“So what’s your theory?” she asked as she studied the area outside the general store after she’d finished.
“Random mischief. Probably kids testing boundaries.” I continued documenting the graffiti from multiple angles. “The pattern suggests someone with a regular schedule, access to downtown during lunch hours, and familiarity with foot traffic patterns.”
“Very logical.” She crouched near the wall, examining the paint without touching it. “But what if it’s not random? What if someone’s trying to send a message?”
“What kind of message could “Sheriff Dungar Stinks” possibly send?”
Riley snorted with laughter. “Okay, that’s not exactlycriminal mastermind territory. But look at the handwriting. It’s deliberate, controlled. This isn’t someone acting on impulse.”
She was right. The letters were evenly spaced, the lines straight despite being drawn on a rough surface. It looked more like a task being completed than emotional expression.
“Good eye.” I took close-up photos of the lettering. “Someone with steady hands and attention to detail.”
“Someone who takes pride in their work, even when that work is spray-painting insults about you on buildings.”
“I’m flattered by their dedication.”
“Should I be worried about competition for your attention?”
The teasing note in her voice made my heart skip, but before I could respond, Joyce Jones approached from across the street, her expression concerned. About Riley’s age, she’d taken a job waiting tables at the saloon and seemed to be happy here in Lonesome Creek. I’d looked over her resume when Greel and Jessi mentioned they were going to hire her, and her references had checked out.
“Any leads on our mystery artist?” she asked, nodding toward the graffiti, tugging her apron over to make it land in the middle of her jeans, her long blonde braid swinging with the movement.
“We’re just getting started,” Riley said. “Did you notice anything unusual around lunchtime? Anyone hanging around who seemed out of place?”
Joyce considered this, her brow furrowing. “Well, Mary was working on the lanterns lining the boardwalk.”
“She’s head of maintenance.” I pulled out my notebook. “Tall, gray ponytail, generous build.”
“That’s her. She and I go way back. Would you believe she was my babysitter when I was little? Time sure does fly.”
We peered around but didn’t see anyone working on the lights now, and Mary had left no equipment behind. She must’ve packed up and moved on to her next project.
Riley’s gaze met mine. “I’ll track her down and question her.”
After Joyce left, Riley and I continued documenting the scene and interviewing nearby shop owners. The pattern that emerged was consistent with the prior two incidents. No one remembered seeing anyone lingering near the general store at the right time. A few mentioned Mary, but they all stated she appeared busy when they saw her. No one had seen her during the exact time frame when the vandalism occurred, however.
“Interesting coincidence,” Riley said as we walked along the boardwalk, aiming for the jail.
“Could be. I’ll run a background check on all recent hires just in case.”
“Look at you, going all detective on me.” She bumped my arm with her shoulder, the casual contact sending warmth racing through my system. “I like this side of you.”
“I’m just being thorough.”
“It’s sexy when you’re thorough.”
Riley Smith thought I was sexy? The knowledge hit me in the solar plexus, leaving me struggling to breathe and form coherent thoughts.
I stumbled, completely thrown by her casual admission.
“Careful there, Sheriff.” Her grin was pure mischief. “Wouldn’t want you to injure yourself on duty.”
By the time we returned to the jail, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that reminded me of the orc kingdom’s twilight hours. Riley settled at her desk to create doc files for our reports on her laptop while I organized the evidence we’d collected, each photograph loaded on the computer and labeled, then filed in its proper subfolder.
The familiar routine usually calmed my mind, but tonight I was hyperaware of Riley’s presence. The soft sound of her fingers on the keyboard, the way she twisted a strand of hair around her finger when she concentrated, the occasional sigh when she paused to study the report.
“Dungar?” Her voice broke through my cataloging. “Can I ask you something?”
