“Yesterday, someone called, claiming that Will’s ghost was haunting the sugarhouse. Turned out to be an opossum wearing a maple bucket like a helmet.” He fought back a smile. “Then I got Mrs. Goodwin calling twice a day to tell me her neighbor’s Yorkie can ‘smell guilt.’”
“Maybe you should borrow it. See if it’ll pick up a trail.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He hung his head. “I’ve got half a mind to deputize the mutt. Can’t be worse than Bob Pearson’s midnight patrols.”
“On his four-wheeler? He comes by the firehouse.”
“Yup, with floodlights the size of hubcaps. He cruises Main Street like it’s a warzone.”
It was annoying as hell when we were trying to sleep at the station. “Can’t you arrest him?”
“I’ve tried, but he always hauls ass to his own property and then gives me the finger.”
None of this was funny, but I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity.
“People are scared,” I said when I got myself under control. “They want answers. This town, it’s not violent.”
He shot me a scathing look. “Don’t you think I want answers too? Unfortunately they don’t grow on trees.”
“In this town, everything else does.”
Snorting, he rubbed his hand over his face. “You always were a smartass.”
“Is that why you called me down here?”
“I called because you notice things.” He tapped the pad. “And you’re smarter than you look.”
“Aw, shucks.” I gave him a dopey grin. “Thanks.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. “Before you go,” he said. “Anything else unusual at the farm? Deliveries? Visitors? Contracts?”
He should be asking Josh. My brother monitored everything with precision. I did my job and let him worry about the details. “Just tourists taking selfies and almost getting hit by farm machinery. Do you think our farm’s involved?”
“Doubtful, but I’ve got to look at this from every angle. Sugar Moon’s watching this like a hawk. If they pull contracts, your family won’t be the only ones feeling the hit. Out-of-towners are canceling reservations at the inn. If I don’t get this figured out, we could lose our leaf peepers in the fall. Basil only sold two wheels of Brie on Tuesday. In June.”
I angled forward. “Damn. That is a crime scene.” People crossed state lines for that Brie.
“He filed a police report,” Nolan deadpanned. “Incident: fromage felony.”
I snorted, appreciating the moment of levity, but before long, we were somber again. The economic impacts of this were real and impossible to ignore.
“I’m scraping this together, and the town is rioting. I’m down two officers, and the selection board wants updates in PowerPoint, which should be illegal. The tip line rings like it’s auditioning for a talent show. And every interview somehow includes citizens monologuing grievances dating back to 1998.”
“Sure you don’t want to borrow Mrs. Goodwin’s neighbor’s dog to help you sniff out the guilty party?” I teased.
“How’s the baby?” he asked, not even bothering to acknowledge the joke.
I didn’t mind. I’d take any opportunity to brag about my son, so I pulled out my phone and navigated to the photo app.
“He’s loud, hilarious, and perfect.”
“And how’s his mother?”
My heart clenched. Just as perfect. Struggling but crushing it.
I cleared my throat. “She’s good. Tired. Going back to work. Sugar Moon is panicking because of all of this.” I gestured around. “But she’s amazing.”
When he responded with a quirked brow, I regretted opening my big mouth.
