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“Probably so.” His dark eyes slid over her face and down to her soft mouth. “They’ll have mistletoe at the dance.”
She flushed, remembering. “Then I’m sure you and Dana will give it a workout,” she said sarcastically, almost ushering him out the door.
“I might let you kiss me,” he taunted.
“Never in a million years,” she retorted. “I have no idea where you’ve been!”
And before he could reply, she shut the door in his face, despite Snow’s protests. She could hear soft laughter outside before she left the room.
Chapter 7
The really interesting thing about working in law enforcement, Meadow thought, was the endless variety of incidents that went with each new day. You never knew what might come up. There might be a vandalism charge to investigate, a complaint about a business refusing to make good on a defective product, a shooting, a domestic disturbance, a speeder. So much variety made the job interesting. And sometimes, dangerous.
As most law enforcement people knew, domestic disturbances were the things most likely to get an officer killed. From time to time, even the person who called 911 in the first place might be armed and out for revenge if the person they reported was then arrested. Shootings were not infrequent, and fatalities often ensued.
But not in Raven Springs. Nobody could remember the last time anybody local got shot. The only close call any law enforcement person had ever had, except for Jeff’s shooting incident, was when Bobby Gardner ran his patrol car off the road into a snowbank and broke the windshield. Considering the tragic shootings nationally just lately involving policemen, it was a miracle that local law enforcement had remained safe.
Meadow was still working the theft of the Victorian lamp. She’d sent the photo of it out to several auction houses, but with no responses so far.
Gil said that wasn’t surprising. “The pipe organ went missing here,” he reminded her. “And it’s just turned up at that big auction house back east. Obviously the thief hoped that nobody local would notice. He felt safe to try and sell it.” He pursed his lips. “Interesting, though, the way he covered his tracks. Using a dead man’s identity on the bill of sale is cagey. If we hadn’t investigated, it might have gone unnoticed. The bill of sale looked legit.”
“Yes, it did,” she agreed. “Two antiques, which originally belonged to famous people, both stolen locally. One turns up back east, the other is still missing.”
“Well, we know that whoever took both items knew their worth.” He grimaced. “Problem is, we hardly ever have any such thefts here. I mean, people break in and steal money and guns, mostly. Not a lot of folks would even know the value of antiques like those.”
She nodded. “How long has Mr. Markson been here?”
“He came with the town.” He laughed. “He’s been here a long time, and he’s as honest as the day is long. And if you’re thinking Gary was responsible, the boy’s barely got enough energy to put gas in his truck. He isn’t the breaking and entering sort. He’s too lazy.”
“I guess you’re right,” she agreed. “He’d have been my first suspect.”
He studied her with a smile. “He knows antiques, and he does have ties to auction houses back east. Maybe he’d be into something like that fancy table Dal Blake owns. It’s got a history that makes it priceless. There’s an item that a seller could ask his own price for and get it.” He frowned. “Like the Victorian lamp and the pipe organ. It isn’t their antique status that makes them valuable—it’s who owned them originally. Both belonged to former presidents. But Dal’s table—now that’s real history.”
“On the other hand,” she laughed, “if it went missing, it would be almost impossible to fence it without giving its history.”
“True,” he agreed. “But there are private collectors, you know. The sort who buy priceless antiquities and keep them in personal vaults, behind closed doors. Millionaires who can afford any amount of money.”
“Let’s hope Mr. Blake never has to worry about someone stealing it, then,” she said.
“I wouldn’t want to try and break into Dal’s house,” Gil chuckled, “not with that big cat in there. He actually attacked one of Dal’s own cowboys who walked inside in the dark without turning on a light. It was sort of an emergency, but Jarvis didn’t care. The cowboy had scratches from stem to stern. He was yelling his head off for Dal to save him, at the last.”
“Jarvis is very big,” she agreed. She laughed. “I guess he’s ferocious enough to qualify as a watchcat, but he likes me.”
“We heard about that. Spends his life at your place, like your dog hangs out at Dal’s. Strange animals.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
A phone rang in the outer office and the clerk, old Mrs. Pitts, stuck her head around the door a minute later. “Somebody ran through a red light and broadsided old man Barkley’s Lincoln. Who wants to save the driver from him?”
It was a well known fact locally that Barkley had bought the Lincoln new and polished it by hand. It was his baby. The other driver would be running for his life.
“I’ll go,” Gil said. “I may have to run down the other driver.” He chuckled.
“Good luck,” Meadow called after him.
“That’s one nice young man,” Mrs. Pitts remarked as Meadow followed her into the outer office. “You going to the Christmas dance with him?”
“No,” Meadow said. “With Jeff.”
