Free A Sheriff in Tennessee by Lori Handeland Page B

father started the Gazette in 1984. She’s a newcomer.”
    â€œNearly twenty years here and she’s a newcomer?”
    â€œShe wasn’t born here.” He spread his hands. “Newcomer.”
    â€œWill her children be considered ‘from here’?”
    â€œOf course. Although I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for Cass to have any children. She wants more than Pleasant Ridge. Always has. A lot of folks want out.” His gaze drifted to the mountains once more. “And then there’re some folks who just want in.”
    Like you, she thought.
    â€œWhat did Pleasant Ridge do for news before 1984?”
    â€œPicked it up at the back fence like any self-respecting small town. Gossip has always moved much faster than any printing press.”
    â€œDon’t I know it,” Belle murmured. Gossip moved faster in large towns, too, and in the entertainment industry even faster.
    â€œBeen the subject of nasty gossip, have you, Isabelle?”
    She shrugged, not willing to elaborate on her past experiences with the press. She’d learned to keep her mouth shut about anything she didn’t want to see splashed across the front page of every smut rag in the country.
    â€œThere was a monthly newspaper,” Klein went on. “Owner passed on. No son or daughter, so Tyler bought the building, then began publishing a weekly. Most folks didn’t think it was necessary. They’d been doing without a weekly paper for centuries. But Tyler came from a family of newspapermen and he knew what he was doing. Took a while, but he won ’em over. Now I don’t think there’s a house in town or a farm outside that doesn’t get the Gazette. ”
    They continued to walk the streets of Pleasant Ridge. There weren’t all that many. Belle learned the names of the business owners; the troublemakers—there weren’t all that many of those, either; any folks who might need more help than most.
    â€œYou make rounds like this every day?” she asked as they headed down Longstreet Avenue once more.
    He gave an affirmative grunt. “Morning, noon and night.”
    â€œSeriously? And your deputy?”
    â€œUses the squad car.”
    â€œWhy don’t you?”
    â€œBecause I’m not older than dirt.”
    â€œTrue.”
    Belle waited for a serious answer to her question. Eventually, after they’d walked past several empty storefronts, he answered. Perhaps she was making progress.
    â€œThe only way to hear the gossip is to talk to the people, and that’s pretty hard to do if I’m in a car passing by.”
    â€œYou don’t strike me as much of a gossip-monger.”
    â€œGossip is how I find out what kind of trouble is brewing. There’s usually some truth in all the hype. If I hear that Betty Jo Trumpen is sporting a black eye from running into the door…” He rolled his eyes.
    â€œYou know you’d better have a talk with Mr. Trumpen.”
    â€œDamn straight,” he growled.
    Belle smiled. “And I bet one talk is all it takes, too.”
    He grunted. “With guys like that, not hardly.”
    His shoulders slumped a bit, and Belle was reminded of Clint’s droopy demeanor. She wanted to cheer Klein up, make him stop thinking of guys like Trumpen who picked on those who wouldn’t or couldn’t pick back.
    â€œHey,” she said brightly, pointing to the front window of the bakery. “I think the turnovers are done.”
    His head went up and his eyes brightened as they lit on the sugar-coated dough wrapped around plump juicy cherries. He gave her a glance that told Belle he knew what she was up to, but he opened the door of the bakery anyway and waved her inside.
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    T EN MINUTES LATER , after Isabelle had signed autographs for Lucinda’s grandchildren, two customers and their children and grandchildren, Klein carried a bag with half a dozen cherry turnovers and a thermos full