John M. Floyd's

LAW AND DAUGHTER SERIES

When Sheriff Lucy Valentine leaves town for a day, her deputy is in charge. At least until Lucy's mother arrives . . .

EDDIE'S MOTEL

by John M. Floyd

Deputy Ed Malone was slogging through paperwork when Frances Valentine stomped into the jail.

“Evenin', Ms. Valentine. You're up late.”

“So are you.” She handed him a plate-sized, tinfoil-wrapped package. “I saw your lights on.”

Ed sniffed the foil and smiled. “Pecan pie? Why, that's mighty kind of you, Ms.—”

“Folks call me Fran, Ed. You might be new, but you been here long enough to know that.” She placed her fists on her hips and surveyed the office. “Where's the sheriff?”

“She's in Memphis . Some training thing.”

Fran brightened. “Is she meeting that handsome captain up there? Danforth?”

“I couldn't say, Ms. Valentine.” Like everyone else in town, Ed Malone knew how badly Frances Valentine wanted her daughter Lucy to find a husband. The fact that Lucy was also the county sheriff didn't change that one bit.

“She drove up alone, I guess?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Fran was quiet a moment. “My late husband—Lucy's father—was sheriff before she was. Did you know that?”

“Lucy told me.”

“I never wanted her to do this, Ed.” She turned to gaze out the window at the night. “I worry about her, sometimes.”

Ed Malone cleared his throat. He started to tell her not to worry, that Lucy Valentine was a pretty tough lady. But he figured Fran knew that.

Finally she turned to smile at him. She looked embarrassed. “So. You're steering the ship while she's gone?”

“I'm the head Ed,” he agreed. “You heard about our excitement?”

“What excitement?” She looked past his shoulder and through the open door to the cellblock. A teenaged boy was sitting inside number three. “Who is that—Sonny Dobbs?”

“Yep. Stole a car.”

Fran blinked. “I can't believe it. Whose?”

“Rosemary Luckett's.”

“Little sports car? Fancy and red?”

“That's the one. Her mother called, after Dobbs wrecked it. Zack Wilson, one of the other deputies—”

“I know who Zack Wilson is, Ed.”

“Well, Zack and I picked Sonny up at the scene, awhile ago.”

Fran frowned and shook her head. “Something sounds wrong, there. Sonny's not too bright, but he's a sweet boy.” She thought a moment. In a lowered voice she said, “Let's take him a piece of your pie.”

Ed pushed his chair back from the desk. “Sweet or not, he was dead drunk when we brought him in.”

Fran found a saucer and fork in one of the cabinets and followed Ed into the cellblock. Sonny Dobbs's eyes were half-closed, his left foot encased in a heavy plaster cast.

“Hi, Miss Frannie,” he said, grinning.

“Evenin', Sonny.” She handed the pie to him through the bars. “What happened to your foot?”

Sonny gave her a sheepish look. “Yesterday I did the milking barefooted, and old Betsy stepped on it.”

Fran winced. “That must've hurt.”

“No ma'am, didn't seem to bother her.” He took a bite of pie.

Fran and Ed exchanged a glance.

“You remember coming here, son?” Ed asked.

“Nossir.” Sonny looked around, chewing. “Am I in jail?”

Ed hesitated. “Call it Eddie's Motel. Bed's hard, food's good.”

“Sure is,” Sonny said.

“Deputy Malone said you were drinking, Sonny.”

“I don't drink, Miss Frannie. If I was sleepin' it was my pain pills. For my foot.” Suddenly he stopped chewing. “I do remember drinkin' a Frosty, in the car. Wish I had it now.”

“What car?” Ed asked.

Sonny squinted as if deep in thought. “Don't remember,” he said, and went back to his pie.

Fran and Ed returned to the front desk. “Something's fishy here, Ed. When'll Lucy be back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Well, you need to watch that boy close, tonight. His daddy'll be coming for him.”

“What?”

“I expect Lester Dobbs'll come before morning, to bust him out.”

Ed realized she was serious. “Ms. Valentine, this ain't the Old West.”

“It ain't the big city, either. And I know Lester Dobbs. He's little, but he's hotheaded.”

Ed sighed, ran a hand through his hair.

“You're a good lawman, Ed. But you're new here. And—”

“And I'll handle this my way. No offense, Ms. Valentine, but this jail locks up tight—Sonny'll be fine.”

“Where'll you be?” Fran asked.

“Next door, on the couch in Lucy's office. Zack went home sick, Deputy McKay's out of town, and I've been up eighteen hours.”

“But—”

“I'll leave Sonny my cell phone, in case he needs me.”

Fran gave him an odd look. “Your phone? That doesn't sound like a city cop talking.”

“So I'm soft-hearted,” he said.

“You're soft-headed too, if you don't believe me about Lester Dobbs. But since you don't . . .”

“What?”

“You'll see.”

***

Despite his words, Deputy Malone worried all night. When morning came without incident, he knew he'd been silly. Fran Valentine was always suspicious.

Ed walked over to the jail, opened up, fetched Sonny his breakfast, and went back to his paperwork. Two minutes later Fran appeared again at the door, this time pulling a big red wagon. And lying in the wagon, his feet dragging the ground behind it, was a small man in overalls and handcuffs.

“Ed, meet Lester Dobbs,” she said. “He's a little hung over, I'm afraid.”

Ed just stared. The man in the wagon was snoring like a buzzsaw. From the rear of the building a voice called, “Miss Frannie?”

They turned to see Sonny Dobbs smiling at them through the open door to the cellblock. “Morning, Sonny,” she said.

“I had a dream last night, Miss Frannie. Dreamed my daddy was hangin' by his foot from a tree outside my window, upside down. Funny, huh?”

“Pretty funny,” she agreed. To Ed she said, “You owe me for a rope. I had to cut mine to get Lester down.”

Ed was still stunned. “You set a trap for him?!”

“Had to. Otherwise, he'd have pulled out your bars.”

“With what?”

“With his truck and a chain,” Fran said. “I rigged a snare in the grass outside Sonny's window last night, and left. Then when Lester walked up—”

“You rigged a snare?”

“Well, my nephew Thomas did. There are some big springy saplings out there. The hard part was getting the cuffs on Lester this morning, while he was dangling. Luckily he was soused—”

“You cuffed him?”

“Thomas did. Just in time, too. He had to get to school.”

Ed exhaled a lungful of air. “Are those our handcuffs?”

“I didn't hurt ‘em. They were lying there on the desk—”

“I know where they were,” he said. “When did you get them?”

“When you went into the bathroom last night, after I left. Figured you wouldn't mind.”

Ed shut both eyes and rubbed them with his thumbs. He had often seen Sheriff Valentine do that, when dealing with her mother. Now he understood why.

“Maybe we better not tell the sheriff that part,” he said.

“Don't tell her about Lester either,” Fran said. “Let him sleep it off, then let him go.”

“Let him go? But he tried to release a prisoner—”

“—who shouldn't be a prisoner,” she said.

“What?”

“Sonny Dobbs didn't steal that car, Ed. He couldn't have. It just occurred to me ten minutes ago, while Thomas and I were loading Lester into this wagon.”

“Why not?”

She pointed to Sonny. “Rosemary Luckett's car's a five-speed. Could you drive a stick shift with that cast on your foot?”

Ed blinked. “But—”

“And that Frosty he said he was drinking in the car?” She held up her cell phone. “I just called Wendy's—”

“Wendy's?”

“That's where you buy Frosties,” Fran said. “The girl working the drive-thru last night remembered them. Sonny wasn't driving—Rosemary was. The girl said he was half asleep, and Rosemary looked drunk.”

“You mean . . .”

“Rosemary must've wrecked her car and decided to lay blame. Her mother believed her, or went along. Either way, Sonny's innocent.”

Ed thought that over, then nodded. “That makes sense. But I can't let him go—not till Lucy gets back.”

Lester woke up, snorted, and rubbed his whiskered face. “Where am I?” he mumbled. Everyone turned to look down at him.

“Eddie's Motel, Daddy,” Sonny called, grinning. “Bed's hard, food's good.”

“Food?”

“Pecan pie, last night.”

Head lolling, Lester squinted up at Fran and Ed. “Okay,” he said, as if making a great concession. “I'll stay.”

Ed just sighed. “You're right,” he said to Fran.

“About what?”

“This sure ain't the big city . . .”