Poe, Tallyho!

The dog days of August had arrived in Serenity, our sleepy little Iowa town nestled on the banks of the Mississippi River. Even at this early Thursday morning hour, inside our two-story stucco house with the air conditioner going full blast, I could tell it was going to be another hot and humid day.

At the moment, Mother and I were having breakfast in the dining room at the Duncan Phyfe table, with Sushi on the floor next to me, waiting for any bites that I might drop by accident or on purpose. Sushi's idea of "dog days" is a 365-days-a-year proposition, in which heat and humidity are not a factor.

Mother is Vivian Borne, midseventies, Danish stock, her attractiveness hampered only slightly by large, out-of-fashion glasses that magnify her eyes; widowed, bipolar, and a legendary local thespian, she is even more legendary in our environs as an amateur sleuth.

I am Brandy Borne, thirty-three, blonde by choice, a Prozac-popping prodigal daughter who postdivorce (my bad) crawled home from Chicago to live with Mother, seeking solitude and relaxation but finding herself (which is to say myself) the frequent if reluctant accomplice in Vivian Borne's mystery-solving escapades.

Sushi, whom you've already encountered, is my adorable diabetic shih tzu, whose diabetes-ravaged eyesight was restored by a cataract operation. Perhaps the smartest of our little trio, she is still taking daily insulin injections in trade for sugar-free treats.

For newbies just joining in — heaven help you. Life in Serenity isn't always serene, nor is it uneventful, making catching you up in detail impractical. (Fortunately, all previous entries in these ongoing murder-mystery memoirs are in print.) Suffice to say, best fasten your seat belt low and tight and just come along for the ride. That's what I do.

Longtime readers will recall that at the close of Antiques Wanted, Mother had been the only candidate left standing in the election for county sheriff, a race she won in a walk because it was too late for any last-minute competition. She won despite a write-in campaign launched by Serenity's Millennials for John Oliver, the comedian/commentator of Last Week Tonight.

This irritated Mother no end. "He's British," she said again and again.

By the way, not revealing who I voted for is my constitutional right. I believe it's called pleading the Fifth.

Mother's breakfast today was a typically Spartan one — grapefruit juice and coffee. Mine wasn't — pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries, bacon, orange juice, and coffee — but if ever a morning called for sugar rush, protein, vitamin C, and caffeine, this was it.

Between bites, I asked, "How's the new communications system working?"

To my astonishment — and probably that of most townsfolk — Mother had kept her campaign promise to combine the separate dispatching systems of the police, sheriff, and fire departments into a single state-of-the art center to handle all three, making the routing of 911 calls to the appropriate responder quicker and more efficient.

And she had done this — as also promised — at no cost to the taxpayers. How? By relentlessly going after grants for law enforcement, and persuading — let's not call it blackmail, shall we? — state representatives to assist her. These politicians knew that she knew they had skeletons in their closets they might not want to come rattling out. Okay, maybe call it blackmail ... but implied blackmail.

Blackmail with a smile.

Mother, after taking a sip of coffee, replied, "The new com sys is strictly 10-2. Thank you for asking, dear!"

"Ten to what? What are you talking about?"

"10-2 is the police code for `signal good.' You should familiarize yourself with all of them. I'll provide a cheat sheet!"

She removed a napkin from her collar, as if she was the one chowing down like a lumberjack. Serenity's new sheriff was dressed in a uniform of her own design, having tried on and rejected the scratchy, polyester ill-fitting one used by her predecessor, Pete Rudder. (To be clear, not the actual uniform he'd worn, but one supposedly in her size and for a female officer, though you'd never guess it.)

Anyway, Mother had contacted her favorite clothing company, Breckenridge, and — don't ask me how — talked someone there into making several stylish jumpsuits of tan cotton/elastane with just the faintest hint of lavender, featuring plentiful pockets, epaulettes, and subtle shoulder pads. The outfits also had horizontal nylon zippers at the elbows and knees that turned them into a cooler (temp-wise) version when unzipped, which was how she was comfortably wearing one this steaming morning. (She still had the legs for it, and once a year she had any spider veins zapped.)

I said, "I'm surprised you followed through with it."

Mother, about to take a sip of juice, frowned. "Followed through with what, dear?"

"The new communications center — especially one set up so that the public doesn't have access to it."

In the past, Mother had been able to walk into the PD and up to the Plexiglas, establish a rapport with the latest dispatcher, discover his or her weakness, then exploit those frailties to wheedle out confidential police information.

She gave me a smug little smile. "Well, dear, I'm on the inside now, and privy to everything."

I grunted. When her term of office ended, Mother might well come to regret the upgrade. If she ran a second time, she would hardly be the only candidate for sheriff.

Her radio communicator, resting on the table, squawked, and she answered it.

"10-4, Deputy Chen," she said.

Deputy Charles Chen was her right-hand man. I feel sure that Charles's restaurateur parents were unaware of how close Chen was to Chan. Or maybe not — certainly nobody called the handsome young deputy Charlie.

"Businesses in Antiqua got broken into overnight."

"A 10-14!"

"You want me to respond, Sheriff?"

"No, dear," Mother told him. "And do please call me Vivian. And now I'm off to Antiqua! It's time their mayor met the new county sheriff."

"Okay."

"I believe you mean 10-4, dear."

The radio communicator clicked at her. She gave it a mildly offended look, then put it down, and — eyes gleaming behind the large lenses — announced, "Time for us to roll, Brandy!"

What did I have to do with rolling, you may ask?

Well, due to her various vehicular infractions — including but not limited to driving across a cornfield and knocking over a mailbox, both while off her medication — Sheriff Vivian Borne had no driver's license ... well, actually she did, it just had REVOKED stamped on it.

Since the department couldn't...