It was a big house with shingled siding and a river rock chimney. Atop its second story was a widow’s walk framed by ornate ironwork. It was the kind of place that drive-bys admire and covet. Pitched in the front yard was a campaign sign as big as a car: THE DERBY WINNER YOU WANT. Birdy parked and walked up the long cobblestone path. She wondered how a sheriff could afford such a place. A congressman, yes. They had a zillion ways to earn a fortune through sweetheart deals made when their constituents were home dealing with the real-life problems of their respective districts. She knocked and Jim Derby opened the door. “What do you want?” he asked, clearly not happy to see her. “It’s late.” “I think you know why I’m here, Sheriff.” Her tone was flat, without emotion. Her eyes stared hard at him. He had to know why she was there. It wasn’t a social call. “It sounds like you’re threatening me,” he said. Witch hazel scented the air. “Are you going to invite me in or are we going to have this conversation out here where the neighbors might hear?”
