pinching shreds of tobacco from the pouch with his thumb and index finger, not bothering to make eye contact with Luke.
“Why blame the woman? She just wants to find her husband.”
“Hogwash. She doesn’t have him to henpeck anymore so she henpecks me.”
Luke rolled his eyes. “She has reason to be upset,” he said, striving for self-control. It would serve no purpose to advertise his feelings for the grieving widow. And her bluestocking ways were just one of her abundant charms. He stood up and walked to the window and remained there, hands on his hips, gazing down the street. “Every day we don’t find that body it looks worse.”
“We’ll find it.”
“Beyond the thirty miles to Clearmont?” Luke stayed at the window, arms folded across his chest now, but turned his head to speak directly to the sheriff.
Sheriff Morris stopped pulling the string on his tobacco pouch and looked at Luke. “How do I know?” he said, irritation building in his voice. “I don’t got any more clues than you.”
“I don’t like this whole thing.”
“What’s to like about a dead body and a nagging widow?” said Sheriff Morris as he used two fingers to put a pinch of tobacco in his cheek.
Luke glared at his boss. “We don’t have a body.” They had a widow for sure, but Mrs. Lenora Rose was no nag. Luke kept that thought to himself. Cyrus was riled enough.
“For God’s sake, Luke,” said the sheriff, raising his voice several levels, “the woman doesn’t even have enough sense to put on widow’s weeds.” Sheriff Morris leaned back in his chair and lifted mud-caked boots onto the edge of his desk. A small chu nk of dried mud broke off and fell onto the desk. With his heel he shoved it to the floor, scraping the desk as he did.
“She doesn’t believe she’s a widow. She thinks he’s still alive.”
“Lunatic female,” muttered the sheriff between noisy chaws of tobacco. “All of ‘em, loony.”
Luke stared pensively at the sheriff a few seconds. Then abruptly he left the window, rounded his desk, and pulled his hat from the rack in the corner of his small office area. He scooped up the loose papers on his desk, folded them over twice, and shoved them in his shirt pocket.
“I’ll be back in a while,” he said, moving toward the door.
“Where you going?”
“Aeschelman’s,” he said, smashing his hat onto his head, “to send these letters.”
“Hmpf,” grunted Sheriff Morris. Then, pointing to Luke’s lunch, “You goin’ to eat that?”
Luke turned back to his sandwich and pickle. “Help yourself,” he said with disgust. Then he strode out the door, not refraining from indulging, as Lenora had, in the type of deliciously loud and satisfying exit that perfectly suits a heated farewell.
#
A bell tinkled over the door at Aeschelman’s General Store. Lenora looked up from the rear corner of the mercantile toward the street and at once recognized the tall silhouette of Deputy Davies darkening the doorway. Not desiring to be grilled again about James’ disappearance, her first inclination was to hide. But that was silly. There was no reason to fear more questions; she had harmed no one. A furtive glance around the compact store told her that she had no place to hide anyway. She squared her shoulders, preparing to engage with the deputy. She knew he’d have something to say to her, likely probing and insulting. He always did.
Mr. Aeschelman heard the bell too, walked through the rough brown curtains, and stood at the counter waiting expectantly.
“Morning, Faustus,” said Luke. But instead of stopping at the counter he proceeded directly to the rear of the store where Lenora had her eyes fixed on a display of mouse traps. His boots clunked on the bare wood floor in a thoroughly masculine fashion, commanding the attention of both the storekeeper and Lenora.
“Ma’am,” said Luke, tipping his hat as he approached.
Luke stopped a few feet away from Lenora. Even without
“Why blame the woman? She just wants to find her husband.”
“Hogwash. She doesn’t have him to henpeck anymore so she henpecks me.”
Luke rolled his eyes. “She has reason to be upset,” he said, striving for self-control. It would serve no purpose to advertise his feelings for the grieving widow. And her bluestocking ways were just one of her abundant charms. He stood up and walked to the window and remained there, hands on his hips, gazing down the street. “Every day we don’t find that body it looks worse.”
“We’ll find it.”
“Beyond the thirty miles to Clearmont?” Luke stayed at the window, arms folded across his chest now, but turned his head to speak directly to the sheriff.
Sheriff Morris stopped pulling the string on his tobacco pouch and looked at Luke. “How do I know?” he said, irritation building in his voice. “I don’t got any more clues than you.”
“I don’t like this whole thing.”
“What’s to like about a dead body and a nagging widow?” said Sheriff Morris as he used two fingers to put a pinch of tobacco in his cheek.
Luke glared at his boss. “We don’t have a body.” They had a widow for sure, but Mrs. Lenora Rose was no nag. Luke kept that thought to himself. Cyrus was riled enough.
“For God’s sake, Luke,” said the sheriff, raising his voice several levels, “the woman doesn’t even have enough sense to put on widow’s weeds.” Sheriff Morris leaned back in his chair and lifted mud-caked boots onto the edge of his desk. A small chu nk of dried mud broke off and fell onto the desk. With his heel he shoved it to the floor, scraping the desk as he did.
“She doesn’t believe she’s a widow. She thinks he’s still alive.”
“Lunatic female,” muttered the sheriff between noisy chaws of tobacco. “All of ‘em, loony.”
Luke stared pensively at the sheriff a few seconds. Then abruptly he left the window, rounded his desk, and pulled his hat from the rack in the corner of his small office area. He scooped up the loose papers on his desk, folded them over twice, and shoved them in his shirt pocket.
“I’ll be back in a while,” he said, moving toward the door.
“Where you going?”
“Aeschelman’s,” he said, smashing his hat onto his head, “to send these letters.”
“Hmpf,” grunted Sheriff Morris. Then, pointing to Luke’s lunch, “You goin’ to eat that?”
Luke turned back to his sandwich and pickle. “Help yourself,” he said with disgust. Then he strode out the door, not refraining from indulging, as Lenora had, in the type of deliciously loud and satisfying exit that perfectly suits a heated farewell.
#
A bell tinkled over the door at Aeschelman’s General Store. Lenora looked up from the rear corner of the mercantile toward the street and at once recognized the tall silhouette of Deputy Davies darkening the doorway. Not desiring to be grilled again about James’ disappearance, her first inclination was to hide. But that was silly. There was no reason to fear more questions; she had harmed no one. A furtive glance around the compact store told her that she had no place to hide anyway. She squared her shoulders, preparing to engage with the deputy. She knew he’d have something to say to her, likely probing and insulting. He always did.
Mr. Aeschelman heard the bell too, walked through the rough brown curtains, and stood at the counter waiting expectantly.
“Morning, Faustus,” said Luke. But instead of stopping at the counter he proceeded directly to the rear of the store where Lenora had her eyes fixed on a display of mouse traps. His boots clunked on the bare wood floor in a thoroughly masculine fashion, commanding the attention of both the storekeeper and Lenora.
“Ma’am,” said Luke, tipping his hat as he approached.
Luke stopped a few feet away from Lenora. Even without
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