trying to break the case.”
“The case . . . ?” The word fairly hummed with skepti cism and disapproval.
“The case of the missing appendage,” I hastily supplied, lest he’d forgotten our find of the day before. “Sounds like the title of a Nancy Drew mystery.”
Not a glimmer of recognition crossed his face at the mention of my girlhood heroine.
“Surely you’ve heard of Nancy Drew?” I asked. Hoping to enlighten him, I rattled off several titles that came to mind. “ The Secret of the Old Clock ? The Hidden Staircase ? The Clue in the Diary ?”
His expression remained impassive.
I forged ahead. “My all-time favorite is The Password to Larkspur Lane . I must have read it a dozen times.” I was momentarily transported back to my youth where I devoured every book written by my idol, Carolyn Keene. Heard she died at her typewriter at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Not a bad way to go, for a writer, that is.
“No offense, Miz McCall,” he drawled, “but if I want to discuss books, I’ll join Friends of the Library.”
Well, that certainly put me in my place. “Sorry, Sheriff. I do tend to ramble on and for that I apologize. I just assumed a man in your profession would be a mystery buff.”
The sheriff sighed. “Don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I’ve got a full schedule.”
“Of course you do,” I replied primly. “Far be from me to take valuable time away from your investigation.”
He looked hopeful as he reached for his little black notebook. “Have you, by chance, remembered a detail you might have forgotten in all the excitement yesterday?”
“Well . . .” I could feel myself puff with pride. I had become part of an official police investigation. Wouldn’t my children be impressed to learn I was working closely with the sheriff’s department? “Actually, Sheriff, I do have a couple leads that might help solve our case.”
“ Our case?”
I swear I saw him wince, but he recovered admirably and reached for a pen .
“Now we’re making progress.”
“My friend Claudia took off on a trip out west with a man she met on the Internet.” I leaned back and waited for the impact of this to fully sink in.
“That’s it?” he asked after a prolonged pause.
“In an RV,” I added. “No one’s heard a word since she left. Some of the Bunco Babes, as well as myself, have tried calling her, but no luck. Granted, Claudia’s notorious for forgetting to turn on her cell phone. Said she had enough of phones ringing day and night when she was in real estate.”
“Does this Claudia have a last name?”
“Of course, she does,” I said with a little laugh. “It’s Connors. Claudia Connors.” How absentminded of me. This just goes to show how upset I was about her disappearance. Sheriff Wiggins must surely have thought I was nothing more than a ditzy, harebrained woman with too much time on her hands.
“If that’s all . . .”
His lack of enthusiasm was evident—even to a ditz—as he jotted Claudia’s name in his book.
It would have been easy at this point to beat a hasty but dignified retreat, but I refused to let his attitude deter me from accomplishing what I had set out to do. I drew myself up straighter in the chair. “There is one more thing you may want to know since you’re looking into missing persons.”
He regarded me silently. His dark eyes could bore straight through a person. But like I said before, I’m not easily intimidated. After all, it’s not like I’m a felon with something to hide. Nevertheless . . .
I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Vera up and left without a word.” I debated whether to mention Rosalie, but decided against it . . . at least for the time being.
Sheriff Wiggins sighed heavily. “Is this Vera another of your bunco ladies?”
“No, no. Vera is our favorite waitress at the Cove Café.”
“I see. Suppose you tell me what you know about Vera. I’ll take it from there.”
“Vera wasn’t at work this morning,
“The case . . . ?” The word fairly hummed with skepti cism and disapproval.
“The case of the missing appendage,” I hastily supplied, lest he’d forgotten our find of the day before. “Sounds like the title of a Nancy Drew mystery.”
Not a glimmer of recognition crossed his face at the mention of my girlhood heroine.
“Surely you’ve heard of Nancy Drew?” I asked. Hoping to enlighten him, I rattled off several titles that came to mind. “ The Secret of the Old Clock ? The Hidden Staircase ? The Clue in the Diary ?”
His expression remained impassive.
I forged ahead. “My all-time favorite is The Password to Larkspur Lane . I must have read it a dozen times.” I was momentarily transported back to my youth where I devoured every book written by my idol, Carolyn Keene. Heard she died at her typewriter at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Not a bad way to go, for a writer, that is.
“No offense, Miz McCall,” he drawled, “but if I want to discuss books, I’ll join Friends of the Library.”
Well, that certainly put me in my place. “Sorry, Sheriff. I do tend to ramble on and for that I apologize. I just assumed a man in your profession would be a mystery buff.”
The sheriff sighed. “Don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I’ve got a full schedule.”
“Of course you do,” I replied primly. “Far be from me to take valuable time away from your investigation.”
He looked hopeful as he reached for his little black notebook. “Have you, by chance, remembered a detail you might have forgotten in all the excitement yesterday?”
“Well . . .” I could feel myself puff with pride. I had become part of an official police investigation. Wouldn’t my children be impressed to learn I was working closely with the sheriff’s department? “Actually, Sheriff, I do have a couple leads that might help solve our case.”
“ Our case?”
I swear I saw him wince, but he recovered admirably and reached for a pen .
“Now we’re making progress.”
“My friend Claudia took off on a trip out west with a man she met on the Internet.” I leaned back and waited for the impact of this to fully sink in.
“That’s it?” he asked after a prolonged pause.
“In an RV,” I added. “No one’s heard a word since she left. Some of the Bunco Babes, as well as myself, have tried calling her, but no luck. Granted, Claudia’s notorious for forgetting to turn on her cell phone. Said she had enough of phones ringing day and night when she was in real estate.”
“Does this Claudia have a last name?”
“Of course, she does,” I said with a little laugh. “It’s Connors. Claudia Connors.” How absentminded of me. This just goes to show how upset I was about her disappearance. Sheriff Wiggins must surely have thought I was nothing more than a ditzy, harebrained woman with too much time on her hands.
“If that’s all . . .”
His lack of enthusiasm was evident—even to a ditz—as he jotted Claudia’s name in his book.
It would have been easy at this point to beat a hasty but dignified retreat, but I refused to let his attitude deter me from accomplishing what I had set out to do. I drew myself up straighter in the chair. “There is one more thing you may want to know since you’re looking into missing persons.”
He regarded me silently. His dark eyes could bore straight through a person. But like I said before, I’m not easily intimidated. After all, it’s not like I’m a felon with something to hide. Nevertheless . . .
I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Vera up and left without a word.” I debated whether to mention Rosalie, but decided against it . . . at least for the time being.
Sheriff Wiggins sighed heavily. “Is this Vera another of your bunco ladies?”
“No, no. Vera is our favorite waitress at the Cove Café.”
“I see. Suppose you tell me what you know about Vera. I’ll take it from there.”
“Vera wasn’t at work this morning,
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