The paper crinkled in her hands as Sheriff Nancy Branter paged through The Beckinfield Chronicle. The overhead fluorescents buzzed in her no-frills office. The sickly, sweet aroma of incense swirled in the air. Rose had insisted on it, claiming lavender would instill a sense of calm throughout the sheriff’s station. To humor her daughter, Branter had promised to use every bit of it. The last stick now burned and, having lived up to her commitment, she would be done with the ridiculous smelly crap by the end of the day.

She turned the page.

Nothing of interest here either. Not a hint of trouble. And that was one of the reasons Branter loved this town—the nothing-of-interest pages of a small-town newspaper.

“Sheriff Branter’s office,” Judy answered the phone, her voice carrying from the receptionist desk just outside of the sheriff’s office door. “Hey, Blondie, everything all right?…You’re kidding?…I’ll let the sheriff know. And I’m sure she’ll be over to check it out. Sure. How are the grandkids?”

Branter folded up the paper and laid it next to her oversized jar of coins on her desk.

Blondie? Didn’t Judy just see him this morning while she was picking up our coffee? How much could there be to catch up on?

“Okay. See you in the morning.” She hung up and called from her desk, “You’re not going to believe this one. Someone painted the high school football team’s logo on the back of Blondie’s Coffee Shop.”

“Logo? The firefly?”

“That’s what he said.” She let out one of her girlish giggles. Not really dignified for a mid-twenties deputy sheriff, but Judy’s charm remained contagious. Even in the tan, starched uniform, her Hispanic ancestry and youthful appearance made her the perfect greeter for anyone looking to the sheriff for help. And behind those dark eyes, the mind of someone who should be working as an analyst in counter-surveillance ticked away. Branter was lucky to have her but careful never to need her.

Laughing, the sheriff stood and grabbed her hat—another vicious day of crime-fighting in Beckinfield.

#

As she strolled down the shaded sidewalk of Main Street, Branter took a moment to ground herself amidst the soft breeze under the gentle sun. Residents waved to her from storefronts. So much to appreciate about this lifestyle. She stopped at the corner across from Blondie’s. No cars went past, but she waited for the light to give her permission to cross. If urgency drove the moment, she would wait for nothing. But today, the pace dictated usual Beckinfield leisurely.

She gazed across the street and shook her head with amusement at the sign above the coffee shop.

Fifty years ago, that image of the smiling, sexy, blonde bombshell with gleaming white teeth was probably titilating. And by now, it had been around so long, and the feelings for the beloved coffee shop dulled the inherent sexist nature of the image. To an outsider, it would have been shocking. A wink from the past from a town lost in time.

“That was quick,” Blondie called, shuffling out of his glass door. The seventy-year-old’s bald head gleamed in the sun.

“Hi, Blondie, I came to admire some artwork,” Branter said.

“The gallery is right this way,” he said as he wobbled around the side of the building.

Branter followed him down the sidewalk, past the picture window. Her boots crunched the gravel of the parking lot. As they rounded the building to its rear, the breeze shifted, and a swamp-like stench hit her nose.

“Sorry about the smell,” Blondie said, glancing back with a sheepish grin. “Always lingers in the spring after a heavy rain.”

Branter stepped in the back area and gaped.

The enormous mural of the Beckinfield Fireflies football team logo covered half of the rear wall. Though she had seen the image hundreds of times over the years, this depiction was stunning. The caricature of the grinning firefly cradled a football in its feet while its torch lit in a golden glow. With incredible detail—every line crisp, every color bold—it glimmered with professionalism.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, impressive,” Blondie said, his tone equal parts irritation and awe. “Figured you’d want a look-see before I scrubbed it off.”

“Sure you didn’t commission this?”

“My nephew would kill me. He plays for Clarksville.” Blondie chuckled.

“When did that thing pop up?”

“I’m embarrassed to say—I’m not sure. The season’s been over for a month. I don’t know if it went up before or after. Who comes back here?” Blondie said with a shrug.

Branter stepped closer, the scent of wet earth mixed with paint fumes still faint in the air. She crouched, running her fingers lightly over the edges of the mural. “Fresh,” she murmured. “Whoever did this did it recently.”

“I’ll get it scrubbed off this afternoon,” Blondie said.

Branter straightened and took a step back to scan the area.

Nothing but trees and dirt behind the building. The ground sloped down toward a shallow trench, its edges overgrown with grass and tangled roots. Beyond the trench stretched a long field filled with waist-high weeds. No traffic back here at all.

What an odd place to put time into painting something so elaborate? Another Beckinfield mystery—or just plain stupidity?

She’d figure it out. She always did.