Free Long Summer Nights by Kathleen O'Reilly Page A

arms were very long. He wore the usual khaki uniform and badge, but on top of his head was a beaten-up Yankees cap.
    His office was in the basement of the courthouse and consisted of a wooden desk and chair, a shelf full of baseball trophies and what she assumed to be the Phelps family photo. All in all, the office seemed quiet and serene, no crime, no small-town hijinx, and Jenn tried not to look disappointed.
    “Tell me about the psychic community. Were you sheriff then?” she asked, once the introductions were done.
    “I was a deputy, and didn’t know shit from shinola, but I’ve learned. Grifters, that was my guess, but they attracted a long following of gullible marks.” He leaned back in his wooden chair, and kicked his boots up on the desk.
    “Any colorful anecdotes, famous names that might have been conned?” Jenn asked, because debunked tales of theparanormal always attracted attention, even better if the rich and famous were involved. If there was a politician, a Rockefeller, a Carnegie, or a Roosevelt, heck, her career woes could be over.
    He laughed at her, but his eyes were nice, in that I-bet-you-believe-in-Santa-Claus sort of way. “We didn’t get a lot of real names from the marks. Back then, people didn’t brag about getting conned. Not like today.” He gave her a nod, one professional to the other. “But you know that.”
    “What about the literary salons? The group of writers who came up. Any truth to that one?” Jenn braced a hip against the desk, making notes as they talked.
    “Maybe,” he answered with a shrug to his beefy shoulders.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Before I took over, I heard some stories, looked up some reports.”
    “And?”
    “A lot of drunk and disorderlies, one goat smuggled into the steeple of the church, four cases of vandalism and one desecration of a grave. Nothing serious, but a lot of payoffs.”
    “Who was involved?” she asked casually, thinking a governor would be nice. Or a governor’s family.
    “Juliet Capulet and Madonna Ciccone and Mamie Eisenhower.”
    “The first lady?” she asked, excitement coloring her normally professional tone, because first ladies trumped governors every time.
    The man laughed at her, slapping his knee, because apparently this was jaw-dropping fun. “Nah. They were fake names.”
    Glad somebody had a sense of humor. “Doesn’t anybody show proper ID in this town?” she mused.
    “Not much. The law can be bought,” he answered, scratching his ear. “Or at least, back then it could. But I want to state for the record that I don’t take bribes and never have.”
    She studied the man with careful eyes. No. He knew his job, he did his job, and then went on his way. It seemed like everybody in this town knew their place and worked their tail off to stay there. It was a good way to be. She could be that. All she had to do was keep digging.
    Hope sprang eternal inside her, or perhaps that was hunger. No. Definitely hope and optimism. Undaunted, Jenn handed the man her number. “If you remember anything, give me a call, will you?”
    “Will do.”
    After two more trips to the library and the archives of the Harmony Herald, she was ready to pursue the promise of food, preferably something high in calories and fat, accompanied by a triple shot of espresso. Healthy? No. Spirit-lifting? Hell, yes.
    It was at that moment that her mother called, possessing a maternal ESP that immediately senses the ever-elastic soul in peril.
    Certainly when Jenn had been a kid, it had been fun having the loving mother who was always a little older than the other mothers. Jenn’s mother had been the one who made sure she had extra raisins in her lunch, the one that read stories to her every night, and then explained how the intestine clogged up every time it had to process unsaturated fats.
    Now that Jenn was out on her own, sometimes her mother forgot.
    “Hello, Mom,” she answered, standing outside the Hungry Hobo, trying to decide between a