“I suppose that’s possible.” Josie dropped into the chair in front of his desk. Who could explain the criminal mind? “But that means the arsonist knew a cat was in the building.”

  “That’s hardly a secret. Mr. Whiskers suns himself on the windowsill in plain sight,” Scooter said, then added, “I’ve questioned the other business owners. So far nothing.”

  Josie drew in her breath. “Did you question Mr. Wade?”

  “Yes, and all his employees.” Scooter’s gaze sharpened. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” she said.

  “Come on, Josie. I know you better than that. Do you know something?”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  Scooter narrowed his eyes. “It’s no secret that there’s bad blood between you two. So far, Wade’s the only one who stands to gain by burning down your building. He claims he was home when the fire started, and his landlady confirmed it. Still, he could have sneaked out without her knowledge.”

  Josie bit her lip. It was hard to imagine a man with such a large presence sneaking around. “I don’t think he’s the culprit.”

  Scooter frowned. “How can you be sure?”

  Josie clutched at her locket. That was the problem; she couldn’t be sure. It was just a feeling she had. “Do all arsonists have motives?”

  “Usually. Unless they’re crazy. The first one who comes to mind in that category is Mr. Pendergrass.”

  Josie’s back stiffened. “Pendergrass is old and confused. He’s not crazy.”

  Scooter leaned forward. “I know how you feel about him, Josie. But several people reported seeing him in the area the night of the fire.”

  “That doesn’t mean he started it. He has nothing to hide. I’m sure of it.”

  Scooter scoffed. “Maybe not. But I wish he’d hide it anyway.”

  Josie chewed on a nail. “You don’t think Mr. Pendergrass is really guilty, do you?”

  Scooter shrugged. “He’s a suspect.”

  “Did you question him?” she asked.

  “Yes, I questioned him. He denied starting the fire. Claims he has no place to keep matches.”

  “He has a point,” she said and laughed.

  “Yeah, maybe.” Scooter rubbed his chin. “Much as I hate to admit it, Josie, we might never catch the perpetrator. It’s been two weeks since the fire, and I’m no closer to solving the crime. Arsonists have an advantage that other criminals don’t have. Any clues left behind go up in smoke. It’s what they count on.”

  What Scooter said was true, but Josie had the strangest feeling they were missing something. A vital clue?

  As if to guess her thoughts, Scooter added, “I’m not giving up. I’ll do everything I can to find the culprit who burned down your building. And I sure as shootin’ ain’t givin’ up on findin’ Miss Ruby’s killer, neither”

  “I know that, Scooter.” No one worked harder to maintain law and order than he did. Hesitating, she bit her lip. “There’s something else I hope you’re not giving up on. Becky-Sue.”

  He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “What makes you think I’m givin’ up on her?”

  Plucking a piece of lint off her skirt, she debated how to answer. Telling him that Becky-Sue had put an ad in the “Love Links” column might only make him more resistant.

  “A girl doesn’t think a man’s serious unless there’s a ring on her finger or wedding bells in the air.”

  Scooter scoffed. “That’s the trouble with women. They spend too much time thinkin’. Grandpappy always said one shouldn’t think too much about marrying or taking pills.”

  “My grandfather was a blacksmith and he believed in striking while the iron was hot.”

  He sat back in his chair. “Ah, give a man a break, will ya? You know I’ve been busy cleanin’ up this town.”

  “I do know that, Scooter. And you’ve done an outstanding job. But maybe it’s time you got some help. Have you given any thought to hiring a deputy?”

  “Some.”

  “Maybe you better give it more thought. You know what they say about all work and no play.” Scooter lifted his eyebrows. “You get to die a millionaire?”

  She laughed. “On your salary?”

  He pocketed his handkerchief and threw up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll see about hiring a deputy.”

  “That’s a start. Now what are you going to do about Becky-Sue?”

  I’ll talk to her.”

  “Good.” Satisfied, Josie stood and drew on a glove. Her gaze fell upon the manila folders on his desk. One was marked with Miss Ruby’s name and the other simply tagged with the word Arson. The two side-by-side folders made her think of a possibility not previously considered.

  He noticed her eying the folders. “Miss Ruby’s ad made me revisit the case.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection?” She tossed a nod at the two files. “Between the fire and Miss Ruby’s death?”

  His forehead creased. “A connection?” He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

  Now that she had more time to think about it, it did seem farfetched. Still . . .

  “I don’t know. The timing, perhaps. The fire happened shortly after I began running Miss Bubble’s reward in the paper. Maybe the killer got nervous.” She tapped her chin with the tip of her finger. “Of course, it could be just a coincidence.”

  “Could be,” Scooter said, his eyebrows knitted. “Still, that’s an angle I hadn’t thought of.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “Any chance I can talk you into being my deputy?”

  She laughed. “Not on your tintype.”

  Chapter 14

  Wanted: deputy sheriff. Must have a fast horse, be quick on the draw and able to stay awake during the mayor’s speeches. —Two-Time Gazette

  Brandon sat at his desk that Friday morning reading Mrs. Johnson’s editorial with raised eyebrows. She’d minced no words where the arsonist was concerned, for certain and sure. More than just her office had caught fire. So had her pen.

  The most scathing wordage was used in describing the firebug’s nefarious deed. After calling the scoundrel every name under the sun, she demanded he turn himself in.

  He scoffed. Fat chance of that. She’d even hinted at knowing who the rogue was—a bluff that no self-respecting arsonist would fall for.

  Still, she had a perfect right to be riled. No one could blame her for that.

  He lowered the newspaper and let his gaze wander out the window to the tent across the street. How anyone could put out a paper under such dire circumstances was beyond him. He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. The stubborn woman and her loyal sidekick had turned down all his offers to help. She was one independent woman—no question—and had earned his respect. Or more respect.

  Shaking the thought aside, he scanned the rest of the Gazette. Mrs. Johnson sure did know how to put together a professional-looking newspaper, even with the unconventional-sized type and low-grade paper. Her piece on page four made him laugh out loud. She had taken the local grocers to task for placing their vegetables outside where dogs could reach them.

  When a shopper wishes to serve spinach or carrots to her family, she’d written, she does not wish to buy pees!

  “Well, what do you know,” he murmured out loud. Even when the lady was spitting fire she had a sense of humor.

  The door of his office swung open, and Brandon looked up. He dropped the paper on his desk and sat back in his chair. “’Morning, Sheriff. You’re up and about early.”

  Sheriff Hobson closed the door behind him. His mustache and shaggy hair did little to hide his age, which Brandon guessed was probably in the early to mid-twenties.

  “Well, you know what they say. ‘Crime never sleeps.’” Without waiting for an invite, he parked himself upon the straight-backed chair next to Brandon’s desk.

  It was the second time since the fire that the sheriff had stopped by. Today he

  looked just as serious as he had the first time.

  “How can I help you, Sheriff?”

  Hobson, pulled off his hat and balanced it on his knee. “If you don’t mind, I have more questions regardin’ the Gazette fire.”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow. Since the sheriff had drilled him thoroughly the first time, he couldn’t imagine what other questions remained. “Not sure I can help you much there. Like I told you, I’m an early riser. I was already asleep when the fire started.”

  “Your office is directly across the street. Thought you might have seen suspicious activity a day or so before the fire. Maybe a stranger hangin’ ’round. That kind of thing.”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  Hobson shifted in his seat and glanced out the window with narrowed eyes. “Can’t believe that Josie’s still in business. That’s pretty amazin’, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I have to give the lady a lot of credit.”

  Hobson’s gaze met his, but he said nothing.

  Brandon was pretty good at reading between the lines, but it was hard to know what the sheriff had on his mind. “I take it that you still don’t have any suspects.”

  “A couple.”

  Hobson’s piercing eyes had a way of making a man feel guilty even when he wasn’t. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, Brandon ran a finger along his shirt collar. Surely he wasn’t a suspect.

  “Arsonists are a creative bunch,” the sheriff was saying. “Some even figure out ways to leave a building before the fire starts. Thus creatin’ an alibi for themselves.”

  “I didn’t think arsonists were that smart,” Brandon said.

  “You’d be surprised. I even heard tell of an arsonist who tied a piece of meat over a lantern and left. When the buildin’ owner’s dog leaped to get the meat, the lantern overturned, creatin’ an inferno.”

  “So, do you think that’s what happened here? Someone used Mrs. Johnson’s cat to start the fire?”

  Hobson’s eyes sharpened. “I don’t recall my saying anythin’ about a cat, but the thought did cross my mind. Fortunately, the cat escaped. It showed up unharmed.”

  “So I heard,” Brandon said.

  Hobson’s eyes narrowed. “Then, of course, there’s the matter of motivation. Like my Grandpappy always said, chickens don’t lay eggs for no reason.” The sheriff’s gaze dipped to the newspaper on Brandon’s desk. “Do you know anyone other than yourself who would benefit from puttin’ the Gazette out of business?”

  Brandon stiffened. Other than himself? “I never wanted to put Jo— To put the Gazette out of business. That was never my intent. I welcome the competition.”

  Hobson looked skeptical. “Been my experience that anyone says he welcomes competition is generally speakin’ though his hat.”

  The sheriff’s insinuations were beginning to irritate. “Maybe so, but in my case it just happens to be true,” Brandon said, his voice taut. Had Mrs. Johnson put a bug in the sheriff’s ear? He wouldn’t put it past her. She’d been acting strange around him ever since the fire.

  Hobson stood and took his own sweet time donning his wide-brimmed felt hat. “If you think of anything, you know where to find me.”

  ***

  Josie’s elation at publishing the paper under such difficult circumstances lasted only till the end of June. Enough time had passed for readers to figure out that the popular “Love Links” column contained more fabrications than fact.

  It had all started early that Monday morning when Miss Newberry stormed into the office and slapped a carefully cut square from the newspaper on Josie’s desk with such force she startled Mr. Whiskers. Waking with a start, the poor cat dashed under the desk.

  A tall, thin woman built with awkward angles, Miss Newberry looked like she was put together with clay pipes. “He said he was a man of means. A man of mean spirit is more like it! He wouldn’t even pay for my supper!” She sniffed. “If you can’t trust an advertisement, what can you trust?”

  Nothing Josie said could calm her. Miss Newberry left the office in the same state of agitation as when she arrived—only a little bit richer. Josie didn’t like having to reimburse the woman for the cost of the paper, but it was the only way she could get her to leave.

  No sooner had Josie’s ears stopped ringing from Miss Newberry’s complaints than Chuck Cummings burst through the flap of the tent. A short man with a soup-strainer mustache, he shook that week’s edition in Josie’s face.

  “She says she’s matrimonially inclined but can’t explain why two husbands absconded!”

  Another unhappy man followed on his heels. “She advertised herself as a natural beauty. Padded hips, fake hair, and bolstered bosom ain’t natural. The only thing real about her is her nose, and I ain’t even sure about that!”

  The line of disgruntled readers continued for the remainder of the week, leaving Josie exhausted. One of the many drawbacks of working in a tent was the lack of a door that could be locked.

  After an especially trying day dealing with unhappy advertisers, Josie slumped forward and laid her head on crossed arms. “And here I thought I’d come up with the perfect solution to our problem.”

  Hank’s chair squeaked beneath his weight. “Maybe we should include a warning that the paper’s not responsible for false advertisements.”

  She lifted her head. “Everything printed reflects on the paper’s integrity.” She had no idea how to control what people wrote about themselves. If someone described himself as rich or handsome, who was she to suggest otherwise?

  The following week saw another batch of disgruntled readers stream through the flap of the tent. Just when it looked as though she’d seen the last of them, Mayor Troutman walked in and plopped an official-looking document on her desk.

  “What is that?” she said, reaching for it.

  “That is an official notice. You have exactly thirty days to remove this tent from the premises. That gives you till August first.”

  Her hand froze. “Thirty . . .” She forced herself to breathe. “I told you I don’t have the money to rebuild.”

  “And I told you that wasn’t my problem.”

  Josie clenched her teeth. “Give me ninety days.” That might not even be enough time, but it was a start.

  “Forty.”

  She swallowed her dislike of the pompous man and tried appealing to his compassionate

  side. She did everything but turn on the waterworks. When it appeared he lacked the ability to sympathize, her temper flared.

  “I’m trying to run a newspaper here.”

  “And I’m trying to run a town!” The mayor tucked his cane beneath his arm and leaned over her desk. “Your tent is a blight. There’s no other word for it.”

  Rising, she bent forward, leaving mere inches between her and his bulbous nose. “If you’re so worried about blight, why don’t you do something about the rutted roads and traffic problems?”

  Troutman straightened with an indignant toss of his head. “If you think you can do better—”

  “A mule could do better!”

  With a harrumph, he pointed his finger at her. “Thirty days!” He spun around and left.

  Hank pushed his revolving chair away from his desk and spun around to face her. “Ghat are ge donna wo?” he asked in such a mess of muddled words it took Josie a moment to decipher.

  “I don’t know, Hank.” If she were a man, she could take out a loan, but no bank would give one to a woman. She couldn’t ask her father to sign for yet a second loan when she didn’t even know how to pay for the first.

  She fell back in her chair. “I just don’t know.”

  ***

  Later that day, Josie visited Amanda at her hat shop. In the past, whenever Josie’s sisters had had a problem, they’d always come to her for advice. Now the tables were turned and Josie was the one seeking help.

  Josie waited for Amanda to finish with a customer. If the number of hat boxes the woman left with was an indication, Amanda’s business was booming.

  As soon as they were alone, Josie quickly explained the mayor’s ultimatum. “I need to find a place to work until I figure out how to rebuild.”

  “Oh, Josie. I don’t know what to say.” Amanda gave her a hug. “Things were going so well for you. The last thing you needed was that awful fire”

  “I know.”

  Amanda brightened and dropped her arms. “You can work here until you figure out something else.”

  Josie glanced around the tiny shop. Hats of every imaginable size, shape, and design were on display, some on wooden pegs, others on shelves. Ribbons spilled out of drawers, and feathers trailed across Amanda’s workbench. Hardly any room was left in which to turn around.

  Josie gave her sister a loving smile. “That’s very generous of you, but I don’t think it would work. Where would I put my printer?”

  Amanda chewed on her bottom lip. “I wish there was something I could do. I’ll talk to Rick. We don’t have much in the way of savings, but—”

  “Absolutely not!” Amanda and her husband, Rick, had started a horse farm outside of town, but it wasn’t yet profitable, and Josie knew they’d been struggling financially.

  Amanda brightened. “Why not ask Papa for a loan?”

  Josie shook her head. “The bank insisted on a male signature before I could take out a mortgage. If I default, Papa will be responsible for it. I can’t ask him to sign for a second loan.”

  Amanda frowned. “But your paper has been flying out the door.”

  “I’m afraid that’s about to change. We’ve been bombarded with complaints about the integrity of the matrimonial ads and have lost subscribers. It’s only a matter of time before we’ll lose advertisers too. Again.”

  Amanda’s expression softened. “Oh, Josie, I’m so sorry. You’ve worked so hard. What are you going to do?”

  Josie lifted her shoulders with a sigh. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  Amanda picked up a white feather and stuck it into the brim of an unfinished hat. “You could resume the editorial wars you started with Mr. Wade.”

  Oddly enough, the idea didn’t seem as objectionable as it had at one time. “I can’t do that. You know how much Papa was against it the first time.”