Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

The Law and Daughter Series

Lucy Valentine endures, on a daily basis, two types of stress: job-related and mother-related. Can she handle both?

LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN

by John M. Floyd

Sheriff Lucy Valentine was just finishing her breakfast—four Hostess Twinkies and a week-old chocolate chip cookie—when her desk phone rang.

“Sheriff’s office,” she said, licking her fingers.

“Lucy? It’s me. Eating healthy again?”

The sheriff sighed. The amazing Frances Valentine, she thought. A retired schoolteacher, Fran always seemed to know her daughter’s secret vices. Especially those that might—in Fran’s one-track mind—hinder Lucy’s chances of finding and snaring a future husband. “What is it, Mother?”

“Don’t use that tone with me. This is police business. I want to report a burglary.”

Lucy stared at the phone. “A burglary?”

“Wooten’s Furniture.”

“I haven’t heard anything about—”

“You have now,” Fran said. “A van drove off with stolen goods, an hour ago.”

“Cyrus Wooten called you?”

“Bessie Timmons did. Wooten’s out of town.” Fran snorted. “As sheriff, I would think you’d know your people’s whereabouts.”

“I know Bessie Timmons’s whereabouts,” Lucy said. “She’s at home with a broken ankle. Which makes me wonder how she saw a van leaving a store half a mile away.”

“She saw it through her binoculars, that’s how.”

“Binoculars?”

“They’re like telescopes,” Fran said. “Except you use both eyes.”

Sheriff Valentine sighed again and opened a desk drawer in search of her Tylenol bottle. Headache pills and conversations with her mother were best taken together.

“Lucy?”

“I’m here, Mother. What exactly did Bessie see?”

“I told you, a van.”

“What kind?”

“A white Ford Aerostar. Cargo. Bessie knows her vehicles.”

“But how does she know,” Lucy asked, “that it contained stolen goods?”

“Because it was heavier when it came out from behind the building, at six o’clock, than when it drove in, at five.”

“Heavier?”

“Lower to the ground. The tires were squashed.”

The sheriff gave up her search and closed her drawer. She wished she had another Twinkie. “You’re telling me she saw a difference in the tires?”

“Yep.”

“And she sat and watched this place for an hour?”

“Bessie’s a natural snoop,” Fran said. “You know that hill where she lives? At the beauty parlor we call it Lookout Mountain.”

This was announced with some pride, Lucy noticed; Fran Valentine was quite a snoop herself. “She also saw the van stop at a gas station, afterward,” Fran said.

“It stopped as a gas station?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Okay,” Lucy said. “Guess I better question her.”

“Good luck. You’re on her poop list. You and Pete Paxton.”

“Paxton?”

“Bessie’s convinced that Paxton Enterprises swindled her out of some land, years ago.”

“Probably did,” Lucy said. “Nobody trusts him. But why me?”

“She mentioned a parking ticket you gave her.”

Lucy felt her headache getting worse. Her mother’s friends could be almost as annoying as her mother. “Dare I ask,” Lucy said, “whether Bessie the Lookout saw anything else that made her believe this morning’s incident was a burglary?”

“Isn’t that enough? A van drives around behind a closed store before sunup and comes back loaded down an hour later, I don’t figure they’re picking up folks for the church social.”

The sheriff pondered that. Regardless of the tire thing, which she doubted, that hour behind Wooten’s store did bother her. The only thing back there, other than a footbridge across a creek to a new apartment site, was a tin shed and a vacant lot. And there had been some thefts in the neighboring counties lately—cars, household belongings, even grass from a sod farm, of all things.

“I’ll check it out,” she said.

“One other thing, Lucy—”

“What.”

“Just because you’re a law officer . . .”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to eat like one.”

#

An hour later Sheriff Valentine had convinced Bessie Timmons to talk with her, but she learned nothing new. Bessie had seen no passengers, and no license plate number. It had been very early, with streetlamps providing most of the light. She also hadn’t been able to see behind the store, but she’d seen the van arrive and leave, and was certain about the tire levels.

“But it’d take a tremendous weight to flatten those tires, Ms. Timmons,” Lucy said. “I’m not sure that could even happen.”

“I know what I saw, Sheriff,” Bessie replied, with a lifted chin. “And by the way, I’m still not paying that ticket.”

After leaving Bessie’s house, Sheriff Valentine drove down the hill to Wooten’s Furniture. There were no signs of forced entry. And the manager, who’d just arrived, told her nothing was missing.

When she returned to the office she had three messages, all from her mother.

Fran Valentine answered on the first ring.

“There was no break-in at Wooten’s, Mother.” Lucy dropped into her desk chair and looked out the window while she explained what she’d found. “And besides, why would burglars stop for gas during their getaway?”

“Bessie didn’t say they stopped for gas,” Fran answered. “She said they stopped at a gas station.” Which was true, Lucy realized. Bessie had said a tree blocked her view of the station itself—she hadn’t seen what the supposed robbers did there, and had barely glimpsed the van afterward.

“Well, I doubt they stopped there to buy a Moon Pie,” Lucy said.

There was a long silence on the phoneline.

“Mother?”

“I gotta go, Luce. I just thought of something.”

The sheriff groaned. “Why am I not surprised?”

#

Ten minutes before noon, Hurricane Frances blew into the sheriff’s office.

“The crime,” Fran said, out of breath, “has been solved.”

“There was no crime, Mother. I told you, the store—”

“Wasn’t burglarized. I know that now. But there was still a crime.”

Sheriff Valentine leaned back and rubbed her eyes. “I’m listening.”

“I got to thinking about the gas station,” Fran said. “And what were they doing behind the store for so long? Bessie couldn’t see back there, but it’s in plain view from Highway 18. Anybody passing by would’ve seen a white van.”

“So?”

“So they hid it.”

Lucy blinked. “Hid the van? How? There’s nothing back there but a little shed, on the creekbank.”

“Exactly.” Fran took a tape measure from her purse and held it up. “And there’s just enough height clearance—six feet—to drive inside. I measured it. According to the Internet, a Ford Aerostar is seventy-three inches tall.”

“Seventy-three . . . But that’s an inch too tall to fit.”

Fran smiled. “Not if you let some air out of the tires.”

That made the sheriff blink again. “But nothing was stolen,” she repeated. “Hidden or not, why was it there at all?”

Fran smiled. “So its passengers could unload grass sod for the new apartment complex, across the creek. I found fresh dirt inside the shed and on the footbridge.”

Lucy’s jaw dropped. “Grass?”

“The complex isn’t open yet, and the landscaping’s behind schedule.”

“You saw the lawn yourself?”

“Newly installed.” Fran pointed to her muddy shoes. “And we know somebody’s been stealing sod from that farm over in Lake County.”

The sheriff was sitting up straight now. “Pete Paxton,” she murmured.

“That’s my guess. He’s the complex’s developer, and he’s crooked as a water moccasin.”

Sheriff Valentine’s eyes narrowed, then popped wide. “So they stopped at the gas station—”

“To air up the tires again.”

It actually made sense. Lucy grabbed her hat and sunglasses. “Think I’ll pay Mr. Paxton a visit.”

“Good timing. He’s in his office now.”

“How do you know?”

Fran smiled. “It’s in Bessie’s binocular range. I asked her to watch him.”

Lucy chuckled and shook her head. “Lookout Mountain?”

“She’s a natural snoop,” Fran said.