good.”
The older woman’s eyes returned to mine. “Can’t we just leave him alone?”
I cleared my throat. “Um, no, we can’t. . . . He’s not a stray cat, Mrs. Thomas; we’ve got to find out who he is and where he belongs. There might be people out there looking for him. You understand.”
“I do.”
I picked up the book and opened it to the title page. “A couple of assumptions I’m making are that he’s Mormon and that his name is Orrin.”
Vic couldn’t resist. “Orrin the Mormon?”
I ignored her and continued. “I’m going to place my deputy here in your house this evening, if you don’t mind, in hopes that the boy will return.”
She nodded, first looking at Vic and then settling on Double Tough. “That’ll be fine.”
I stood and gave my Powder Junction deputy his command. “I’ll come by at around eleven to spell you, if that sounds good.”
He picked up another cookie and nodded. “Yup.”
“And try not to eat all the cookies.”
He didn’t answer as he took a seat by the kitchen window, lifted his tactical binoculars to his eyes to view the pump house, and chewed.
• • •
Vic fed her uneaten pizza crust to Dog as she picked up a can from my Rainier stash and gulped. “Shit, I just wish someone around here would do decent pizza.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and the front on Dog’s head. “I checked the National Crime Information Center for info on Orrin the Mormon but so far he’s about as available as the Holy Ghost. I left a message at the local Church of Latter-day Saints—who knew there was one here—with Bishop Drew Goodman and even checked with social services over in Utah, but so far nobody’s ever heard of the kid.”
I sipped my own beer and flipped through the pages of the Mormon bible. “This thing is probably worth a fortune.”
“What about the City of Belle Fourche’s traveling pants?”
I set my beer down. “I’ll call over to Tim Berg—the sheriff over there—and see if he has any ideas about the pants or the kid.”
She held her beer close to her lips and smiled the crocodile smile. “The human pencil holder?”
“Yep.” During classes at the National Sheriffs’ Association, Tim was famous for placing numerous pens and pencils in his prodigious beard and then forgetting them.
She looked up at the old Seth Thomas hanging on the wall of my office, the hands gesturing toward 10:45 like Carol Merrill from
Let’s Make a Deal
. “I was thinking about hanging around and seducing you, but my nose hurts, so I might take it home and go to bed.” She took another sip of her beer and then held the cool of the can to the spot between her eyes. “How do I look?”
I studied the two small wings of purple unfurling beneath her lower lids. “Like you coulda been a contendah.”
“Yeah, well, if I catch Orrin the Mormon I’m going to pound his head like a friggin’ bongo.” She stood and stretched, the dress hem riding up her thighs as she sang in a thick Italian accent, à la Rosemary Clooney, “Come on-a my house, my house. I’m-a gonna give you candy.”
I smiled up at her. “I thought your nose hurt.”
She backed into my office doorway and attempted to draw me forward by crooking an index finger. “It does, but I just remembered a great way to take my mind off it.”
I gathered up the detritus of our impromptu feast, crushed a few of the cans, and tossed them into the empty box—I knew I’d catch hell from Ruby if I left beer cans in the office trash. “I’ve got to relieve Double Tough in twenty-five minutes.”
“We could make it a quickie.”
I closed the box, picked it up, and walked around my desk to meet her. “What do you hear from the newlyweds?” Her face darkened beyond the black eyes, and I suddenly realized that clouds were gathering and lightning was flashing in the tarnished gold pupils. “What?”
“I’ve warned you about that.”
“What?”
She leaned against the
The older woman’s eyes returned to mine. “Can’t we just leave him alone?”
I cleared my throat. “Um, no, we can’t. . . . He’s not a stray cat, Mrs. Thomas; we’ve got to find out who he is and where he belongs. There might be people out there looking for him. You understand.”
“I do.”
I picked up the book and opened it to the title page. “A couple of assumptions I’m making are that he’s Mormon and that his name is Orrin.”
Vic couldn’t resist. “Orrin the Mormon?”
I ignored her and continued. “I’m going to place my deputy here in your house this evening, if you don’t mind, in hopes that the boy will return.”
She nodded, first looking at Vic and then settling on Double Tough. “That’ll be fine.”
I stood and gave my Powder Junction deputy his command. “I’ll come by at around eleven to spell you, if that sounds good.”
He picked up another cookie and nodded. “Yup.”
“And try not to eat all the cookies.”
He didn’t answer as he took a seat by the kitchen window, lifted his tactical binoculars to his eyes to view the pump house, and chewed.
• • •
Vic fed her uneaten pizza crust to Dog as she picked up a can from my Rainier stash and gulped. “Shit, I just wish someone around here would do decent pizza.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and the front on Dog’s head. “I checked the National Crime Information Center for info on Orrin the Mormon but so far he’s about as available as the Holy Ghost. I left a message at the local Church of Latter-day Saints—who knew there was one here—with Bishop Drew Goodman and even checked with social services over in Utah, but so far nobody’s ever heard of the kid.”
I sipped my own beer and flipped through the pages of the Mormon bible. “This thing is probably worth a fortune.”
“What about the City of Belle Fourche’s traveling pants?”
I set my beer down. “I’ll call over to Tim Berg—the sheriff over there—and see if he has any ideas about the pants or the kid.”
She held her beer close to her lips and smiled the crocodile smile. “The human pencil holder?”
“Yep.” During classes at the National Sheriffs’ Association, Tim was famous for placing numerous pens and pencils in his prodigious beard and then forgetting them.
She looked up at the old Seth Thomas hanging on the wall of my office, the hands gesturing toward 10:45 like Carol Merrill from
Let’s Make a Deal
. “I was thinking about hanging around and seducing you, but my nose hurts, so I might take it home and go to bed.” She took another sip of her beer and then held the cool of the can to the spot between her eyes. “How do I look?”
I studied the two small wings of purple unfurling beneath her lower lids. “Like you coulda been a contendah.”
“Yeah, well, if I catch Orrin the Mormon I’m going to pound his head like a friggin’ bongo.” She stood and stretched, the dress hem riding up her thighs as she sang in a thick Italian accent, à la Rosemary Clooney, “Come on-a my house, my house. I’m-a gonna give you candy.”
I smiled up at her. “I thought your nose hurt.”
She backed into my office doorway and attempted to draw me forward by crooking an index finger. “It does, but I just remembered a great way to take my mind off it.”
I gathered up the detritus of our impromptu feast, crushed a few of the cans, and tossed them into the empty box—I knew I’d catch hell from Ruby if I left beer cans in the office trash. “I’ve got to relieve Double Tough in twenty-five minutes.”
“We could make it a quickie.”
I closed the box, picked it up, and walked around my desk to meet her. “What do you hear from the newlyweds?” Her face darkened beyond the black eyes, and I suddenly realized that clouds were gathering and lightning was flashing in the tarnished gold pupils. “What?”
“I’ve warned you about that.”
“What?”
She leaned against the
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