“Callahan.”
“Whoever you are. Not Lucky’s, but mine.”
“Where do you think his iron skillet ran off to? Could he have left it at home?”
Glancing to his right and his left, he stepped closer. “He’d sooner leave his jockey shorts. That skillet was his lucky charm.”
“Maybe he loaned it to you, and you just forgot.”
He frowned. “Shoot, he’d never let anyone borrow it, not even me.”
I tried another tack. “I wanted to ask how we can improve our contest next year.”
“As long as you don’t have another murder, you should be fine and dandy.”
“Funny. Did you see anything or anyone out of place this morning when you first stepped outside your tent?”
“Who said I slept in my tent?” He backed away, his elephantine ears turning red.
“Isn’t that what you said to Detective Lightfoot earlier?” I was obviously bluffing, but I was trying to rattle his cage. In fact, I remembered quite well that he’d slept in his Apache camper.
His countenance cleared. “Oh, sure.” He tried a smile. “Out of place. Hmm, well, I think I saw a couple of people milling around.”
“Who was that? Did you recognize them?”
“A dark-haired woman was jogging, a regular Nosy Nell.”
“How’s that?”
“Until she noticed me, she was peeking in tents and other people’s shelters.”
“Sabotage?”
He shrugged and pushed a lank hair out of his face. “Not that I could see, but very curious.”
“Was there anyone else?”
“Just Russell stretching his legs.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. He was too fast for me. Didn’t meet my eye.”
“Not a Nosy Neil, then?”
“Heck no, minding his own business.” He slammed the back door of the minivan and locked it with his remote. “I’ve got one more load that’s not going to carry itself.” Without another word, he hurried off toward his tent.
“Oh, Whip?”
He turned, an angry, impatient look on his face. “Did Lightfoot give you permission to leave town?”
Without replying, he stomped off.
Chapter 9
Break-In at Pinyon Pawn
I retreated only as far as the quiet interior of the Prius. It was nearly impossible for me to blow off my family responsibilities when it came down to it—Uncle Eddie being my adopted father, for all intents and purposes. After a few seconds it became clear the sun was too bright, and though exhausted, my mind was too full of murder and mayhem.
I began to write down the last of my observations.
My editor’s tool for helping me move up the journalistic ladder, the police scanner, was staring at me. It was perched on the passenger seat, light blinking. I waited for something to happen, but other than a loud crackling sound every few seconds, nada.
“Barnes.” The crackle became words. Tense. A female dispatcher.
“Go ahead.” He sounded as if he was chewing.
“What’s your twenty?”
“Round Robin.” That time I heard a distinct swallowing sound.
“There’s a 10-15 at 203 Pinyon Street.”
“Oh. Sheriff on his way?”
“Negatory, good buddy. Sheriff’s taking a stand.”
I’d heard a rumor that Wallace was on a hunting trip—which would explain the reference to taking a stand. Only it wasn’t deer hunting season. Or maybe I was wrong.
“I’m on my way.” Barnes was excited, by the sound of his voice, anxious to be first on the scene.
“Roger that.” I’d warrant the dispatcher was supposed to stay neutral in case folks—like me—were listening in, but I could hear the laughter in her voice.
I was guessing that a certain detective was listening in, unwilling to reveal his whereabouts especially if he was in close proximity to Pinyon Street. The only two businesses I could recount in that location were Pinyon Pawn and Trail Head Bail Bonds. Either business seemed a likely place for a robbery.
In the blink of a gecko’s eyelash, I was driving the Prius, two wheels on the ground every time I took a curve. How could I get access to the scene? Would they toss me out on my proverbial ear? In the back of my mind, I considered the upcoming edition of the Broken Boot Bugle. Today was Friday, which meant I’d missed the deadline for Sunday’s edition. Wednesday’s paper was going to be a real doozy, chock-full of stories on Cinco de Mayo, the chili cook-off, and now a burglary.
At least I wouldn’t have to fight the likes of Hillary Sloan-Rawlings for this story. Sumter Major’s loan of the police scanner was proof of his intention to groom me for the crime beat. I had to smile. The Broken Boot crime beat was as dangerous as a prairie dog parade, but it was mine.
The block was short. I could see a white and black SUV at the far end of the street. Couldn’t see the tag, but the cleanliness of it and the glossy shine made me think it was Lightfoot’s. On my end of the street only one cruiser had pulled across the road. In a high-speed chase, the bad guys would roll up on the sidewalk and easily evade Deputy Barnes’s car straddling the middle of the street.
Which meant there were no bad guys on the scene.
I parked at the end of the block. From my car I could now see Barnes standing in the doorway of the establishment, his head turned in my direction. As if I hadn’t seen him, I turned away, walked away from him and the corner—which I rounded until I came to the alley that ran behind the street. When I approached the back of the business, I discovered a sign at the back door. PINYON PAWN. ACCEPTING GUNS AND AMMO ONLY ON THURSDAYS. NO ANIMAL CAGES OR KENNELS.
No sign of Barnes from this angle. I approached the door and slowly looked inside.
I didn’t step any farther because my way was blocked. If I kicked any of the debris with my foot, I’d be disturbing the crime scene. So I soaked it all up with my eyes. From my shoulder bag, I retrieved my notebook and pen.
There were items scattered on the floor from the back door, throughout the main room, and
