The Bookwoman's Last Fling by John Dunning Page B

point.”
    â€œDoes this mean you’re finished with me?”
    I shook my head. Not by a long shot.
    â€œMr. Willis?”
    â€œThis has nothing to do with Sharon’s books. Let’s keep focused here.”
    â€œSharon’s books?” I blinked. “What books does Sharon have?”
    â€œWhen Candice died, she left Sharon half her books. Mr. Geiger got the rest.”
    â€œAh,” I said. “When were you planning to tell me that, Mr. Willis?”
    â€œIt’s got nothing to do with the job you’re here for.”
    â€œIt’s good to know you think that. But I’d like to see her anyway.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    I stared him down.
    â€œScrew it, if you’ve got to, here, take my truck. She lives on thirty acres down the road at the edge of the ranch. I’ll wait here till you’re done.”
    I drove down the muddy road and the question I’d had up in Geiger’s book room was still with me. Why steal a $700 Oz book when a Pinocchio worth at least $65,000 could be lifted as easily? What kind of thief would do that?

4
    The rain had stopped and the thick clouds in the east were pale orange now. I splashed over the wet road in Willis’s truck and soon I saw a grove of trees and a house; beyond that a barn and a fenced field, a small group of paddocks, another barn, and some animals. I saw two tiny goats and three dogs, a pheasant, a flock of chickens, some ducks, a donkey, and perhaps fifteen horses. The number of horses grew as I came closer until I counted eighteen in the big field and another half dozen in individual pens or corrals at the side of the barn. I pulled up at the edge of the house, stopped the truck, and got out. The three dogs, goldens, came running. One barked menacingly but I got down to one knee and he turned to mush, rolling over on his back in the mud, wagging his tail and begging for a belly scratch.
    I got up and walked around the house. It looked deserted in the gray morning, but then I heard the unmistakable growl of a tractor. I stood at the edge of the porch and watched as she inched it out of the barn. It was a small tractor with a flatbed loaded three high and four across with bales of hay. I was standing about fifty yards away and she missed me in her concentration. The two goats stood up and pranced on their hind legs, actually danced a jig in front of her tractor. “C’mon, guys, get out of there,” she yelled clearly over the motor noise. She jerked forward and they moved aside; the tractor turned into the road and she saw me suddenly and killed the motor.
    â€œHey.” Her voice wasn’t challenging but it wasn’t overly warm either. She sat forward on the seat, her long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows, a perfect picture of a working farm gal. She was in her early thirties, I guessed; blond, and probably years younger than her half brothers. I stepped out into the yard and said, “I take it you’re Sharon,” and she nodded slightly, still uncommitted. I told her my name as her eyes took in the truck behind me. “Is Junior here?”
    I shook my head and told her he had loaned me the truck. I started across the yard.
    â€œSo what’s this about?”
    â€œI’d like to talk to you for a while, if you’ve got the time.”
    â€œHow long’s a while?”
    â€œDepends on what you say.”
    â€œWell, it’ll have to be later if it’s something deep. I’m getting a late start this morning. These guys are hungry and I should be done by now.”
    â€œI think you would call this something reasonably deep.”
    â€œGive me a hint.”
    â€œIt’s about your mother and her books.”
    She sat perfectly still for a moment, as if the words had frozen her there. “Actually I’ve been expecting someone like you. Could you come back in three hours?”
    â€œI’ve got a better idea. How about letting