book in his Land Rover. Great. Just great.
Chapter Two
Gillian had forgotten to defrost the chicken. She sighed as she stared at the inside of her fridge, waiting for some wonderful delicacy to leap out from behind the carton of nonfat milk. Instead, the little light in the back decided to burn out. Poof. It was dark, the surprise treat failed to materialize, and she had nothing for dinner.
She closed the fridge and leaned her head against the cool white door. A good mother would have remembered to take the chicken out. A good mother wouldn’t dream of taking her growing son out for fast food again. Even a halfway decent mother could probably find something in the pantry that was nutritious and tasty. But the truth was she wouldn’t be getting any awards for mothering tonight. Because it was going to be fast food or pizza. She’d love the convenience of having the pizza delivered, but Eli would want the golden arches. Who was she to argue?
She pushed herself away from the fridge and picked up her purse. “Eli!”
“What?” a little voice called from upstairs.
“Come down here.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Okay.”
“Now.”
“Okay.”
Did she have cash? She opened her purse and found her wallet. In it, she found two credit cards, three twenty-cent stamps, a coupon for bug spray and a very crumpled twenty-dollar bill. Thank goodness she wouldn’t have to go to the bank, too. All she wanted was a nice, long bath. Scented with lavender. Candles flickering on the sink and around the tub. Soft music, Debussy maybe, playing in the background. It wasn’t that much to ask for, was it?
The sound of an elephant clomping down the stairs made her turn. How a four-and-a-half-year-old could make that much noise all by himself astounded her. She could see why he’d been upstairs—the call of his Game Boy had been too much for him. So, rather than just turn the electronic demon off, he’d brought it with him. She heard little pings and splats as he got to the bottom of the stairs.
“Well,” she said, “if you’re not interested in going to McDonald’s…”
His head jerked up, making his way-too-long hair fly wildly. “Really?”
She nodded.
He flung the expensive toy past her to the couch, where it ricocheted off the arm and landed on the carpet. But how could she scold him when he tackled her with a king-size hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
He sounded as if she’d just pardoned him from five years hard labor instead of providing him with a Happy Meal. “You’re welcome, Eli.”
She bent down and kissed his head, then he took her hand and pulled her to the front door and, after she’d locked up, to the car. The whole time he chanted the magic fast-food song. She wasn’t sure of all the words, but special sauce, lettuce, pickles and buns were all in there somewhere.
They headed out of their little subdivision, which really only consisted of four houses, toward Main Street. She hadn’t finished her lesson plan for tomorrow. Eli needed a bath. Then there was laundry, of course. And she had to remember to take the chicken out of the…
She slowed the car, her heartbeat accelerating as she finished the turn onto the major thoroughfare of the little town. A crowd had gathered outside the police station. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been arrested, let alone drawn a crowd. She saw her aunt Elizabeth in the middle of things. And there was Axel Johnson, Felicia, Carol from the bakery. What on earth could have happened?
“Hi, Aunt Elizabeth!”
Gillian saw that Eli had unbuckled his seat belt so he could lean out the window and shout. “Get down,” she said. “And buckle up.”
“But it’s a party!”
“It’s not a party.”
“Then why’s everybody there?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure it has nothing to do with us.”
“Can’t we find out?”
“No, we can’t.” She drove past the police building slowly, determined not to get involved. Bradley Goodwin spotted her and pointed, but instead of waving her to a stop, the whole crowd surged inside the building, practically trampling one another in their haste. Before she got to the stop sign, the entire street had emptied.
“Where’d everybody go?” Eli asked.
“I have no idea,” she said. “That was certainly odd.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Can I get a large fries?”
She smiled. “Not a chance.”
Eli sighed. It was such a tough life. The poor kid. Deprivation at every turn.
She rounded the next corner, then pulled into the restaurant parking lot. Eli was out of the car and halfway to the door before she’d finished locking up. All that energy. All that enthusiasm. It made her feel 128 years old. She really must find the time to exercise.
Yeah, right.
CONNER COULDN’T believe it. He was actually in jail. For saying damn. A whole bunch of better curses had been swirling through his head, and it was everything he could do not to direct them at the sheriff. He figured it must be a scam, like a speed trap. Extortion. Plain, ugly extortion.
He had a phone call coming and he had an attorney who would have a thing or two to say about this. Conner didn’t care if they had to take it to the Supreme Court. He was going to fight this and win.
He heard a lot of people talking in the other room, but he was alone in his cell. Just him and two cots. And all those bars. He had a sudden urge to play the harmonica.
The noise from the other room increased, but no matter how he twisted and turned, he couldn’t see a damn thing. So he went to the cot on his left. Hmm. It was better than he’d expected. Firmer. A real bed, not straw matting.
He never should have come out here. He should have listened when his instincts told him to go home. But no. He had to stay for his precious antiques. Who the hell cared about antique medical equipment anyway?
The outside door opened and Conner leaped to his feet. It was the cop. The son of a—
“I brought you something to read,” he said.
“Something to read? What about my phone call? What about my rights?”
“Now don’t get yourself all worked up,” the sheriff said. “You’ll get your phone call soon enough. In the meantime, I figured you might want something to do.” He held up a small stack of paperback books.
Conner felt a headache coming on. A doozy. He put his hands to his temples and rubbed, but it was no use. “Can you give me some aspirin?” he asked.
“Got a headache, eh?” The cop slipped the books between the bars.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He left, closing the outside door after him. No phone call. No explanations. Just old Zane Grey Westerns and Stephen King horror novels. He could write his own horror novel. He’d call it Trapped in Miller’s Landing. It would scare the bejeezus out of city dwellers everywhere.
He went back to the cot and put the books next to him. He didn’t feel like reading. Even if he had, he’d want his own book. The one sitting on the front seat of his car. What he did feel like doing was committing real crimes. Crimes that made sense. Like strangling a certain small-town sheriff. He went back to rubbing his temples, but that proved useless after a while. There wasn’t enough room to do any real pacing, so he stretched out, putting his arm over his eyes. He’d never sleep, but at least he could rest.