Free Hidden Heritage by Charlotte Hinger Page A

again this afternoon.
    Putting together a few reserve deputies had been Keith’s idea. After he read all the rules and regulations for these unpaid volunteers who merely received a hearty thanks for their hard work, Keith thought of three old men he knew who were ex-military and would provide a willing presence at the office if Betty answered the phones out of her house.
    Truth was, it looked better to have someone here instead of trying to explain to the community that either Sam or Keith or I was always on call and the phones were switched over when necessary. I waited impatiently for Marvin Cole to show up.
    Marvin was eager to help out. Like the others, he had to pass an extensive background check and understood that he would only be filling in on rare occasions, but he had jumped at the chance to do something useful.
    He arrived at one on the dot. I appreciated this homely low-keyed man who didn’t swell up with self importance while acting as a reserve deputy. Marvin had a flat nose and a deeply pocked face with over sized lips. A friendly frog of a man glad for the chance to jump off the lily pad for a day.
    â€œNothing going on,” I said. “So, I guess you can just go on transcribing.”
    Transcribing old handwritten sheriff’s reports was not necessary. I’m used to deciphering old records through my historical work, but Marvin was affronted by the suggestion that it was just fine for him to sit idly while on duty. Doing something as frivolous as reading a novel was out of the question.
    Betty Central would come in at five and work until two in the morning, then switch the phones to our house.
    ***
    My kitchen smelled heavenly. The odor of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the door.
    â€œKeith here?” I reached for a cookie.
    â€œNo, he and Tom are out looking over the cattle.” Zola continued rolling pie crusts and didn’t look up. Soon cherry would join the French silk, pecan, and peach pies she had already lined up on the island. A German chocolate cake stood next to a tray of assorted cookies.
    I dashed upstairs and changed, determined to put murder out of my mind long enough to enjoy the weekend.
    Jimmy and Bettina were the first to arrive with their two little boys. Jimmy Silverthorne was half Cherokee and his coloring showed in their sons, Joshua and Kent. When the boys entered the room, they hurled themselves at me like two little linebackers. Although Kent, who had just started preschool, lacked the heft of his kindergartener brother, he made up for it in enthusiasm. The boys bore an uncanny resemblance to Josie and me although their maternal grandmother had been Keith’s late wife, Regina. Josie and I are both dark with black hair and have the same dark brown eyes. Thankfully, I was simply “Grandma Lottie” to these two and had been here since their birth.
    â€œHi, Mom,” Bettina hugged me and then hollered “don’t ruin your supper!” as they darted to the cookies.
    â€œWe won’t,” they chorused in unison.
    â€œLittle liars,” Jimmy said cheerfully.
    â€œKeith and Tom will be back in a little while.”
    Jimmy nodded, walked back out to their Suburban, and started unloading coolers of beer and pop and cold cuts for sandwiches.
    The first time Josie came to this event she had commented on the collection of Tahos, Suburbans, Explorers, and overpowered Ram pickups our family seemed to favor. “What a tribute to the staying power of the Arab nations,” she’d said with a raised eyebrow. But the second time she came, her powerful low-bottomed Mercedes had gotten mired in the mud and she never made cracks about our SUVs and our gas consumption again.
    Tom and Keith came back from the pasture and the boys flew out the door like little rockets and launched themselves at their grandfather.
    Bettina was right on their heels. She hugged her brother like she hadn’t seen him more than twice in her