Prairie Gothic by J.M. Hayes

worry. We’re fine.
    Small emergency. Back soon.
    Love! One & Two
    ***
    â€œFive-hundred to 501,” Mrs. Kraus said into her walkie-talkie from her desk in the Benteen County Sheriff’s Office. She spoke with dulcet tones, something similar to a metal file taking a burr off a plowshare.
    A particular file was most likely to come to mind if you wished to describe Mrs. Kraus—the rat-tailed bastard file, named for its long, narrow shape, and its medium coarseness. Both were apt descriptions. Not that she was tall. She wasn’t, she just seemed tall because she was so slender—roughly the same dimensions from top to bottom. And no one would accuse her of being either too coarse, or insufficiently so, at least not for an employee of the sheriff’s department for nearly forty years.
    The phone started ringing again and Mrs. Kraus reached over and took it out of its cradle and told it to hold on a minute before setting it down to repeat her numerical mantra into the radio. The office was five hundred. The sheriff was 501. Deputies ranked on down to 510, based on the assumption, untrue during her tenure, that the department was fully staffed.
    â€œI read you five hundred.”
    â€œI hate to intrude,” she informed the radio. “I know you’re a busy man, but your office—that being me—could use a briefing about what’s going on out there. We’re swamped with calls wanting to know about that dead baby, and a missing body, and I don’t know what to tell folks.”
    She had taken the original call about the baby and he’d told her about Mad Dog and Tommie Irons, so she knew he wasn’t exaggerating much when he replied, “You know almost as much as I do.”
    She looked across the counter at the small crowd gathered in the office. “Well, sir, there’s a county supervisor down here who’d like to be filled in. He’s suggesting maybe you should drop everything and come over and make him happy. Pretty much otherwise ignore public safety and well being for his convenience.”
    Supervisor Bontrager had the good sense to look embarrassed, but not enough to hold his tongue. “Supervisor Hornbaker is handling a small emergency, but he and I have constituents who want to know about this baby. Mr. Hornbaker heard rumors it was a late term abortion. He’s going to look into that. It’s the kind of horrendous criminal act we aren’t about to tolerate here.”
    â€œI heard,” the sheriff said. “I haven’t got time to care what anybody wants just now. The supervisors get in your way, Mrs. Kraus, use your Glock. You find me any spare deputies?”
    â€œHank Wilson is coming from over by Cottonwood Corners. It’s gonna take him some time to navigate his way to the plowed roads, he says, but he’s coming. No luck otherwise. If you’re looking for Wynn, I don’t know where he is. The manager of the secondhand store at Main and Monroe called earlier about him trying to confiscate all their dolls. When they wouldn’t turn them over, he left. I’ve tried calling him on the radio and his cellular. No luck. He most likely forgot to turn them on.”
    The radio caught the tail end of an expletive. “If you hear from him, send him home. Hank or I’ll deal with the missing doll. Now, is that all? I’ve got problems I need to deal with.”
    â€œI’m not just trying to pass the time, Sheriff. Amongst the fifty or so calls I’ve answered in the last hour, there’s two you might want to know about. Some of Tommie Irons’ kin are over at the Sunshine Towers. They say Tommie isn’t the only thing missing from his room. They say there was an heirloom, something valuable, and they want to know what’s become of it. Seemed a lot more upset about it than about Tommie.”
    â€œI’ll head back over.”
    â€œYou might want to make a stop on your way. Doc