Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Daphne was not emotionally prepared for the state of her face in the morning, no matter what Flint had said to warn her. Her nose was still swollen, and she had two puffy black eyes that morphed to purple and green around the edges. Makeup wasn’t even an option. Her face was too tender and swollen, and she doubted she had any products that could actually cover this level of damage.
Being a vigilante wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She’d be happy to be locked in a room with old financial records for the foreseeable future.
Her grandmother had updated the family about the goings-on at the farmers’ market, so Daphne had had a visit from the whole gang for dinner. Her mother had fussed, her father had congratulated her, and Ellie had given her a high five. Grandma Mabel had gone to get her a new loaf of bread from Adelaide Gable, who had thrown in a half dozen cookies as well. Daphne was a hero, apparently.
Now, Daphne shuffled to the kitchen in her tiny one-bedroom apartment and made herself a slice of multigrain toast with a thick layer of rhubarb jam. She sipped her coffee and tried not to wince every time she moved her face. Getting punched in the nose was not in her top ten most favorite activities. Neither was getting chastised by an acting sheriff with an overinflated sense of importance.
Seriously—not a single thank-you. Not one! The man was unbelievable.
However, when she walked into the sheriff’s department, she was greeted with a round of applause and a few hoots. Shirley Newbury hustled toward her and wrapped her in a big hug.
“Well done, you,” Shirley said, squeezing Daphne’s shoulders. “Way to make an entrance.”
“Now we know not to mess with the accountant,” one of the deputies called out, and laughter echoed around the room.
“And here I thought you were the quiet sister,” an older deputy said, grinning at her. His name was Hank Packer, and he’d been with the Fernley force for three and a half decades. He’d survived the corruption storm with his staunch I’m-just-here-to-do-my-job attitude, which had served him well ever since he’d started working at the sheriff’s department.
“I am the quiet sister,” Daphne protested. “I just don’t like to see good people get robbed.”
“Hear, hear!” Shirley said, and hooked her arm through Daphne’s elbow. “Now, let me show you around. We’ve set you up in one of the interview rooms. I wasn’t sure what you’d need—” The phone rang, and Shirley glared at it. “Hold on.” She walked over to it and answered. “Sheriff’s department. Uh-huh. Okay. No problem. We’ll send deputies out.” She hung up and glanced at Hank. “Chuck Rutgers’s alpacas have jumped the neighbor’s fence again. Apparently, Iris is threatening to shoot them all if Chuck doesn’t get them under control. She’s got her shotgun out and is waving it around.”
Hank grabbed his jacket with a sigh. “I’ll handle it.”
“Now,” Shirley said, smiling at Daphne. “The interview room. We weren’t sure what you’d need, but you just have to let us know, and—Sheriff Flint! Good morning.”
Daphne turned to see the sheriff standing by the front door. Sunlight carved the shape of him against the glass door, limning those broad shoulders in gold.
“Shirley,” Flint said with a nod; then his gaze slid to Daphne. “Davis,” he greeted, gaze lingering on her bruises. His jaw seemed to tighten slightly before he looked at Shirley again. “What’s this I hear about a shotgun?”
“Just Iris Whittaker getting carried away about Chuck Rutgers’s alpacas again. Chances of any shots being fired are low, but Chuck and Iris do tend to get worked up when they butt heads. Hank’s on it.”
The sheriff met Hank’s gaze as he ambled toward the door where he stood. “Mind if I ride along?”
“Suit yourself,” Hank replied with a genial nod. “You might as well meet Iris and Chuck sooner rather than later.”
“Regular callers,” Shirley mumbled to Daphne in explanation, then ushered her toward one of the interview rooms at the back of the main room. “Here we are! It’s not much, but we’re a bit strapped for space. The extension the department was supposed to build is, well ...” She glanced down the hall at a plastic-covered doorway. “Let’s just say it hasn’t been finished, and now with all the money being frittered away ...”
Daphne nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”
“And aren’t we lucky to have you! Kitchen’s just down that hall. Wash your own dishes. If you finish the coffee, you put on a fresh pot. Fridge gets cleared out every Friday afternoon, so unless your things are labeled and dated, they’re gettin’ tossed. Other than that, holler if you need anything!”
“Will do. Thanks, Shirley.” When she was alone in the tiny box of a room, fluorescent light flickering overhead, Daphne set her shoulder bag down on the table and planted her hands on her hips.
The job shouldn’t be too difficult. She’d been hired to figure out what had happened to the department’s money while Bill Jackson had been in charge. After the upheaval that had happened, no one had any idea what leaks needed to be plugged, and whether there were any other less-than-savory people who needed to be rooted out and exposed.
Daphne knew that it was probably plain old incompetence and mismanagement that had caused the department’s coffers to run low. The former sheriff and his cronies had been taking bribes from people left and right, but the federal investigators hadn’t found any evidence of embezzlement of public funds. They’d been focused on the drugs and the money laundering, though, so it was possible they’d missed something.
She’d have to untangle years of finances and figure out a path forward. Just her, her computer, and honest, logical numbers. No people who might punch her in the face for doing a good deed. No scowling ghosts from her high school days come back to haunt her. Just old financial records that needed to be made right.
Easy.
Or so she hoped.
She stripped her jacket off and set her computer up, then wandered to the far side of the room, where boxes had been stacked. She opened them one after another to find faded invoices and crumpled receipts. At least she had somewhere to start.
Needing coffee, Daphne wandered out and across the room to the area where Shirley had pointed. A small kitchen was tucked around the corner. She poured herself a mug of coffee and ambled back toward her office, letting her feet take her toward the unfinished extension at the back of the building. She took a sip of her coffee, pleasantly surprised as the taste hit her tongue. It was better than the coffee truck brew, that was for sure.
Before she pushed through the plastic-covered door, she saw another small hallway running the length of the rear of the building. She could see a few holding cells lined up along the back wall. Curiosity got the best of her, and she walked down to see if anyone was inside.
In the farthest cell was the farmers’ market thief. He sat on a metal bench bolted to the wall, eating a sandwich. He looked up when Daphne appeared, and his eyes narrowed.
“Hi,” she said.
He bit into the sandwich and chewed. Once he’d swallowed, he said, “Hi.”
They stared at each other. Daphne took a sip of coffee. She wasn’t sure why she was here. “You been here all night?”
The would-be thief nodded. “Sorry about your face.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Thanks. Never been punched before. Wasn’t expecting the black eyes.”
“Your purse got me good,” he replied, pointing to his own bruised temple. “You carry rocks around for fun, or something?”
“Jam jars,” she explained.
He snorted and took another bite. Daphne sipped her coffee. She’d never spoken to someone through bars before. She was experiencing all kinds of firsts.
“What’s your name?”
His eyes narrowed. “Ryan Lane. You?”
“Daphne Davis. Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “You know what. Why’d you steal the cashbox?”
“Felt like it.”
She tilted her head and studied the man in the holding cell. He was hunched over his sandwich eyeing her suspiciously, the bruise on his temple already turning green. He looked younger than she’d initially thought. Maybe still in his teens. A pang of sympathy went through her. “Why’d you feel like it?”
“Maybe I needed the money. Bills overdue. Mom’s rent’s behind, and she sure as hell isn’t going to get any extra money by the end of the week.”
Daphne held her warm mug and nodded. “You got a job?”
“I did, until I was fired last Monday.”
“What for?”
He scowled and took another bite of his sandwich, tearing at the bread with his teeth. He chewed angrily and met her gaze. “Missed one too many shifts. But I can’t help it that there’s no gas in the car and no one to bring me to town.” He seemed resentful that he’d opened up that much, and he spun around on the bench so his side was to Daphne.
The conversation was clearly over. Daphne turned and then started when she saw Calvin Flint leaning against the wall just out of sight of the holding cells. He watched her steadily, then tilted his head to indicate that she should follow. When they’d left the holding cell area and turned the corner, Daphne glanced up at him.
“How were the alpacas?”
“They survived, as did Chuck and Iris. Iris put the gun away and got a warning. Chuck was told to fix his fence. Hank told me to expect another call within three days.”
Daphne bit back a smile. “Is being sheriff all you thought it would be and more?”
“I feel very qualified to be a kindergarten teacher.”
Daphne laughed, then winced as pain shot through her face.
“Still sore?”
She grunted. “Likely will be for a while.”
“What do you think of Lane?” He led her toward the kitchen, and Daphne realized the hallways connected to the main room in a big U shape, with interview rooms in the center and her new office on the opposite side to the kitchen. They stopped in front of the coffee machine, where the sheriff filled up her mug before pouring one for himself, draining the last of the carafe into his cup. Daphne was slightly surprised to see him follow Shirley’s rules by immediately setting another pot to brew. Apparently the sheriff wasn’t too self-important to keep the communal kitchen operating smoothly.
Maybe he’d grown up in the years they’d been apart.
She leaned against the counter and pursed her lips. “I think he probably felt desperate and acted impulsively yesterday. He’s younger than I thought.”
“Turns eighteen in three weeks,” Flint said.
“Old enough to know better.”
Flint grunted. “Worked at the tech repair shop on Seventh Ave up until he got fired for too many no-shows. His bike got stolen three months ago, and the family only has one car. Owner said he’s a bit of a tech whiz kid, but he couldn’t keep him on if he wasn’t reliable.”
“He said he wanted to help his mom pay rent with the money.”
“The Lanes don’t have much,” Flint agreed. Daphne glanced over and noted the tightness around his eyes, the way his hand clutched the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were striped white and red. She wondered if he was thinking of his own upbringing. The Flints hadn’t had much either.
“What are you going to do about him?” she asked.
He turned to face her, hazel eyes steady as they met her gaze. He had thick lashes, she noticed. She’d always thought his eyes were too pretty for the rest of his face, but now that the rest of him had grown up, they seemed to fit. He had a few fine lines around his eyes, a bit of roughness from wind and weather on his skin. He arched a dark brow. “Depends how you feel.”
Daphne frowned. “Me?”
“You’re the one who got hit.” Flint’s arm moved, then stopped, like he’d caught himself reaching up to touch her bruises. He flexed his hand and turned to look at the progress of the coffee maker.
Daphne hummed. “I saw his temple. I think we can call it even.”
Flint glanced over and watched her for a beat, then dipped his chin. “I’ll let him sit in that holding cell for a while, then slap him with a warning and let him go. I spoke to Mr. Stringer, the jam man, and he doesn’t want to press charges. He’s just glad he got his cashbox back. Was only about two hundred bucks in there, anyway. Mostly, people are talking about what a hero you were.”
Was that a smile twitching at the corners of his lips?
Daphne straightened her spine and gave him an arch look. “And you disagree?”
“I know you better than they do, Cupcake,” he said.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? And stop calling me that.”
“You can pretend to be a nice, responsible, boring woman as much as you like, Davis, but I know the truth.”
Daphne opened her mouth to retort but was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Flint pulled it out of his pocket, his brows tugging together when he glanced at the screen. “Gotta take this. Don’t let all the accolades get to your head.”
“You’re a prick, Flint.”
He flashed her a smile on his way out, and all Daphne could do was seethe as he walked away. His butt looked good in the dark-blue uniform pants, which—wait, no. No, his butt didn’t look good. Well, fine, one couldn’t deny that it did , but the sheriff’s ass was none of her business. Especially when it was attached to such an insufferable man. She was here to study the numbers. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Best get back to it.