Whispering Rock (Virgin River #3)(24)

Now, according to Jack, what she wanted was a town cop, and she hoped the same thing would happen—that she would pay him a salary from her savings for a year and the town would realize it was a positive addition and manage to pull together enough for his salary.

Hope lived about five miles out of town in a big old Victorian home that she and her husband had bought fifty years ago. They’d never had children and so had filled the place up with junk. “I’ve never been inside,” Jack had told Mike, “but the rumor is that Hope hasn’t thrown away a thing in seventy years.” After her husband died, Hope had sold off the acreage to her neighbors for farming and grazing land.

He pulled up to the remarkable old house and found her on the porch with her coffee and cigarettes and a folder full of papers. When he stepped up on the porch, she greeted him with a victorious smile and said, “I knew I would get you eventually.”

“I don’t know what you’d be getting, Hope. I have no idea how to be a small-town cop.”

“Who does? But you have lots of law enforcement experience, and clearly we can use it. Lately we seem to have had our share of problems.”

“Not from Virgin River people, however.”

“What’s the difference? If it happens in Virgin River, it becomes our problem.”

“What have you got there?” he asked, indicating the folder.

“Just paperwork. I had to get a little legal help from a county attorney. Here’s what I can do—I can hire you as a local security officer, a constable. Even though you’ve graduated from one of the toughest police academies in the country, you wouldn’t be recognized by the state as an official law enforcement officer, but that really doesn’t matter. If you run across a lawbreaker, you detain them and call the sheriff, just like you’ve been doing. You’re not prevented from investigating. Hell, any private investigator can do the same. You should visit the sheriff’s department, Fish and Game, California Department of Forestry, the Highway Patrol and some of our neighbor towns who have their own local police departments. Introduce yourself. Believe me, they’ll all appreciate any help, with all the territory they have to cover in these rural towns.”

“And what do you expect me to do?” he asked.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about speeding tickets.” She laughed. “You’ll figure it out. Assess the needs of the town. It’s a law-abiding place—there shouldn’t be too much stress. But, as has happened a couple of times too recently, if we get some real trouble, I want an experienced police officer around.” She lit another cigarette. “You don’t have to keep a jail. You shouldn’t need flashing lights or a bulletproof vest.”

“When would you expect me to be on duty?” he asked.

“I expect, if you’re around, you’re on duty. I understand everyone needs time off, needs to get out of Virgin River sometimes. If you’re around five or six days a week, that’s five or six more days a week than we’ve had. Let’s just hope our crime sprees fall on your work days.”

All that came to mind was a trip to Santa Rosa for lunch every couple of weeks. Something he hoped would become even more frequent. “Sounds like a paid vacation,” he said.

“With any luck,” she said. Then she opened the folder and showed him a one-year contract that displayed a pathetic salary.

“Not exactly a paid vacation,” he said. But then, he’d been looking for something to do, and it wasn’t necessary that he find work. He had his retirement and disability income, plus a little savings. “Why do you do this?” he asked. “First Mel, now me?”

“Hell, someone has to mind the needs of this town. This town is disorganized—I have to think what to do about that. And we’re growing, if only a little.” She took a drag. “I’m not going to last forever, though sometimes I’m afraid I might.”

She slid a badge across the table to him. It said Virgin River Constable. “I had that made five years ago. Nice, isn’t it?”

“You expect me to wear this?”

“You want to keep it in your pocket until you need it? You don’t have to wear a uniform or anything. You wouldn’t be the only guy in town carrying a sidearm or rifle. But I recommend you generate some forms so you can write up reports when you actually do something. There ought to be records. Want me to buy you a filing cabinet?”

He grinned at her. “Yeah. That would be nice. It doesn’t have to be big. And business cards, please. So I can be sure anyone who might need to call me knows my number.”

“Done.” She smiled back at him, holding out her pen. “For now, just drive around. Sit on the porch at the bar and talk to people. Fish a little and think. Think what your job is going to be—you’d know more about that than me.”

What a kick, he thought. The constable. Hah. For six hundred completely law-abiding citizens. “I feel like Andy of Mayberry,” he said.

“That’s a damn good place to start,” she said, pointing the pen toward him.

He didn’t take it. “Not just yet,” he said. “Let me get the lay of the land, then we’ll talk about this contract.”

“You planning to try to negotiate?” she asked suspiciously.

“Oh, I have a feeling that would be useless. But before I make a commitment to you, to the town, I’d like to find out how receptive my fellow cops are to having someone like me in the mix. Let me visit around a little. Lotta type A’s in law enforcement, Hope. Some wouldn’t take a rope from a guy like me if they were in quicksand. If that’s going to be the case, I should just save you the time and money.”