"Are you nervous about it?"

"It's not a debate or anything. I just have to answer their questions-honestly-and not make any promises. Besides, Fred will have the audience salted with all his old lady friends."

"Shouldn't we do more about the campaign? Buy posters or flyers or something? It doesn't seem as if we're taking this business of getting you elected very seriously."

"Talk to my campaign manager, Fred O'Connor. But the election is uncontested and we don't have any bucks to spare, so I don't see any reason to waste money. Let the old guy and his lady friends paint up some signs." Then he added, "Tell him I don't need a moustache. He wants me to grow one."

"What on earth for?"

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"He thinks it would make me look like a real sheriff. Jake Weller has a moustache."

"Jake Weller looks good in a moustache."

"Fred thinks it would help me capture the up-county rancher vote."

"You'd look like a farmer, not a cowboy. Ouray County doesn't have a farm vote. But I'm glad you seem more comfortable about running for office. Early on you were pretty wishy-washy about the job."

"I'm starting to warm to the idea." He added, "Me and my bill collectors."

Cynthia gave him a hands-on-hips serious look. "David, we talked about that. It's not too late to back out. I want you to run only if you want to-not because we're nearly broke. You retired from chasing the bad guys back East. One of them even shot you!

Don't feel just because Jake Weller thinks you'd make a good sheriff you have to run."

"I've chased more bad guys running Bird Song bed and breakfast than when I was a Parkside, Pennsylvania police detective. Besides, it might be fun. Maybe I'll get to fire Lydia Larkin."

Just then Fred returned, a mile-wide smirk on his face, a ream of papers clutched in his hand. "It's the Lucky Pup mine!" he announced. "I got all the poop!"

"Quick work, Sherlock," Dean said, giving Fred a pat on the back. "Now, if we could get the sheriff's office to work that fast we could put this whole bones business to bed."

"Ask me who owns it," Fred leered.

"Who owns it?" Cynthia asked, cutting the game short as Mrs. Lincoln leaped into her lap, purring like a buzz saw.

Fred began sorting through his papers, taking his time, building the suspense. "None other than Mr. Paul Dawkins, Sr. That's who. Our guests' dead father!"

"Shit," Dean said.

"What's a matter?" Cynthia asked, surprised by his reaction. Even the cat looked up, more from the cessation of her patting than Dean's expletive.




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