Free Nothing but Gossip by Marne Davis Kellogg

McGee?”
    “Skis, of course,” he said lightheartedly. I heard thebravado in his voice. “Alma has been storing them for me.”
    “May I see them?”
    “They’re just skis.”
    “And what else?”
    “Nothing that would be of any interest to you. Just some personal trophies.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, pulling the navy-leather wallet from my purse. The United States Marshal badge glittered like brass knuckles. “I should have started with this. Unzip them, please.”
    “Oh, I forgot,” McGee delivered his most beguiling smile. “Alma told me you were a sheriff or something. I’ve always loved women in uniform. Don’t you need some sort of paperwork, some sort of warrant to search my luggage?”
    I gave him
my
most beguiling smile. “You think this is a game. That I’ll handcuff you and lock you up and maybe even spank you or talk dirty to you until you do what I tell you. Just like all your girls out there in the Serengeti, or whatever you call it.”
    McGee laughed, a big, hearty bellow. His teeth were white and straight. “Oh, you are truly delightful, Miss Bennett. I’m so sorry your fiancé met you first.”
    “But alas, Mr. McGee,” I concluded, “I’m not playing. I am a real marshal, and I want to see what’s in your bags. It’ll be easy enough for me to get a warrant—might slow you down a little—but if that’s what you prefer.” My heart was thudding, racing. I was afraid I knew what the bags hid, and I dreaded being right. My fingers rested lightly on the weapon in my pocket as the smile left McGee’s face. He wiped sweat from his hands on his pants legs before kneeling to unzip the first carrier.
    I wanted to throw up. I wanted to shoot him. I wanted to cry.
    The elephant tusks screamed like the skeletons of Auschwitz. Ghastly, gruesome, deathly, savage.
    “Oh, Mr. McGee,” I said, losing my breath. “How can you sleep at night?” I went to the open door to signal for the patrolman to join us, then I read the animal his rights. “Kennedy McGee, I’m placing you under arrest for possession of contraband. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand what I’ve just said?”
    “These aren’t actually mine,” he said easily. “They’re Alma’s.”
    “Do you understand what I’ve just said?” I approached him and snapped a handcuff around one wrist.
    “Yes, of course I do. But I’d like to explain.”
    “I understand that for someone in your business lying becomes a way of life.” I led him over to the birdcage and snapped the other handcuff around one of the bars. “But don’t say another word to me unless you want to incriminate yourself further.”
    “Do you want me to take him downtown, Marshal?” the patrolman asked.
    I looked Kennedy McGee in the eye. I wanted to say, “No, I want you to take him out behind the house and shoot him,” but said instead, “No thanks. He’s in federal custody. This is a federal matter. I’ll take it from here.”
    “They’re Alma’s,” McGee insisted.
    I called my deputy, Dwight Alexander, the handsome, stupid, sexy U.S. Marshal Service poster boy, and told him to get his pants on and get on over to the Gilhoolys’ to transport a prisoner back to the little jailin Bennett’s Fort, and if the prisoner put up any resistance or was disrespectful, to feel free to shoot him (I looked Kennedy McGee in the eye as I said this). Then I called Jack Lewis.
    “Chief Lewis,” he yapped.
    “Jack, it’s Lilly. I’m at the Gilhooly residence, where I’ve just arrested a fellow for smuggling elephant tusks, and I wondered if there were anything you’d like me to check out while I’m here.”
    “Excuse me?” he said. “Do we have a bad connection? I think I just heard you say you were at the Gilhooly residence.”
    “Yup.” I grinned. I could picture him perfectly. At the sound of my voice he’d jumped to his