Deputy Defender

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DEPUTY DWIGHT PRENTICE would rather face down an irate motorist or break up a bar fight than deal with the stack of forms and reports in his inbox. But duty—and the occasional nagging from office manager Adelaide Kincaid—forced him to tackle the paperwork. That didn’t stop him from resenting the task that kept him behind his desk when Indian summer offered up one of the last shirtsleeve days of fall, the whole world outside bathed in a soft golden light that made the white LED glare of his office seem like a special kind of torture.

As he put the finishing touches on yet another report, he wished for an urgent call he would have to respond to—or at least some kind of distraction. So when the buzzer sounded that signaled the front door opening, he sat back in his chair and listened.

“I need to speak with Travis.”

The woman’s soft, familiar voice made Dwight slide back his chair, then glance at the window to his left to check that the persistent cowlick in his hair wasn’t standing up in back.

“Sheriff Walker is away at training.” Adelaide spoke in what Dwight thought of as her schoolmarm voice—very precise and a little chiding.

“Could I speak to one of the deputies, then?”

“What is this about?”

“I’d prefer to discuss that with the deputy.”

Dwight rose and hurried to head off Adelaide’s further attempts to determine the woman’s business at the sheriff’s department. The older woman was a first-class administrator, but also known as one of the biggest gossips in town.

“Hello, Brenda.” Dwight stepped into the small reception area and nodded to the pretty blonde in front of Adelaide’s desk. “Can I help you with something?”

“Mrs. Stenson wants to speak to a deputy,” Adelaide said.

“That would be me.” Dwight indicated the hallway he had just moved down. “Why don’t you come into my office?”

As he escorted her down the hall, Dwight checked her out, without being too obvious. Brenda had been a pretty girl when they knew each other in high school, but she had matured into a beautiful woman. She had cut a few inches off her hair recently and styled it in soft layers. The look was more sophisticated and suited her. He had noticed her smiling more lately, too. Maybe she was finally getting past the grief for her murdered husband.

She wasn’t smiling now, however. In his office, she took a seat in the chair Dwight indicated and he shut the door, then slid behind his desk. “You look upset,” he said. “What’s happened?”

In answer, she opened her purse, took out a bright yellow envelope, and slid it across the desk to him.

He looked down at the envelope. BRENDA was written across the front in bold black letters, all caps. “Before I open it, tell me your impression of what’s in it,” he said.

“I don’t know if it’s some kind of sick joke, or what,” she said, staring at the envelope as if it were a coiled snake. “But I think it might be a threat.” She knotted her hands on the edge of the desk. “My fingerprints are probably all over it. I wasn’t thinking...”

“That’s all right.” Dwight opened the top desk drawer and took out a pair of nitrile gloves and put them on. Then he turned the envelope over, lifted the flap and slid out the single sheet of folded paper.

The capital letters of the message on the paper were drawn with the same bold black marker as the writing on the envelope. BURN THAT BOOK OR YOU WILL DIE.

“What book?” he asked.

“I can’t be sure, but I think whoever wrote that note is referring to the rare book that’s part of the auction to raise funds for the museum. It’s an obscure, self-published volume purportedly giving an insider’s experiences with a top-secret project to manufacture biological weapons for use in World War II. The project was apparently financed by the US government and took place in Rayford County. I found it in Andy’s belongings, mixed in with some historical law books. I have no idea how he came to have it, but apparently it’s an item that’s really prized by some collectors—because it’s rare, I guess. And maybe because of the nature of the subject matter.”

Dwight grabbed a legal pad and began making notes. Later, he would review them. And he would need them for the inevitable report. “Who knew about this book?” he asked.

“Lots of people,” she said. “There was an article in the Examiner.”

“The issue that came out Thursday?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He riffled through a stack of documents on his desk until he found the copy of the newspaper. The article was on the front page. Rare Book to Head Up Auction Items to Benefit Museum—accompanied by a picture of Brenda holding a slim blue volume, the title, The Secret History of Rayford County, Colorado, in silver lettering on the front. “How much is the book worth?” he asked.

“A dealer I contacted estimated we could expect to receive thirty to fifty thousand dollars at a well-advertised auction,” she said. “I thought that in addition to the money, the auction would generate a lot of publicity for the museum and maybe attract more donors.”

“People will pay that much money for a book?” Dwight didn’t try to hide his amazement.

“I was shocked, too. But apparently, it’s very rare, and there’s the whole top-secret government plot angle that collectors like.”

“But this note wasn’t written by a collector,” he said. “A collector wouldn’t want you to burn the book.”

“I know.” She leaned toward him. “That’s why I’m wondering if the whole thing is some kind of twisted joke. I mean—that cheerful yellow paper...” Her voice trailed away as they both stared at the note.

“Maybe it’s a joke,” he said. “But we can’t assume anything. Has anyone said anything to you about the book since this article ran?” He tapped the newspaper. “Anything that struck you as odd or ‘off’?”

“No. The only thing anyone has said is they hope we get a lot of money for the museum. A couple of people said they couldn’t imagine who would pay so much for a book, and one or two have said the subject matter sounded interesting. But no one has seemed upset or negative about it at all.”

“Where is the book now?” he asked.

“It’s at the museum.”

The old-house-turned-museum wasn’t the most secure property, from what Dwight could remember about it. “Do you have a security system there—alarms, cameras?”

She shook her head. “We’ve never had the budget for that kind of thing. And we’ve never needed it. We just have regular door locks with dead bolts, and we keep the most valuable items in our collection in locked cases. But we don’t really have much that most people would find valuable. I mean, antiques and historical artifacts aren’t the kind of thing a person could easily sell for quick cash.”

“But this book is different,” Dwight said. “It’s worth a lot of money. I think you had better put it somewhere else for now. Somewhere more secure.”

“I was thinking of moving it to a safe at my house.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” He stood. “Let’s go do that now.”

“Oh.” She rose, clearly flustered. “You don’t have to do that. I can—”

“I’d like to see this book, anyway.” He gestured to the door, and she moved toward it.

“I’ll meet you at the museum,” he said when they reached the parking lot.

She nodded and fished her car keys out of her purse, then looked at him again, fear in her hazel eyes, though he could tell she was trying hard to hide it. “Do you think I’m really in danger?” she asked.

He put a hand on her arm, a brief gesture of reassurance. “Maybe not. But there’s no harm in being extra careful.”

She nodded, then moved to her car. He waited until she was in the driver’s seat before he got into his SUV, suppressing the urge to call her back, to insist that she ride with him and not move out of his sight until he had tracked down the person who threatened her. He slid behind the wheel and blew out his breath. This was going to be a tough one—not because they had so little to go on to track down the person who had made the threat, but because he was going to have to work hard to keep his emotions out of the case.

He started the vehicle and pulled out onto the street behind Brenda’s Subaru. He could do this. He could investigate the case and protect Brenda Stenson without her finding out he’d been hopelessly in love with her since they were both seventeen.

Chapter Two (#ubcc0dd40-8b26-5323-8cf0-fdbaeabcaf0b)

Brenda had come so close to asking Dwight if he would drive her to the history museum in the sheriff’s department SUV. She felt too vulnerable in her own car, aware that the person who wrote that awful note might be watching her, maybe even waiting to make good on his threat. She shuddered and pushed the thought away. She was overreacting. Dwight hadn’t seemed that upset about the note. And really, who could take it seriously, with the yellow paper and cartoon flowers?