Free The Bogus Biker by Judy Nickles Page B

reflected as she climbed the dozen steps to the front door. But she’s made her bed.
    At the main desk, Abigail Talbot stood shoving cards into the old-fashioned stamping machine and placing them in the pile of books for Sonny Sawyer and his mother. She acknowledged Penelope with a brief, unsmiling nod. That girl never smiles. I don’t know what Bradley sees in her. She’s about as perky as a bare twig. Skinny as one, too. Now, Shana’s got some spark.
    “Someone recommended the Southern Sisters series,” she said to Abigail when the Sawyers had departed.
    “We have two, and they’ve just been returned.” Abigail reached for the two volumes on the shelving cart behind her. “You’ll enjoy these.”
    The familiar ku-chuk of the card machine always reminded Penelope of her childhood days and then-librarian Miss Emma Martin. Emma knew books and didn’t think twice about corralling all the young people—quite literally—in the children’s section of the library until they turned thirteen. I wouldn’t have dared go to the other side. She’d have blessed snatched me baldheaded and tossed me out.
    “Due back in three weeks,” Abigail said, sliding the books across the scratched desk, original to the pre-war era building. “Enjoy.”
    “Thanks, I’m sure I will.” Penelope tucked the books under her arm, shouldered her purse, and headed out. The gas truck was gone, but a coffee lid sized pool of fresh oil puddled on the pavement. “Look at that,” she called out to Mayor Harry Hargrove who was jaywalking in front of city hall.
    “Call the gas company,” he said, wiping his all-but-bald head with a crumpled blue plaid handkerchief. “What the heck’s going on over at your place, Penelope?”
    “What makes you think something’s going on?”
    “Mary Lynn said…”
    “You can tell her she’s no longer my best friend.”
    “Now, Penelope…”
    “Listen, Mr. Mayor, I remember having to sit with you in fourth grade when you couldn’t learn your multiplication tables beyond the fives, but you could when I got through with you, so don’t patronize me.”
    Harry tugged at this pants like he thought he might possibly get them above his paunch. “Okay, okay. I ran into your son at the PD about fifteen minutes ago. He was trying to call you.”
    “What about?”
    “No idea.” He glanced at the oil. “I’ll give Mitzi a call and get somebody over here with some cat litter to soak that up.”
    “Good. And whatever Mary Lynn told you, she lied.” Penelope tossed the books through the open window onto the front seat of the SUV and strode off to the corner, where she felt virtuous about crossing with the light.
    Bradley looked up as she pushed open the glass door with ‘Amaryllis Police Department’ stenciled on it in gold letters that had always seemed a little off-kilter to Penelope. “I just called you,” he said.
    “Harry told me.”
    “Oh. Well, I wanted you to look at some pictures.”
    “That was one of them—the guy with the ponytail who got arrested last night in Ft. Smith.” She watched his face to see if he knew what she was talking about. He did.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Pretty sure. Where are the pictures?”
    “In here.” He opened the door of a closet-sized room used for interrogations when they happened, which they didn’t much in Amaryllis. The Town Council even threw a fit last year when Chief Harley Malone wanted to send Bradley to a special school in Little Rock and promote him to the newly created CID, which meant a pay raise and the need to hire another officer for patrol. Enter Rosabel Deane. It was a close vote, with the two dissenters arguing Amaryllis wasn’t Little Rock and didn’t need a criminal investigation division.
    “Just look through these two books and tell me if you recognize anybody. Here’s some sticky notes to mark any pictures that look familiar. Want a soda?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Okay, I’ll be back. Just take your time.”
    Penelope made