Skeleton Canyon

Daisy delivered the two waiting diners to a nearby booth and then detoured behind the counter on her way back to the cash register. Slipping past her husband, she gave him a swift jab in the ribs with one bony elbow. “Booth six needs bussing,” she told him. “So does table two.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Moe picked up a wet rag and went to clear the tables.

“He’d a whole lot rather gab than work,” Daisy complained, pulling a pencil out of her hair and an order pad out of her apron pocket. “If that man really was on my payroll, I would’ve fired him by now. Since he’s working for free, though, what can I do? Now, if you know what you want, I can put the order in on my way through the kitchen. Otherwise it’ll take a while for me to get back to you. We’re short-handed tonight. I didn’t expect this kind of crowd.”

“Chef’s salad,” Joa

“Corn bread or sticky bun?”

“Definitely sticky bun,” Joa

“You got it,” Daisy said, and hurried off.

The tea came within less than a minute. Stirring in sugar, Joa

Reba McEntire sang of a lonely woman living through the aftermath of a painful divorce. The lyrics were all about how hard it was to sleep in a bed once shared with a no-longer present husband. Regardless of the cause of that absence-death or divorce-Joa

Determined to shut out the words, Joa

Struck by a sudden jolt of envy, Joa

Right about now, Joa

By the time Joa

“Mind if I sit down?”

Joa

“Hi, Dick,” she said. “Help yourself.”

She was grateful Daisy’s was a public enough venue that Voland’s ears didn’t turn red as he eased his tall frame down onto the stool. Opening a menu, he studied it in silence for some time before slapping it shut. “Batching it is hell, isn’t it?” he grumbled. “Ruth maybe had her faults, but she was one helluva cook.”

Ruth Voland, Dick’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, had taken up with their son’s bowling coach from Sierra Vista. Their divorce was due to be final within the next few weeks. As that day loomed closer, Chief Deputy Voland was becoming more and more difficult to be around.

“You’re right,” Joa

Voland nodded morosely. “Hope you don’t mind my tracking you down. Dispatch said you were stopping off to have di

Daisy came to take his order. Joa

“Killer bees,” Voland answered. “It was unbelievable.”

“Killer bees?” Joa

“That’s right. There was. A lady by the name of Ethel Jamison found a swarm of killer bees up under the roof of a tool shed. Her great-grandson is down visiting from Provo, Utah, for a couple of weeks. He offered to take care of them for her. So he and a buddy of his logged onto the Internet, consulted some kind of cyberspace Anarchist’s Cookbook, and blew the place to pieces, bees and all. Except they didn’t quite get all the bees. Like this one, for example,” Voland added, pointing to an ugly red welt on the back of his hand. “And this one, too.” A second vivid welt showed itself on the back of his neck, just above his wilted shirt collar.

“I wasn’t the only one who got stung, either,” Voland added. “A couple of the volunteer firemen did, too. Naturally, the two boys didn’t.”

Dick’s coffee came. He stopped talking long enough to add cream and sugar. “So what’s happening on the O’Brien deal?” “Nothing,” Joa

“But I thought…”

“Bria

“You’re going to wait the full twenty-four hours?” Dick Voland asked. “David O’Brien will have a cow.”

“He’s already having a cow, so I don’t see what difference it makes.”

“David O’Brien isn’t someone I’d want to get crosswise with,” Voland warned. “From a political standpoint if nothing else. With his kind of money, he can make or break you.”

Joa

Voland ducked his head and shrugged self-consciously. “Maybe I changed my mind,” he said while his ears glowed bright red.

It was Saturday night. Knowing small-town gossipmongers might read far more into this casual di

“I’d better be going,” she said. “See you Monday.”

“Right,” Dick returned. “See you then.”