Sugar Plums for Dry Creek & At Home in Dry Creek (22 page)

“He made it sound like he was some kind of religious person. Called himself a brother. But he's not. I mean, I don't know much about religious people, but this guy is creepy. Nothing like Pastor Matthew over at the church.”

“Oh, no, I don't suppose he is anything like Matthew.” The sheriff wasn't a regular churchgoer, but he knew he would be sitting there this Sunday, right after he finished helping Mrs. Hargrove with her Sun day-school class. Mrs. Hargrove drove a hard bargain. She had agreed to babysit so he could take Barbara to dinner tonight, but she had named her price.

The sheriff was to help Mrs. Hargrove with her class of first- and second-graders and then sit through the church service that followed. He'd rather have reroofed
her whole house than help her with her Sunday-school class. He'd even offered the roof. She'd said no.

Then he had pleaded ignorance. He'd mentioned his child hood with all the foster homes and never a Sun day-school class. He didn't have a clue about how to help her. He couldn't even remember ever hearing about Sunday school. He didn't even know what they did there.

Mrs. Hargrove had a hard heart. She didn't bend with his panic. She said that if he didn't know what went on in Sunday school, it was high time that he learned. Then she said he'd have the whole church service after the class to recover from Sunday school anyway.

The sheriff was glad he'd gotten to know Pastor Matthew over the years. At least a man like that might have something worth listening to during the church service.

“I don't think anyone has any business ordering a cake for Neal.” Barbara folded her arms, then looked at the back of the room. “Oh, the children—”

Barbara stepped away from the sheriff and smiled at the children who had slid soundlessly into the room, dragging blankets and toys with them. They both stood still, looking at their mother with big eyes.

“There's nothing to worry about. Someone just wanted to order a cake. Go in the back and get your
jackets on for when Mrs. Hargrove comes to drive us on the deliveries.”

The sheriff cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hargrove slept late this morning. I'm going to help with the deliveries.”

Barbara nodded. “It'll just take me a few minutes to put together a cake. Lizette keeps some sheet cakes in the freezer, and we have some coconut filling in the cup board.”

The sheriff noticed that Barbara kept the smile on her face until the children had gone into the back room.

“You're actually making a cake for this guy?” the sheriff asked.

Barbara nodded. She held out the three one-hundred-dollar bills. “I don't know if these are real and I don't know who ordered the cake. Even if it's just some sick joke, I can't have people saying the bakery isn't filling the orders they take over the telephone, especially when—if these bills are real—some one left money for it. I told Lizette I'd take good care of the bakery while she's gone. I won't let her down. I'll just put the man's change back under the planter where he left these.”

The sheriff took the bills from Barbara and looked at them closely. “They look real to me.” He looked up. “I don't suppose he left the bills in an envelope, did he?”

Barbara shook her head. “Why?”

“We might be able to trace an envelope—you know, finger prints and all.”

Barbara shook her head again. “You could try to get finger prints off the bills.”

“Too many prints. It'd drive our guys crazy trying to pick them all out.”

“Well, he didn't do anything illegal by ordering the cake,” Barbara said. “It's not very nice, but that's about it. It has to be a joke—I mean, I can figure that out. Although I thought everyone here liked me well enough…”

The sheriff hesitated. The FBI had made it clear that the decision about whether to tell Barbara Strong that she might receive a message for or from her ex-husband was the sheriff's to make. If he felt Barbara needed to know for her own safety, he could tell her.

The sheriff didn't think Barbara was in any physical danger, but he hated to see that stricken look on her face.

“I mean, I know people are probably talking about me a little bit because of Neal, but—” Barbara's voice sank so low the sheriff could barely hear her. “Well, Neal's not the best person and I know I did marry him and I suppose it might seem like a funny joke to play on me to have me deliver a cake to him when he's in jail.”

Barbara was looking down at the floor. She had that expression on her face that the sheriff remembered from when she was in the hospital.

“It's not a joke,” the sheriff said as he put out his hand and lifted Barbara's chin until he could see her eyes. He tried not to be distracted by the soft feel of her skin or the tears that were gathering in the corners of her brown eyes. Why did brown eyes always make him feel so protective? He didn't remember that he used to feel that way.

The sheriff let go of her chin. He needed to. “Don't worry about it.”

“Well, it might be more of a prank than a joke,” Barbara mumbled. “And I know newcomers can expect some of that kind of thing. I just didn't think that in Dry Creek—”

“It's not anyone from Dry Creek,” the sheriff said. The woman didn't know how to stop fretting, and he couldn't stand to see her cry. He hoped he was doing the right thing to tell her. “It's probably a message from one of your husband's friends.”

“My husband doesn't have any friends,” Barbara said and then she swallowed. Her eyes got big. “Oh, you mean—”

The sheriff nodded. “He apparently didn't work alone all of the time.”

“But why would they send a message through me? I don't even visit Neal.”

The sheriff nodded. He knew that. “Maybe that's why they're paying you to make the cake and take it.”

“Well, I won't do it now. I'll just put all of the money back under that empty planter with a note that we can't make the cake. No one would expect the bakery to bake a cake for a criminal.”

The sheriff hesitated. If Barbara delivered the message, whoever it was who had been working with her husband would most likely leave her alone. But, if she didn't deliver the message, the man might not be so happy with her. “I think its best just to do what he asks. At least, until we find out who he is.”

“Neal doesn't even like coconut,” Barbara said as she took the hundred-dollar bills back from the sheriff. “I don't suppose you have five twenties?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“Well, if I'm going to make the cake, I'm going to charge for it. Lizette can use the business. I quoted the man eighty dollars, including delivery, so that's what I'll charge. I'll need to get some change from the café.” Barbara started walking toward the porch.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” the sheriff said. He was relieved to see that Barbara's tears had gone.

“Watch the children while I go over to the café and get change.”

“Me?” the sheriff asked, but Barbara had already left the room.

When the sheriff had asked if he could help, he'd thought more along the lines of—well, when he thought about it, he realized he hadn't had any specific actions in mind. But, if he had, they wouldn't have anything to do with watching little children. The sheriff knew about juvenile delinquents—he'd lived with some until he turned eighteen—but he didn't know anything about the crop of sweet little kids that was springing up around Dry Creek these days.

Fortunately, the children didn't know he was unprepared to deal with them. Bobby and Amanda had both come out into the main room carrying their jackets and looking at him cautiously.

The sheriff forced himself to smile. The children didn't smile back. They just stared at him.

The sheriff reminded himself that the children were going to be adults someday. There couldn't be that much difference in the conversation of a child and an adult. He just needed to pretend they were a little older.

“Doesn't look like it's going to rain today like the weatherman said,” he remarked. “You'd think that the weatherman would get it right more often than he does.”

Bobby and Amanda continued to stare at him. He could have been speaking a foreign language.

“Makes you wonder if there's some sort of weatherman's school,” the sheriff finally continued. “Of course, a weatherman's school wouldn't be like the one you go to—how is school going anyway?”

The sheriff could kick himself. He did know that no child liked to be asked about school. He'd hated that question himself. “Not that it's any of my business,” the sheriff added. “I'm not checking to see if you've done your homework or anything. It makes no difference to me. Now, whether or not you go to school, that's my business. I can arrest you if you're truant. But home work—”

The sheriff could see Bobby's eyes grow large.

“Can you put people in jail if they don't do their home work?” Bobby swallowed. “I was going to do it. Honest. But I forgot.”

“I don't want to go to jail,” Amanda added. Her lower lip started to tremble and she wailed. “I can't even read the big books—not like Bobby can.”

“I'm not here to arrest anyone,” the sheriff assured them both. He needed to stop the conversation before he had them both in tears.

“My princess doll doesn't want to go to jail either,” Amanda said with a sniffle as she dropped the jacket that had been over her arms and showed him the doll that had been hidden under the jacket. “Only bad people go to jail. Bad people like my daddy.”

The sheriff swallowed. He wondered if it was too
late to make another comment about the weather. If he'd been talking to an adult, he might have done just that. But Amanda and Bobby were children, and all children deserved to think the best they could of their fathers.

“Your daddy did something bad. That's why he's in jail. He's not necessarily a bad person,” the sheriff explained. “People some times do things that they shouldn't—or don't do things that they should. Then they're sorry for it.”

“I promise I'm going to do my homework. It's just that I don't understand the math questions,” Bobby said as he looked up at the sheriff. “They talk about peaches.”

“Don't worry about your home work,” the sheriff said as he put his hand on the boy's shoulder. That seemed to calm Bobby. “It's okay if you don't do it.”

The sheriff realized he should have kept an eye on the open door.

“No, it is not okay,” Barbara said as she came back into the room with some twenty-dollar bills in her hand. “He has to do his homework. Don't tell him he doesn't need to finish his home work.”

“I didn't mean—” the sheriff mumbled. “Of course, he needs to do his homework, it's just that it's not a crime if he doesn't.”

“It's a crime around here.”

The sheriff surrendered. He'd never be able to explain. “Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm not a ‘ma'am,'” Barbara pro tested. “A ‘ma'am' is someone like Mrs. Hargrove. And she's in her seventies.”

The sheriff was beginning to wish he was in jail himself. Except then he would have missed the picture Barbara made with her dark eyes flashing and indignation making her cheeks rosy. He smiled and ducked his head. “Well, you're not like Mrs. Hargrove, that's for sure.”

The sheriff thought of adding that he'd never had the urge to kiss Mrs. Hargrove on the lips, but he thought he'd better not say that.

Barbara's eyes stopped flashing, but her cheeks stayed rosy. The sheriff couldn't stop staring at her. She was a picture.

Everyone was quiet for a minute.

“I still don't understand about the peaches,” Bobby finally said.

“I could—that is, well, if it's the peaches that are the problem, I could help you with them,” the sheriff offered. He forced himself to turn his eyes to Bobby. “Just to be sure you get your homework done.”

The boy smiled. “It's subtracting.”

The sheriff nodded. “We'll figure it out—why don't you bring it along while we deliver the bakery stuff? You can ask me questions on the road.”

The sheriff figured a few questions would keep his mind off the boy's mother.

Bobby nodded.

“I don't have any peaches,” Amanda said. She moved a step closer to the sheriff. “But I have a princess. See?”

The sheriff nodded. The girl looked just like her mother must have at that age. He wanted to pat her on the head.

“You can't see from way up there,” Amanda said.

The sheriff knelt down so he could admire the princess doll. “Well, you're right, she's very pretty, isn't she?”

Amanda nodded. “And she's going to learn to read big books, too. It won't be hard for her 'cause she's a princess.”

“I'm sure she's going to learn to read all kinds of books just fine,” the sheriff agreed. “Just like you will.”

“You'll learn to read better next year,” Barbara said as she walked toward the back room. Amanda had not gone to kindergarten so she was behind some of the kids in the first grade class, but the teachers assured her she would catch up. “I'll just be a minute with that cake.”

“Take your time, ma'—” the sheriff floundered. “I mean, Mrs.—that is, Barbara.”

The sheriff couldn't help but remember the days in the hospital when he'd called Barbara “dear.” Of course, she was so confused from all the pain medication at the time that she'd never even reprimanded him. She probably hadn't even heard him.

There was nothing wrong with her hearing now. Barbara turned around and frowned as she walked through the doorway leading to the back of the building. “I'm not a Mrs. anymore. Barbara is fine.”

The sheriff watched her go into the other room. The woman was more than fine. “Yes, Barbara.”