by Diana Palmer
Then there was the businessman who dealt in securities. He was good for two hours on the benefits of diversity in a portfolio. As if Meadow, even on her good salary, was ever going to be able to build the sort of portfolio he was talking about.
The last man she’d dated had been an electrician. She’d met him when the refrigerator and the stove both stopped working at the same time in her apartment. A faulty electrical line was the culprit. He’d fixed it and they’d talked, and he’d asked her out. His wife had phoned her the following night to ask if Meadow would like to come over and meet her and his children. Horrified, she’d almost been in tears. She honestly had no idea that he was married. The woman had relented. She was sorry. Her husband made a habit of this. She was pregnant with their third child and he was roaming. Again. Meadow apologized. She blocked the man’s calls and never saw him after that.
She pretty much gave up on dating after that. It had been over a year since anyone had asked her out. She wasn’t a social animal anyway, much preferring a good book to a booze-soaked party. She had no close friends. Her college roommate had married and moved to England. Her high school friends were all married and scattered to the four winds. Her mother had died soon after she moved into the dorm at college her first semester there. Her father had died weeks ago. So now it was just Meadow and her dog.
She remembered that warm, hungry kiss that Dal had given her under the mistletoe so long ago. She’d given him her heart and he never knew. It wouldn’t have mattered. Her father had made sure that he wouldn’t want her. He knew Meadow had no resistance to Dal, considering her feelings for him. He was protecting her, making Dal see her as a somber federal agent who didn’t really like men and wanted only to compete with them and best them in her chosen profession.
It was sweet of her father to care so much. Probably he’d saved her, in case Dal had developed any feelings for her. Not that it was likely, considering how angry he got when he had to bring Snow back home or come to collect Jarvis. The only emotion she seemed to provoke in him was extreme irritation.
It would have been nice if her feelings for him had vanished. He gave her no encouragement at all. Her only memories of him were hedged in by humiliation and ridicule. But love was as hardy as a weed and just as hard to eradicate. Her heart fed on just the sight of him, as it had for so many long years.
She’d have a better chance of lassoing the moon and bringing it home. She knew that. It didn’t help.
* * *
She wore a neat dark green pantsuit to work the following Monday, with soft-soled shoes. She wore her old service pistol as well, the .40 caliber Glock, in a holster at her waist.
The Juniper County Sheriff’s Department had an office in the hundred-year-old county courthouse in downtown Raven Springs. In addition, there was the detention center a mile out of town, where prisoners were housed and which was under the care of Captain Rick Sanders.
Jeff was happy to see her. He introduced her to the clerk at the desk, to his two patrol officers and his chief deputy, or undersheriff, Gil Barnes, who barely had time to say hello because he was rushing out to answer a call from the local 911 center.
“It’s a small operation,” Jeff explained sheepishly. “We have our office here at the courthouse, where it’s been for almost a hundred years. The detention center is newer, but we’re mostly here in town. Not much has changed since my granddad was sheriff.”
She remembered talk about his grandfather, who had been one heck of a lawman. She just nodded.
He glanced at the weapon on her belt. “A Glock?”
“I like them,” she said. “They’re not heavy, they’re easy to use, and if you drop them in mud, they still fire.”
He laughed. “Good point.” He indicated the huge .45 1911 model Colt in the holster on his own wide hand-tooled leather belt. “I like something with stopping power.”
“Have you ever had to shoot anyone?” she asked solemnly.
He nodded. His face hardened. “A guy who’d just killed his five-year-old son. He was high on meth and he came at me with a combat knife.” He averted his eyes just briefly. “I had a 9 millimeter pistol, like yours,” he added. “I emptied it into him and he caught me by the throat. If my undersheriff, Gil Barnes, hadn’t been sent to assist by the 911 operator, I’d be dead. You might have noticed from the glimpse you got of Gil that he packs a .45, like mine. He took the man down. It was a hard lesson. Sometimes you need a weapon that will knock a man down in a deadly circumstance. That was why .45 caliber handguns were invented in the first place, for their stopping power.”
Her lips parted on a rushed breath. She recalled the man who’d attacked her in the interrogation cell, where she hadn’t had her firearm. She wondered if she’d have the nerve to actually kill a man who threatened her life. Her batting average in gun battles was dismal.
“You were lucky,” she pointed out.
He nodded. “Damned lucky. So you think it through and decide if you want to keep that,” he indicated her pistol, “or exchange it for one like mine.”
She smiled sadly. “Jeff, my hands aren’t made for big weapons.” She displayed them. “I even had trouble with the .38 I trained with at the academy. My firing instructor said I needed to keep doing hand exercises to build up my strength. But it never really worked. I just have small hands.”
He sighed. “I’ll make sure you always have backup,” he promised. “But that one shooting was the only one I’ve been involved in for the seven years I’ve been sheriff,” he said encouragingly. “So maybe you’ll get lucky.”
She grinned. “Maybe I will. Okay. I’m here. I’ve been photographed, fingerprinted, grilled and chilled, and licensed to carry a concealed weapon if I so desire. So what do I do first, boss?”
He chuckled. “I like that. Boss.” He turned back to his desk and pulled out a file folder. “This is a photo I took off the Internet. It shows a lamp like the one that was stolen just recently. I know, it’s a light case, but I’m starting you off with easy stuff. Okay?”
She didn’t take offense. It was early times. “That’s fine. What do you want me to do?”
“Go into Raven Springs and talk to Mike Markson at the Yesterday Place. It’s our only antique shop. See what he can tell you about the lamp. If we know what it’s worth and who might want it, we might get a break on a suspect.”
“I’ll go right now.”
“He’s on the main drag,” he told her. “You can drive one of our cars, if you like.”
“I’d rather drive my own SUV,” she said. “Since I’m a plainclothes investigator.” She frowned. “Did you want me to wear a uniform?”
“Not necessary,” he said easily. “Wear what you like. Well, short of low-cut red dresses,” he added, forcing down a helpless grin.
She glared at him. “He told you!”
He burst out laughing. “Sorry. Really. I just couldn’t resist it. Dal said the whole coal bin fell on you.”
She ground her teeth together. “Dal Blake is an animal,” she said shortly.
He raised both eyebrows. “Well, when it comes to women, he probably is,” he agreed. He chuckled. “We’ve been friends since high school. I’d give a lot to have his charm.”
“There are other words for that,” she muttered.
“Now, now,” he said gently. “He’d just break your heart if you got involved with him. He’s not a forever after sort of guy.”
“I knew that the first time I met him,” she confessed. She managed a smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not breaking my heart over him. I had a huge crush on him when I started college.” She forced a laugh. “It didn’t survive the last Christmas dance.”
He pursed his lips and whistled, laughing. “That was memorable, too. I wasn’t there, but I heard about it. Old man Grayson’s wife gave him hell all the way home about coming on to you, not to mention having him embarrass you by tipping the punch bowl over on your dress.”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t much of a dress,” she
confessed.
“Dal said that.” He averted his eyes. He was laying it on thick, but he didn’t want her looking in Dal’s direction. He wanted that ranch, and she was going to eventually have to sell it. Both men needed the water rights. Jeff wanted them very badly.
She wasn’t bad looking, and he didn’t have a steady girl. So if courting her got him the land, why not?
“Dal can shut up,” she said under her breath. “His opinion is no concern of mine.”
He smiled. “Exactly. Now get out there and find that lamp.”
“Yes, sir.” She grinned as she went out the door.
Chapter Three
The Yesterday Place was a small shop right on main street in Raven Springs. It had a stenciled name on glass that looked a little ragged around the edges. But inside, it was warm and friendly.
The owner, Mike Markson, was bald on top and had big, kind brown eyes. He was short and a little rotund. Meadow liked him at once. He was friendly and welcoming, not the sort of man who had a hidden agenda. At least, her FBI training had taught her body language and how to notice criminal traits. This man seemed as straight as an arrow.
“I’m Meadow Dawson.” She introduced herself, shaking hands with a warm smile. “I’m Sheriff Ralston’s new investigator.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Mike. I’ve been here for so long that I feel I own half of Main Street.” He laughed.
“Our family goes back three generations in Raven Springs. I lost my father just recently,” she added.
“I knew your father,” he replied. “Good man. I was sorry to hear that he died. Was it quick?”
She nodded. It was hard to talk about it. The wound was fresh. “Heart attack.”
He grimaced. “My wife went like that,” he said. “My son never got over losing her. He and I get along, but he’s more aggressive with people than I am.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s good. I tend to be a little too generous in my offers.” He laughed. “Gary can bargain them down to a fraction of what something’s really worth.”
Meadow would have called that a larcenous personality, but she wasn’t about to say it to the man’s father.
“I’d like you to look at something, if you don’t mind,” she said politely.
“Glad to. Glad to.”
She pulled the Internet photo out of the file under her arm and put it on the counter.
“This lamp?” He pulled up his glasses with a grin when he bent over the photo. “Reading glasses, my left elbow.” He chuckled. “Have to take them off to see anything up close.” He frowned. “This is a magnificent lamp. John Harlow had one just like it. I tried so hard to get him to sell it to me, but he wouldn’t budge. My son, Gary, the antique expert, had a fit over it. He offered John a small fortune for it. John said it was a family heirloom, and he couldn’t part with it. It belonged to the family of President Andrew Jackson at one time. It had a history.” He shook his head. He frowned and looked up at Meadow. “Why am I looking at this lamp?”
“It was stolen, just recently, from Mr. Harlow’s home.”
“You don’t say!” Mike was shocked. “But we don’t have people stealing antiques around here,” he added quickly. “In fact, we hardly ever have thieves at all, unless someone’s desperate for drug money. There was a case last month, a man who stole a whole steel gun case out of a local man’s house and blew it open with C4.” He frowned. “Neighbor heard the explosion and called police. They walked up just as the perpetrator was taking the guns out of the case.”
“Tough luck for him,” she agreed.
He shook his head. “Damaged one of the skeet guns. A Krieghoff, worth about fifty thousand dollars.”
Her lower jaw fell open. “That much for a gun?”
“Not just any gun,” he said. “A competition shotgun. They’re expensive. The guy who owned it is a Class A shooter. He goes to the World Skeet Shooting Competition in San Antonio, Texas, every year and wins prizes.”
“Wow.” She shook her head. “I had trouble affording my Glock,” she confessed.
He smiled. “I have a twelve gauge shotgun of my own,” he said, nodding toward the underside of the counter she was leaning against. “Can’t take chances. I have some very valuable things in here. I’ve never been robbed, but there’s always a first time.”
The bell on the front door clanged, and a tall, thin young man with brown hair and a scowl walked in.
“There’s my son! Gary, this is Meadow Dawson,” he said. “She’s with the sheriff’s department; their new investigator. Miss Dawson, my son, Gary.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, but he looked apprehensive as he stared at her. He didn’t offer to shake hands.
“She’s here about that lamp that was stolen from John Harlow’s place,” the older man explained.
“I see.” Gary’s eyes narrowed. “Got any leads?”
“Not yet. I was just checking with your father about its worth. I’d also like to know if you have any contacts who could tell me about potential buyers for an item like this,” she added to Mike.
He pursed his lips. “Not really. I deal with local people. But Gary here has some links on the Internet to specialty purchasers, don’t you, son?”
Gary gave his father a cold glare. “Not many. I deal with the big auction houses back east for rare items. Very rare items,” he emphasized. He glanced at the lamp in the photo. “That’s a low-ticket item.”
“It is?” Mike asked, surprised. “I thought there was a big demand for period antiques right now, especially ones with a history like John’s.”
“There was. It’s gone now. It was a fad. Buying habits change quickly in antiques,” the boy added offhandedly. “I’m going to get breakfast. Can I bring you something?” he asked his father.
“A bear claw and black coffee, please,” Mike told him. “Take the cash out of the drawer for it,” he added with a chuckle, because his son was already dipping into the register.
“Be back in a minute or two,” Gary promised, waving several twenty dollar bills.
Meadow’s eyebrows arched. She wondered what sort of bear claw cost almost a hundred dollars.
Mike noticed where her attention was and drew a conclusion. He laughed. “Yes, he took several twenties out of the register, you noticed? He needs to gas up that big Ford Expedition he’s driving,” Mike told her. He shook his head. “Gas is through the roof. Costs almost seventy dollars to fill it up with premium.”
Meadow, who drove an economy SUV and put regular gas in it, was surprised. But she just laughed. “Why does he run such an expensive vehicle?”
“He does most of the hauling for me,” he explained. “I bought him the SUV for that purpose. We had a pickup truck, but when it’s raining, or snowing, even a tarp doesn’t keep out some of the wetness. Antiques are delicate.”
“I see.” She smiled and went back to the photo, dragging as much information out of him as she could for her report.
When he finished, she shook hands again. “Thanks very much for your help. It goes without saying, if anyone tries to sell a lamp like this to you . . .”
“I’ll phone you at once,” he agreed.
She reached in her purse and hesitated. “I don’t have business cards yet, but you can reach me at the sheriff’s office in the courthouse.”
“I have that number,” he told her. “And I’ll call you.”
“Thanks very much. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, as well.”
When she went back to her car, there was still no sign of the son who’d gone to get breakfast for his father.
* * *
She gave the information to Jeff. “He knows a lot about antiques,” she said.
He nodded. “He’s our local expert. He does appraisals as well.”
“I met his son.”
He made a face. “Gary. He’s nothing like his dad. He never could hold down a job, and he tried to be a lot of things, including a truck driver.” He shook his head. “If his dad ha
dn’t helped him out, he’d probably be living in a shelter somewhere. He doesn’t like work, but he loves money. Bad combination.”
“I’ve seen it lead to trouble,” she commented.
“He was in juvy a couple of times for petty theft,” Jeff commented, referring to juvenile hall, where people under age were placed when charged with crimes.
“What did you think of him?” Jeff asked unexpectedly.
She grimaced. “He didn’t make a great impression on me.”
“His dad’s been in the antique business most of his life. He does know the business, and he makes a good living.”
“Good luck to him. I don’t think he’ll find many things that valuable around here,” she sighed.
“You might be surprised,” he commented. “Dal Blake has a small table that was used to sign the surrender at Appomattox,” he said. “It’s worth a fortune. Dal’s careful to keep his doors locked. He inherited it from his grandmother.”
“Wow,” she commented. “That’s really an heirloom.”
“Yes, it is,” Jeff agreed. He laughed. “But we really don’t have many thefts in this community. We’ve been lucky.”
“I’ll say,” she replied, recalling the many cases she’d seen back in Missouri when she worked for the Bureau.
“Feel like interrogating some suspects for me?” Jeff asked. “I’ve got a gas drive-away and two possible suspects. We have a photo from the surveillance camera that could be of either two men.”
“I’ll go grill them,” she said with a grin. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised, and went to work.
* * *
The drive-away at the gas pump was a sad case, a crime that grew more prevalent with gas prices rising and people out of work.
“I have to get to my job,” the belligerent young man groaned when Meadow showed up at his door with a copy of the surveillance camera photo. “Ma’am, the baby got sick and we had to pay the doctor up front. No gas, no job . . .”
“I understand how hard things can get,” she said gently. “But stealing is still against the law, regardless of the reason.”