He skipped the headline beneath a two-column-wide color photo, and read:

Adele Hogan has been named Captain of the Mitford Police Department, filling the former position of our new Chief, Joe Joe Guthrie.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you feature our new chief on the front page? I mean . . .’

‘He’s inside front page,’ said J.C. ‘Not official ’til November. Read on.’

“I will be honored,” Hogan said when the news was announced internally, “to serve the citizens of Mitford as ably and justly as I possibly can.”

‘Nice, huh?’ said J.C.

“She’s the one for the job,” said former Chief Rodney Underwood, who moves to Wesley as Chief of the WPD. “I was impressed when she interviewed several years ago. Some people when they interview, you can tell they just want to carry a gun and drive fast.”

‘Adele is truly different,’ said J.C. ‘She wants to carry a gun, drive fast, and be of real service to the community.’

‘Noble,’ he said.

•   •   •

‘DARLING! ANY BUSINESS UP THERE?’

‘A couple of tourists from Alabama, one from Statesville. Pretty steady.’

‘Have you read the Muse?’

‘About Adele, yes, but haven’t read about Joe Joe.’

‘You have sixty-five votes.’

‘Sixty-five!’ He felt the heat in his face.

‘It’s looking very promising. And Coot got another vote, he has three now. Here’s what the article says:

“Every little town needs a town fixture. I cast my vote for Coot Hendrik who once helped my elderly mother cross the street plus he ran after somebody’s grocery cart last week when it rolled down the hill behind the Local. Little things mean a lot, people! It doesn’t have to be all sparkle and shine. Sincerely, Anonymous.”

‘Him again. Did you find the letter?’

‘No, but Puny can have a go tomorrow. I thought you’d like what Anonymous said.’

‘That it can’t all be glitter and gleam? Amen to that.’

‘Sparkle and shine, I think he said. You can’t get this sort of thing in the Times, sweetheart.’

He wanted a five-hundred-dollar day today, he really did, plus he had to find a bunch of O titles and get the window done.

‘Any news from next door?’ he asked his wife.

‘I called this morning,’ she said. ‘Sammy’s some better, but now Harley’s down with it. So far, Kenny is unscathed.’

‘Okay, gotta go, Kav’na. See you around five-fifteen.’

‘By the way, did you order something? UPS dropped off a long box this morning. It’s in the garage.’

His scalp prickled. ‘I’ll tell you everything when I get home.’

The God of the Second Cue had delivered.

•   •   •

‘YOU DIDN’T TELL ME you were workin’ at th’ bookstore.’

He was astounded to see Emma Newland with a tan. They were clearly giving free samples at A Cut Above.

‘I didn’t know I was expected to report such matters.’

‘Which days are you workin’?’

‘Thursday and Friday.’

‘I still have Tuesday open,’ she said.

And he still had Tuesday closed. ‘I’ll remember that.’

‘I voted for you; I emailed it to Vanita last week. But I think this should be a democratic election, so next week, I’m voting for Winnie.’

‘Good,’ he said, ‘she deserves it.’

‘I guess a person can have more than one vote.’

‘Probably so. I don’t recall seeing any rules. How about buying a book?’

‘I don’t have time to read.’

‘For your granddaughter,’ he said. ‘Grandchildren have time to read.’

Emma adjusted her half-glasses, peered around the store. ‘What do they read?’

He didn’t actually know, he needed to discuss the whole issue of children’s books with Hope. ‘Eric Carle.’ He’d heard Cynthia mention Eric Carle. ‘Or—let’s see, starts with an S—Sendak! Maurice. Yes, he was quite the revolutionary.’

‘Nothing political,’ said Emma.

He was still conflicted about whether to promote Cynthia’s books, which were perennially displayed throughout the store. He headed for the Children’s section, tailed by Emma.

‘So what did th’ bishop want?’

‘He wanted to talk something over.’

‘What was so grave that he couldn’t mention it in his letter?’

‘It was so grave that I can’t mention it in conversation.’

That was sticking the knife in and turning it. He pulled The Very Hungry Caterpillar off a shelf.

‘It was somethin’ to do with Lord’s Chapel, I can tell you that.’ Smug’s truest meaning, personified.

He studied the S authors, found a Sendak, paged through. What if Where the Wild Things Are scared the granddaughter? How could he possibly know what to recommend if all he’d read of the children’s inventory was Violet books?

‘Just give me one of Cynthia’s,’ she said, impatient. ‘Or two—Hope needs th’ money. So, are you goin’ to say somethin’ about my tan or not?’

‘It’s becoming.’

‘It’s th’ Boca. You should try it yourself while th’ special’s on. And by th’ way, I will not vote for Wanda Basinger next time around, I am not that democratic.’

He took two Violet books off the shelf and headed for the register, Emma nipping at his heels.

‘Nothing she does is out of the goodness of her heart. A restaurant is a commercial enterprise; she is paid to make great fries, she is supposed to stack her garbage in a neat pile for pickup.’ She stood at the sales counter, slid her glasses down her nose, gave him a look. ‘So where’s any leadership involved in that?’

He swiped her card.

‘How’s Snickers?’ he said.

•   •   •

HE WAS ROAMING THE STORE looking for O titles when he heard the bell. Irene McGraw. Irene was in her usual garb of pants and cotton sweater, making the casual appear elegant. He wished he could remember the name of the famous film star people said she looked like, but since he never saw a movie . . .

She didn’t see him, so he let her browse. Book browsing had its own set of rules, of course. It was a contemplative pursuit, and he was trying to learn when to reel in a paying customer and when to reel out.

‘Irene,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you. I apologize for the uproar we caused.’

She smiled. ‘It was very funny. So few things are in today’s news. Thank you for your concern, it was lovely to feel looked after.’

‘How’s the new grandson?’

‘A fine, big boy, thank you. He has his Grandfather Chester’s eyes.’

‘I miss seeing Chester,’ he said, meaning it. ‘How may I help you?’

She waved her hand, a kind of flutter. ‘Lots of grandchildren who love to read.’

‘Fifteen percent off titles beginning with O,’ he said.

‘I’ll just wander through, if you don’t mind. I may be a while. I like to read the books I give.’

He was impressed, to say the least.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then. And many thanks for your kind generosity to the hospital. When we went looking for you that day, I waited for Cynthia in your living room. I confess that I studied your paintings. They’re breathtaking, really.’

There was the look he always associated with her, the distant, sorrowing, distracted look. A look which was actually rather beautiful, like the face of a Madonna.

She smiled, but didn’t acknowledge his praise. ‘I believe the children’s books are that way?’

‘Come with me,’ he said.

Two hours later, Irene McGraw was still sitting on the floor in the Children’s section, books strewn about in a bright sea of color. For the first time since he’d known her, she appeared . . . what? Relaxed. Comfortable.

‘I’m just going to have a bite of lunch,’ he said. ‘Cynthia made a sandwich with grilled chicken, it’s already cut in half. Will you join me?’

He hardly expected her to accept, but she did. She looked up and smiled and said, ‘I’m hungry as a bear. Thank you.’