd's arms. She thanked him and wept over the child's head.
In the front, Gus held the proceeds from the fund-raiser in a bank bag and on each side of him, two vets with guns drawn hovered protectively. "No one got the—" Gus's voice was interrupted by an urgent shout.
"Help!" Came a yell from the back door. "Help! I've been robbed!"
On the following wintry Monday morning Wendy met Rodd at the Foodliner on Main Street. Rodd had volunteered to pay for the ingredients for the hot cocoa and fresh gingerbread that would be served at the church caroling party, and Wendy had volunteered to do the actual shopping with him.
Wendy led him down the baking goods aisle. Rodd pushed the cart with one rattling wheel while Wendy chose flour, sugar, baking cocoa, and spices. Performing this domestic chore together gave her a peculiar sensation. What would it be like to be married to Rodd and ... she halted this fairy tale.
She watched him from the corner of her eye. By now, everyone knew what had happened Saturday night. The snowmobile thief had set explosions in LaFollette to distract everyone. The ensuing commotion from the second blast had made the slick theft possible.
Evidently, the thief had been lingering by an exit at the end of Bingo Night, saw who won the money, then targeted that person when everyone ran outside after the first explosion. A man in snowmobile gear had been overlooked in the mad rush. He'd come up behind the woman and knocked her unconscious at the rear of the VFW, then made off with the money on his snowmobile. The woman who'd been robbed hadn't seen her attacker. The only blessing had been that she hadn't been seriously injured.
The whole debacle in LaFollette had left Rodd looking grim. Unreachable.
"That's about it," Wendy said with a bright smile, wishing with all her heart she had some idea to offer him.
Rodd nodded.
In light of his gloom, she reined in her smile. Lord, he's such a good man and he's tried so hard. How could he possibly have known that the burglar would blow up part of LaFollette?
Rodd pushed the noisy, irritating cart to the checkout line. Wendy was very aware of the glances directed at the sheriff. Bruno Havlecek and Leo Schultz had greeted them both. From the other few shoppers, Wendy didn't detect any hostility, only curiosity.
"There you are!" Fletcher Cram's distinctive scratchy baritone boomed through the thin crowd "I saw your Jeep outside. What is going on with you? You let the thief blow up Garvey's Garage! Good heavens! What's next?"
Instinctively, Wendy took a step backward, closer to Rodd.
Rodd stared at Cram. "I didn't let the thief do anything—he doesn't ask my permission—"
"You know what I mean! For the first time in over fifty years I agree with Veda McCracken! You should resign if you can't do the job!"
Bruno, who was in line in front of Wendy, scowled at Cram and demanded, "What makes you think you can speak for us?"
"That's right!" Leo Schultz chimed in. "Just because you run the newspaper don't mean you're in charge of the county!"
Wendy sensed Rodd's discomfort. What could he say in his own defense? What could she say?
"I have the right to demand that a public servant do his job!" Cram retorted.
"I am doing my job." Rodd surprised Wendy by speaking. "I've secured the crime scene around the explosion site. One of my men is standing guard around the clock until the explosives expert from the state crime lab gets here later today to go over the scene for evidence."
"That's all well and good," Cram blustered, "but what are you going to do if that expert doesn't find anything you can use?"
Rodd and Cram faced each other. The rest of the customers watched. Wendy searched her mind for some words to say, something that would support the sheriff without embarrassing him.
"Cram, I would resign right now if I could." Rodd's voice sounded as though it had been ripped from deep inside him.
"What does that mean?" Cram growled. "No one's preventing you!"
"Who would take my place as sheriff?"
Everyone became very quiet. The checker stopped running items over the scanner.
"Who would take my place?" Rodd repeated.
"One of your deputies. Until a special election," Cram complained.
"My deputies are all green. None of them has even a year's experience. I have nearly fifteen years in law enforcement, and I ...haven't been ...able ... to catch him. How would one of them? If I resigned now, it would amount to dereliction of duty. I can't resign now, even if I wanted to."
Cram fell silent. His prominent Adam's apple bobbled, but he said nothing.
"This thief," Rodd continued, "isn't a garden-variety one. He's got brains. He's fearless. And he's very good. I don't have one shred of hard evidence to connect anyone to any of the burglaries, and that isn't because I haven't looked. I don't think, Mr. Cram, that you have a clue as to what law enforcement is all about. So why don't you go write yourself another article about what a bad sheriff I am—but that won't make anything better either. It will just give you another chance to vent your sour spleen."
Applause broke out spontaneously.
"That's tellin' him!" Schultz chortled.
Cram turned on his heel and stomped out of the store.
"Good riddance!" Bruno pronounced.
Wendy stood, shocked. She was speechless.
The checkout line resumed and moved along; the checker tallied the charge for their groceries; they drove to the church.
In the church kitchen, Rodd had carried in the bags and Wendy unloaded them . In the stillness of the empty basement, she could hardly breathe she was so aware of Rodd. She ached to cup his face and bring his lips down to hers. But beyond this grew a sense that she needed to confront Rodd. Over and over when she'd mentioned prayer or asking God for help, he'd pulled back. Lord, am I to say something to him? How can I when everyone's already sniping at him?
Finally, she knew what she had to say. "Rodd, I know you never miss a Sunday here, but have you really learned to turn things over to God?"
He glanced at her, a wariness in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Have you asked God to lead you to the thief?"
He made an impatient sound. "I asked God to keep everyone out of my way so I could get a shot at him."
"That's not the same as asking him to help you...."
"God has better things to do than my job. And I can do my job if I just get a chance, just one little piece of evidence."
&
nbsp; Wendy shook her head. "God isn't too busy to handle anything that is important to us."
"If God does everything, what am I supposed to be doing here? I'm the sheriff."
She cocked her head to the side, appealing to him to listen to her. "A good sheriff takes all the help he can get, doesn't he?"
Rodd studied her.
Then her own conscience hit her. She'd been fretting about her mother and Jim—wasn't that God's business, too?
Holding the warm mug, the smartest man in Wisconsin stood looking out the cracked, taped window. Outside, snow fell dizzily, as if it had a hangover—a lot like he felt. His head ached and the coffee tasted bitter on his tongue, but that didn't dim his amusement. The explosions had been seen for miles!