Sheriff Lucy Valentine exited the post office just in time to see Hubie Johnson stapling a campaign flyer to a park bench on the other side of the street. The sheriff stuffed her mail into a pocket and shouted at him, but Hubie and his stack of flyers were already running away down the sidewalk. In fact Hubie sprinted right past Lucy’s mother, retired schoolteacher Fran Valentine, who was approaching in the distance, from the other direction.
Lucy wasted no time. Since she was on foot—she had walked from the sheriff’s office to the P.O.—she turned to the only other person close by: a middle-aged guy in a yellow shirt, leaning casually against a white Toyota parked at the curb between the post office and a diner called The Snack Shack.
“I’m Sheriff Lucille Valentine,” she blurted. “I need to borrow your car.”
The stranger frowned. “To chase that little dude who ran off?”
“That’s right.”
“What for?”
Lucy pointed to the flyer, which said, in block letters, VOTE FOR TODD ANDERSON FOR SHERIFF. “He was posting on city property. That’s illegal.”
“Seems like a minor offense, to me.”
“It’s the law. Can I use your car, or not?”
The stranger shrugged. “Wouldn’t do you any good.”
“Why not?”
“It’s out of gas.”
Lucy sighed, stomped across the road to the bench, ripped the flyer down, and headed off toward her office. Fran, who’d been listening, hurried after her. Halfway down the street, Lucy stopped in her tracks.
“What’s the matter?” Fran asked.
Her daughter turned to face her. “That car. The one I asked to borrow.”
“What about it?”
“I think it was parked in a handicapped space.”
Fran nodded, thinking. “You’re right—I think it was, too.”
“And the guy didn’t look handicapped, to me.” Without another word Lucy turned and marched back up the street, and once again Fran followed.
When they arrived at the diner, the vehicle was still there but the stranger was gone. Lucy looked around, fuming, then pulled out her cell and called the local towing service. “This is Sheriff Valentine,” she said, into the phone. “White twenty-eighteen Camry, East Main, outside The Snack Shack. Come pick it up.” After disconnecting she said to her mother, “If it’s out of gas I don’t want it sitting here all day.”
Fran, who had wandered over to the car, leaned over and peeked through the window. “The key’s in the ignition.”
Before Lucy could reply to that, Fran opened the driver’s door, climbed in, turned the key, and looked at the dashboard.
“What do you think you’re doing, Mother?”
“I think I’m checking the fuel gauge.”
“I imagine it says ‘empty.’”
“You imagine incorrectly. It says half a tank.”
Lucy blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“See for yourself.”
She leaned in and studied the gas gauge. “That settles it.”
“Settles what?”
Lucy stood up again and squinted up and down the street. “That sorry rascal lied to me—there’s plenty of gas in this car. When I locate him I’m going to fine him from here to Sunday.”
“Fine him?”
“Or arrest him,” Lucy said. “Or both. You heard what happened—I asked to requisition his vehicle to pursue a suspect, and he intentionally misled me. Obstruction of justice. Plus illegal parking.”
Fran climbed out of the car and shut the door. “Would you be so mad about this, if Hubie had been posting one of your flyers, instead of your opponent’s?”
“My campaigners,” Lucy said, raising her chin, “wouldn’t run around attaching posters to town property.”
“A fine seems a little harsh, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you.” She was about to turn away when she noticed the way Fran was studying the parked Toyota. “What’s wrong now?”
Fran shrugged. “Something just occurred to me.”
“What?”
“I know most of the cars in this town,” she said. “And most of the drivers. Don’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I don’t recognize this car.”
“So?”
“And I didn’t recognize the guy either.”
“So?” Lucy said again. “What’s your point, Mother?”
“My point is, he might’ve been telling you the truth.”
“What?”
“I can picture a scenario,” Fran said, “where he wasn’t lying to you at all.”
“What do you mean? I asked him, as county sheriff, if I could use his car, and he said—”
“He told you his car had an empty tank.”
“Right,” Lucy said. “And it didn’t.”
“Maybe it did,” Fran said, “if . . .”
“If what?”
At that moment an elderly couple emerged from The Snack Shack. They limped slowly past Lucy and Fran to the parked Toyota, where the man struggled into the passenger side and the woman opened the driver’s-side door and said, “My heavens, George, look at this—I left the key in the ignition.” Shaking her head, she got in and slammed the door.
Fran looked at Lucy, smiled, and said, “. . . If this isn’t his car.”
Lucy stood there a moment, gaping at her. Then, as the driver began backing out, Lucy walked up and tapped on the window. The woman lowered it.
“Excuse me,” Lucy said. “Did you happen to notice a man standing here, near your car, while you two were inside the diner?”
“Now that you mention it,” the woman said. “Tall guy in a yellow shirt?”
“Yes. You didn’t know him?”
“No—but I saw him arrive. He walked up with a little fella carrying a stack of papers.”
“Papers?”
“Flyers, looked like. He was passing them out.”
Lucy sighed and watched the old couple drive away, then looked at her mother. “Yellow Shirt must be Todd Anderson’s campaign manager. I heard he was from out of town.”
“So what are you gonna do now?” Fran asked.
“Go find him, I guess, and shoot him.”
“How about lunch instead?” Fran pointed to the diner.
“I already had lunch.”
“I’m buying,” Fran said.
“Well . . . I am still a little hungry.”
Inside, they found campaign flyers lying beside both their menus.
“What a day,” Lucy said.
Bio: John M. Floyd’s work has appeared in more than 300 different publications, including AHMM, EQMM, Strand Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, and three editions of The Best American Mystery Stories. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is also an Edgar finalist, a four-time Derringer Award winner, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, the 2018 recipient of the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer Award for lifetime achievement, and the author of nine books.
