Free Pride v. Prejudice by Joan Hess Page A

pondered the likelihood of finding the figurine. “How long do I have to try to find it?”
    â€œUntil Sunday at three o’clock. Will you agree to be at the thrift shop at nine tomorrow morning?”
    Peter gave us a puzzled look as he came out to the terrace. “What’re you going to do at the thrift shop, Caron? Volunteer?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” Inez said. “Now that school’s started, we don’t have time to volunteer at the Literacy Council. I need to pad my college applications for maximum impact.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Caron added. “I may decide to apply to the Sorbonne. I hear they’re real sticklers about volunteerism.”
    â€œBonne chance,” I said, trying not to laugh.
    Peter poured wine into the glasses and sat on a chaise longue. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with my mother’s visit, would it?”
    Inez’s eyes widened. “Did she attend the Sorbonne?”
    â€œNot that I recall,” he said. “So, how was school?”
    *   *   *
    The next morning I found a cereal bowl in the sink, indicating Caron had arisen and departed according to schedule. I started coffee, walked down the driveway to the road to collect the newspaper from its box, and was seated at the kitchen island when Peter emerged from the bedroom. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa shortly after dinner, sparing me any awkward conversations. I wasn’t in the mood for any at the moment—or for the next three days.
    â€œShall we go out to the terrace?” I asked. “I’ll bring muffins and jam.”
    â€œI’m thinking serious breakfast.” He opened the refrigerator and began pulling out the components for what he considered to be his signature omelet. “You getting anywhere with your latest murder investigation?”
    â€œMy what?” I said haughtily.
    â€œJorgeson mentioned that you dropped by the PD yesterday while I was in that damn meeting. I asked him for details. When I accessed the Poppoy file, I noticed the address is less than half a mile from the Swift woman’s house. Two burglars, still at large. Have you interviewed her yet?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “and don’t bother to tell me to back off. I am not going to let that dreadful weasel throw Sarah to the judicial wolves so he can get elected to the bench. You yourself said he’s bigoted and a male chauvinist. Think how much more damage he’ll be able to do if he becomes a judge.”
    Peter grinned. “I wasn’t going to tell you to back off, my dear. I was going to ask if I can help.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œCovertly, of course. I can’t do anything that could be perceived as undermining the sheriff’s department. We coordinate with them on drug- and alcohol-related cases. The sheriff’s Harvey Dorfer. You met him when you got caught up in the pet theft business.”
    Distasteful memories came back like the miasma of pungent cigar smoke that had emanated from his stubby butts. Sheriff Dorfer had been more than testy when I’d attempted to assist in his so-called investigation, and he’d ordered a deputy to arrest me for a variety of petty missteps, including harboring a fugitive. Peter’s intervention and my success in identifying the perp had led to a truce of sorts. “Oh, yes, and we did not hit it off. I remember thinking he was ineffectual.”
    â€œHe’s a politician, so he’s careful. Stereotypic good ol’ boy, but sharp. He has to be to deal with all the crazies in Stump County. Crime and violence are common in some of those little towns in the backwoods.”
    â€œMoonshiners?”
    He began to crack eggs into a bowl. “Morons blowing themselves up while cooking meth in their kitchens. Nobody would care if they went off to shacks to do it, but it’s always at home, often with children in the next room. Where’s the