John Floyd's
LAW AND DAUGHTER Series

An off-duty night at the county fair turns into trouble—but the sheriff’s mother is up to the task.

POCKET MONEY

by John M. Floyd

Sheriff Lucy Valentine had aimed her rifle and was squeezing the trigger when her mother grabbed her by the shoulder. Lucy’s shot not only missed the bullseye, it blew the stuffing out of one of the teddy bears lined up on the arcade’s side shelf.

“Congratulations,” the attendant drawled, eyeing his wounded bear. “Instead of winning the prize, you get to buy it.”

“I’m an officer of the law,” Lucy said, aghast. “You’re making me pay?”

“Five bucks,” he said, chewing his cigar.

“She’ll pay you later,” Frances Valentine said, tugging at Lucy’s coat. “Duty calls.”

Lucy detached her coat from Fran’s grasp and glared at her. “What is it, Mother?”

“Come with me,” Fran said. “And don’t get huffy—the way you shoot, I’m saving you money. In more ways than one.”

With a sigh Lucy followed her down the carnival’s midway. Lights and music were going full blast, and the chilly October air smelled of popcorn and hamburgers. Not an unpleasant aroma.
What was unpleasant was being ordered around like a servant, Lucy thought, when you’re supposed to be the one doing the ordering.

“Hurry up,” Fran said, over her shoulder. Which didn’t help matters.

Whatever the problem was, Lucy decided it must be big—only a matter of some importance would keep Fran Valentine from stopping to sample the food along the way.

“You afraid you’ll miss the pie sale?” Lucy said.

“What we’ll miss is an arrest, if you don’t come on.”

Lucy jogged to catch up with her. “Don’t tell me you saw somebody spit in the sawdust.”

“I saw somebody picking pockets.” Moments later Fran stopped at an empty booth with two pool tables inside. “Darn,” she said, panting. “He’s gone.”

Sheriff Valentine studied the scene, and the passersby. No one was anywhere near the pool booth. She started to hook her thumbs into her gunbelt, a gesture she thought looked sheriffy, then remembered she wasn’t in uniform. Her gun was at home. “How’d you know it was a pickpocket?” she asked.

“How do you think? I saw him do it. He stole a guy’s wallet.”

“You saw the wallet?”

“Not exactly,” Fran said. “I saw the bump.”

“The bump?”

“You know, when somebody bumps into somebody, then keeps going.”

Lucy groaned. Her mother’s logic was, at times, a little off center. And she had a tendency to overreact. “That’s all you saw?”

“I saw it twice.”

“The guy bumped two different people?”

“That’s right.”

“The same guy?”

“Yes, the same guy.” Fran was standing in one spot and rotating slowly, like one of those airport beacons. Looking everyone over.

“And you’re sure their pockets were picked,” Lucy said.

“Are you not listening? Yes, I’m sure.”

“Mother,” the sheriff said wearily, “what if this bumping guy—”

“The suspect.”

“What if he was drunk? Or clumsy? Or dizzy? Maybe he just got through riding the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

Fran stopped scanning and fixed her daughter with a stare. “He was a pickpocket, Lucy.”

“Could you identify him?”

“I could if he was here.”

“What about the victims?”

Fran took another look around. “They’re gone too.”

“This is great, Mother. You witness someone bumping into folks, you come get me, not to mention costing me five dollars, and neither the bumper or the bumpees—”

“Nor the bumpees,” Fran corrected.

“—are anywhere in sight.”

“He’ll be back.” Fran folded her arms and nodded once, up and down. “All we have to do is wait.”

“Why should he come back?” Lucy asked.

“They always do. Don’t you read mysteries?”

“The only mystery in my life is why I still listen to your—”

“Calm down,” Fran said, going back into scan mode. “We’ll just stand here awhile, like we’re two sisters out for a night at the fair—”

“Sisters?”

“—and when I spot him, you let him bump into you and pick your pocket. Your purse, I mean. Then we’ll grab him.”

“Well, no offense, Mother, but you look a little old to be my sister.”

“I can be your deputy, for all I care. Point is, we stand here until we see him, then sting him. Afterward, you can buy me a candy apple.”

Lucy blinked. “What did you say?”

“I love candy apples.”

“Sting him?”

“You need a lesson in criminal terminology, Lucy. In fact you should watch NYPD Blue—they’re rerunning it on Saturday nights.”

“Look, Mother—”

Fran’s eyes went wide. “Hush up. There he is.”

Sheriff Valentine turned to see a short man in a baseball cap strolling toward them. “That guy’s no pickpocket,” she said. “He asked me the time, earlier, in the ice cream line.”

“Did he bump into you?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Well, go get in his way, before he passes us.” Fran gave her daughter a shove. “Now.”

With a heartfelt sigh Lucy walked toward the man her mother had pointed out. In fact, her approach forced the man to move aside. He gave her a disinterested glance and kept going. They made no contact.

“Darn,” Fran said again, when Lucy joined her. Together they watched the guy stop nearby to light a cigarette.

“Satisfied?” Lucy asked.

Fran’s only reply was to give the man with a laser glare, and before Lucy could say another word Fran reached into her purse, took out what looked like a BB pistol, and shot him in the left thigh. The man went limp, then fell to the sawdust and lay still.

The sheriff stared in disbelief. “My God, Mother, what have you done?!”

“Subdued a criminal,” Fran said. “Search his pockets.”

“Where the hell did you get a tranquilizer gun?”

“Your real deputy gave it to me yesterday, for protection. My neighbor’s dog tried to bite me.”

“Give me that.” Lucy snatched the pistol from her mother’s hand and gaped at the inert form. The fallen man’s newly-lit cigarette lay beside him in the sawdust. While Lucy stood there stunned, Fran hurried over, knelt beside him, and went through his pockets. When she rose again she was pale as a tombstone.

“Don’t tell me—you didn’t find a thing,” Lucy said, her voice grim. “Right?”

“That can’t be,” Fran murmured, her face blank. “I saw him—”

Lucy eased her mother aside, bent over him, and pulled the tiny feathered dart from the man’s leg. Thankfully, the poor guy seemed to be coming around.

Suddenly a young lady pushed through the crowd. In her hand was an oversized sports bag. “This is his,” she said, pointing at the man on the ground. “I mean, in case they have to take him to the hospital or something. I saw him stuff it under one of those pool tables a minute ago.”

Sheriff Valentine unzipped the bag, opened it—

And stared.

Inside the sports bag were dozens of wallets and billfolds. Lucy flipped through some of them, paused a moment, then dropped all but one back inside. She turned and swallowed. “Guess I owe you an apology, Mother. Looks like you were right.”

But Lucy couldn’t hide the strange look on her face.

“What’s the matter?” Fran asked, watching her daughter.

“Nothing. Let’s get him awake and I’ll take him in to the—”

“Whose is that?” Fran’s eyes were fixed on the blue billfold in Lucy’s hand.

And then Fran understood. “It’s yours. I recognize it.” She broke out a grin. “That’s why he stepped aside, isn’t it—he’d already picked your pocket, earlier, and you didn’t even know it.”

Lucy hesitated. “You know, maybe we could just . . .”

“Keep this quiet?”

“Well, maybe the part about my billfold.”

Fran lifted an eyebrow. “What’s your offer?”

“A candy apple?”

“Banana split.”

Lucy nodded. “Deal,” she said, smiling. “A treat between sisters. Right?”

On the ground between them, the pickpocket moaned.

Fran looked down. “Okay, so we’re not sisters,” Fran said to him. “Actually, I’m her deputy.”