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“It wasn’t for you.”

“We’ll see.”

Sheriff Tate stood outside the Eagle River Sheriff’s Department when we arrived.

He was in his early sixties, tall, broad through the shoulders, and wore the expression of a man who had already received several phone calls about the strangers examining his welcome sign.

His gaze moved from me to Carson, Will, and the pie.

“Detective Langley?”

“Yes.”

“Sheriff Tate.”

We shook hands.

He looked at Carson.

“Detective Carson.”

Then Will.

“William Forester. Crime scene technician.”

Sheriff Tate pointed toward the pie.

“Mine?”

Carson sighed and handed it over.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Agnes called.”

“Of course she did.”

“She said you were asking questions about the welcome sign.”

“We were in town less than five minutes.”

“That’s plenty of time for Agnes.”

He carried the pie inside.

The sheriff’s department occupied a narrow brick building beside the courthouse. Three desks filled the main room. A row of filing cabinets covered one wall, and a coffeepot sat on a table beneath a sign that read COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT.

An arrow pointed toward the trash can.

Carson saw it.

“I’m going to like him.”

Sheriff Tate set the pie on an empty desk.

“Coffee?”

“Yes,” Carson said.