"Maybe Mavis could go for coffee?" I suggested.

But we both realized at the same moment that the racket we were hearing was not coming from the front room after all, but from the street. Rainey frowned, paintbrush filled with goo held over my head, and turned toward the sound. "What in the world?"

"It sounds like someone screaming."

I got out of the chair, and we both hurried to the front door.

We reached the sidewalk at the same time several other people from the other shops on the block did. Dan McNeil from the fix-it shop next door and a couple of women from the dress shop and three customers from the book store were there, and for a minute it was hard to tell what all the commotion was about. Ingrid Beechum, who owns the bakery three doors down, had ripped off her white chef's ap.r.o.n and was flapping it at something while yelling, "Get away! Bob, run!"

Ah, Bob. That explained it. Bob was Ingrid's spoiled-rotten, neurotic Chihuahua. Since he came to work every day with Ingrid, she often let him out on the town square to do his business-which had caused more than one complaint by the merchants on the strip. I figured somebody had finally had it with Bob's careless personal habits and had decided to take the matter into his own hands. Either that, or Pearl Quinlin's pet ferret over at the bookstore had gotten after him again.

Then I heard somebody gasp, "Good heavens, have you ever seen anything like that?"

And somebody else, "Get a camera!"

"Does anybody have a stick?"

"Get a broom!"

In the midst of it all was the most G.o.dawful screeching and yipping-not to even mention the wailing set up by Ingrid-that I'd ever heard. This I had to see for myself.

And a good thing too, because I never would have believed it otherwise. I ran down the sidewalk a few steps and edged through the small crowd that had gathered next to where Ingrid was flinging her ap.r.o.n at something on the ground. The something was a bird approximately the size of a lawn tractor, flopping its giant wings and screaming b.l.o.o.d.y murder. It had Bob's collar in its beak, and Bob himself, who was unfortunately still wearing the collar at the time, dangled about six inches off the sidewalk as the hawk tried to gain alt.i.tude.

"Don't let him get off the ground!" someone bellowed.

"Back up, back up! They always go for the eyes!" cried someone else.

It seemed to me that the bird would have been airborne long since if he could have just found the room to take off, so the closer the crowd, the better. But I didn't say anything. I was still trying to figure out how hungry a bird would have to be to come all the way into town to hunt Chihuahuas.

Somebody broke through the crowd with a broom and began to poke tentatively at the hawk. Ingrid s.n.a.t.c.hed the broom from him and started whacking. Feathers flew; the bird screeched; Bob tumbled to the ground and lay there, splay-legged. Ingrid dropped the broom and lunged for her pet. She got hold of the loop end of the dog's jeweled leash, and then the hawk swooped again.

I've never seen anything like it. Within half a second, the Chihuahua was airborne, screaming and dribbling urine all over the sidewalk while the hawk screeched in triumph and flapped its mighty wings, and Ingrid held on to the leash with all her might.

"Drop him, drop him, you d.a.m.ned bird!" Ingrid ordered, tugging at the leash.

"Let go of the leash, Ingrid! You're choking Bob!"

"Somebody call the police!"

"What're they gonna do? Arrest the bird?"

"Betcha he'd let go if you had some rats down here," said Dan McNeil thoughtfully, looking over the situation as though it were an engine with a bad valve. "That's what hawks eat, you know. Rats."

Aha. That explained why he'd gone for Bob.

"Does anybody know where we can get a rat?"

"You won't find any in my shop, sonny!"

Leaning back on her heels, Ingrid gave a mighty pull on the leash. The hawk lost alt.i.tude. Ingrid took a chance: leapt for her dog like Michael Jordan making a basket, missed, dropped the leash, and off went the hawk with little Bob in his talons, the leash trailing behind like a streamer on a balloon. Ingrid started running after them, arms outstretched. Maybe four or five people ran along with her, some trying to calm her down, some cheering her on. Other people piled into their cars, yelling something about cutting him off before he reached the edge of town. That was when I remembered the shotgun that I'd left in the beauty shop, and the sh.e.l.ls in my pocket.

Now, I'm no dog lover, and even if I was, Bob the Chihuahua barely qualifies as one (I've always been of the opinion that anything under twenty pounds might just as well be a cat). I grew up on a farm where the dogs, like everybody else, had to work for their supper, and I just never have been able to understand people like Miss Ingrid who treat their dogs like babies, or dogs like Bob who think that's a fine way to live. Our old bird dog Sport would have died of embarra.s.sment before he would've let anybody wrestle him into one of those sweaters Bob prances around in on winter days. And let's not even talk about the snow boots and the pom-pom hat.

But Ingrid did set quite a bit of store by him, and she didn't have a whole lot left in her life to set store by. Her son had died in a car accident earlier in the year, and her no-account daughter-in-law had been snooping around for handouts. Ingrid was even thinking about renting an empty shop s.p.a.ce next to her bakery to set the girl up with a lingerie business.

You don't just stand back when a neighbor is in trouble-even if the neighbor is a trembly, bug-eyed, nasty-tempered, incontinent dog who is about to become lunch for a hawk. I mean, what a way to go. So I ran back into the shop for the shotgun, chambered a couple of rounds, slid the safety on and barreled down the street with the rest of the crowd, pink poodle smock flopping, gooped-up hair reeking.

Some folks were throwing sticks up in the air, trying to hit the hawk. Dan MacNeil climbed up on the bed of a pickup truck, hoping to snag the leash as it floated by toward the town monument, but the hawk outsmarted him and swung toward a big sycamore tree at the last minute. Off we raced across the square, leaping park benches, clambering over the bandstand. People came out of their shops and businesses, shielding their eyes with their hands as they tried to see what was going on. Some of them ran back inside and slammed the door when they saw; others grabbed their point-and-shoots and their video cameras and joined the parade.

Car horns blared, bicycles swerved, pedestrians jumped out of the way as we ran helter-skelter through downtown. We crossed the Church Street bridge, swung back around over the East Mossy Creek Road bridge, jogged down past the cut-off to the swimming hole, and I've got to tell you, by this time I was sagging. About half the folks who'd started out with us had dropped way behind, and those of us that were left were staggering and wheezing. Miss Ingrid was so red in the face I started worrying about calling out the rescue squad for her. And then, right in front of the Hamilton House Inn, we got a break.

Dan McNeil panted, "There he is! There he is!"

I took a couple more gasping breaths and caught up with the others at something less than a trot. Ingrid had staggered halfway down the cedar path that led through the Inn's famous rose garden, and there she stood, one hand clutching her throat, the other extended helplessly to the sky. Her face was closer to eggplant than scarlet now, and her lips were moving, but the only sound that came out was something I don't want to repeat. I rushed up to her, thinking she was about to have a stroke, and then I saw what she was pointing at.

There, perched on a branch of the Hamilton House Inn's one hundred fifty-year-old spreading oak tree, with a whimpering Bob clutched by the collar in its beak, was the hawk.

I edged a little closer, sighting the distance. Ingrid shook a finger at the bird. The melting goo from my hair was starting to mix with the sweat on my forehead and drip down my face; I blotted it with my poodle sleeve, and shouldered the gun. I slid off the safety.

The murmurs of the crowd died down. Every eye was on me. Then Ingrid got her breath and cried harshly, "Nail him!"

I squeezed the trigger.

No, for all you bird lovers out there, I didn't kill the hawk. I didn't miss and hit Bob, either, although I've got to say the fall didn't do him a whole lot of good. What I did was, I shot the branch right out from under that hawk, which scared him enough to make him let go of the dog. Ingrid caught her baby about four feet from the ground.

Bob is being treated by Dr. Hank Blackshear, our local veterinarian, for puncture wounds, a bruised trachea, and general trauma, but I hear he's going to be okay. Ingrid is being treated by Dr. Champion, our local family pract.i.tioner, for nervous stress, but with the aid and a.s.sistance of her good neighbors-who haven't stopped bringing ca.s.seroles, hot tea and dog biscuits all day-she, too, is predicted to recover. Our forestry service ranger, Smokey Lincoln, came for the hawk. I hear the hawk has an injured wing, which is why he went for Bob in the first place, and why we were able to track him down in the second.

I had to figure it was something like that. I never did know a hawk to fly that low or that slow, even if he was weighed down by a Chihuahua. Smokey informs me that it's against the law to hunt a federally protected species, which the Golden Hawk is. But it's Ingrid he's really after. I understand the fines for battering a hawk with a broom are pretty stiff in Georgia.

So anyway, that's how I ended up going to my interview with Chief Royden in my bra.s.siere and a pink poodle smock, with one side of my lopped-off hair mouse brown and straight as a stick, and the other side looking like a fuzzy, lime-green tennis ball. Apparently, you're not supposed to leave that hair color on for more than twenty minutes, and I think the manufacturer definitely recommends that you don't chase wildlife with a shotgun while applying the treatment.

"It'll grow out," I a.s.sured the Chief, plucking at the ends of my green hair. All I could do was repeat what I was told. "I mean, I won't look like this forever. Ask Mutt. I've looked worse."

He smiled at me and tried to pretend he hadn't been staring at my hair ever since I'd walked in the door. He was a really nice fellow, and Mutt loved working for him as an officer. He glanced back down at my application form. "Four years at Mountain Telephone. Now you own your own business?"

"Well," I admitted modestly, "it's just cleaning houses, but that's one way to get to know everybody in town, and a lot of the summer folks, too. And I'm on real good terms with everybody, which I think is important when you're in law enforcement, don't you?"

He agreed that it was. "Of course," he said, "you realize that this dispatcher's job is a lot more than just answering the phone. There are summonses and warrants to be typed, reports to be filled out, even errands to be run. The dispatcher kind of fills in all the cracks in an office like this."

I nodded. "I've got nothing against hard work, and we had to be able to type to get a job at Mountain Telephone. And if you don't mind my saying so. . ." I leaned forward confidentially, "I couldn't help noticing your cleaning service has been letting you down. I'll have this place spiffed up and shipshape in no time."

He nodded, glancing down at his clipboard again. He said, "Pretty fancy shooting this afternoon."

"I qualified as a sharpshooter over at the rifle range," I admitted modestly. "Well, you know me and my brothers have all been shooting since we were old enough to tote a gun."

Now he grinned. "You ever consider applying for a job on the force as an officer?"

"Well, now that you mention it . . ."

But I didn't get to finish, because at that moment Mutt came into the room. He looked at me dolefully for a moment. "Hey, Birdbrain."

"Hey, Dogface." We always poked at each other that way.

"Rainey do that to your hair?"

"It wasn't her fault."

"Mama's going to have your hide when she sees it."

I bristled. "Well, it wasn't exactly my fault, either."

Chief Royden cleared his throat.

Mutt said, "Sorry, Chief. I came to tell you Jess is here."

"Thanks, Mutt." The chief stood up. So did I.

"Well, Mrs. Crane. . ."

"Call me Sandy," I said quickly.

"Well, then Sandy, about the job. . ."

"If you think it would be a problem for me working here because Mutt's my brother," I rushed in quickly, "I'll tell you right up front that there's never been any partiality in my family, and Mutt will tell you the same. Besides, Chief, if you don't mind my saying, in a town like Mossy Creek if you eliminate everybody who's related to anybody, you're not going to find anybody to work for you. Or to arrest, either, if you think about it. And after all, your own daddy was police chief. So, uh, hiring family is a good thing, right? A tradition, right? And we're big on tradition around here."

Once again, he seemed to be fighting down a grin. "To tell you the truth," he said, "I think you'd be just about perfect for this place." And just when I was wishing I could throw my arms around his neck, he added, "But you understand, I can't make any decisions before this other business is settled."

I nodded, crestfallen.

He put the key in the lock and swung open the cell door. "Okay, your husband has paid your bond, so you can go on home now." He handed me a folded piece of paper. "This is your summons to appear before Judge Blakely a week from Thursday. Discharging a firearm within the city limits, causing the disruption of a public utility . . ." The transformer on Main Street had blown when some stray shotgun pellets accidentally hit it. "And, uh, threatening the welfare of an endangered animal. I had to put that last one in for the forestry service people."

I nodded unhappily and took the summons. "I know, Chief. You were just doing your job."

I must have looked pretty pathetic there in the jail room with my day-glow hair and my pink poodle smock, because he added, "I wouldn't worry about it too much if I were you, though. Judge Blakely will probably just give you a lecture about firearm safety and throw the case out of court."

I thought about that for a minute, then nodded, grinning. "Probably. He's my second cousin, on my daddy's side."

"Sandy, honey, are you all right?"

I turned around as my big bear of a husband came bursting in. He stopped dead when he saw me, and the look on his face reminded me a lot of the one on Bob the Chihuahua's face when he was up in that tree looking down on us all: horror, disbelief, bone-numbing shock.

I fumbled self-consciously with the ends of my hair. "It'll grow out," I a.s.sured him, a little desperately.

He stood there for another moment, just staring, and I swear, I was just about ready to cry when he suddenly moved forward and swept me into his arms in a rib-cracking embrace. It took me a minute or two to get my breath back, and then I tried to wiggle out of his arms.

"You're squishing me!" I choked. But then I realized Jess's shoulders were shaking.

Now my husband is huge, with hands like skillets and shoulders the size of a football field; people are always mistaking him for the bouncer when we go line dancing on country-western night at O'Day's, and I can't tell you how many perfect strangers have come up to him wanting to know what position he played on the football team. (He didn't play any. He was in the drama club.) But he cries at Disney movies and can spend hours lying on his back watching the clouds; he is what you call a sensitive man.

I felt just awful.

"Oh, sweetie," I murmured, patting his back. "I'm sorry I worried you. It'll be okay, really. Don't be upset. I'll get a wig..."

He stepped away from me, wiping his streaming eyes. "I'm sorry," he gasped, laughing. "But you look like-like Gumby!"

I kicked him hard in the shin.

While Jess was hopping on one foot, trying to rub his leg, I turned back to the chief with my sweetest smile. "Oh by the way, Chief, about that job on the force..."

"Good bye, Mrs. Crane," he said sternly, but I could see his eyes were twinkling.

I decided to let it pa.s.s. For now.

Jess wrote the story up for the paper and made me seem a whole lot more important than I was, of course. But the best part was that his boss, Sue Ora Salter, said she was going to submit it for some kind of state newspaper award. How about that?

Ingrid sent us over a cake in the shape of a Chihuahua, and Rainey called me on the phone crying every day for a week until I finally went in and let her cut my hair real short, to get off all the ruined ends, and pour some other goop on it that turned it kind of orange, which is better than green I guess. Jess says it makes me look like one of those leather girls, which he apparently finds very s.e.xy. I'm not complaining. You learn something new every day.

As for me . . .well, let's just say if you ever get in trouble in Mossy Creek, the first voice you'll hear will be mine, saying, "Mossy Creek Police Department, how can I help you?"

So rest easy, Mossy Creek. You're in good hands, this year.

The Mossy Creek Gazette.

215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia.

From the desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope.

Cornwall, England Dear Lady Victoria, Do you have beauty pageants in England? Well, ours ranks right up there with our dart compet.i.tion and our softball tournaments for town spirit and excitement, especially when we're up against Bigelowans.

Our pageant is called Miss Bigelow County. That t.i.tle alone sets our teeth on edge, especially considering the atmosphere in town this year. Mossy Creek girls haven't won a single time in the past few years, though they're the prettiest, smartest, most talented young women ever to twirl a baton or play "You Are The Wind Beneath My Wings" on a banjo. We could always count on Mossy Creek Police Chief Battle Royden to even up the score with Bigelow when he served on the judges' panel, but now that his boy Amos is police chief, we aren't sure what to expect.

I mean, Amos has scruples. Doggonnit.

We've always been quick to celebrate pretty women who have a talent for trouble. As I've been telling you, Isabella Salter was a real looker. Her uncle, Joshua Hamilton, doted on her just like his own daughters. Joshua was none too happy when Lionel Bigelow asked Isabella to marry him and she said yes. Lionel was a good twenty years older than Isabella and a widower with a pack of children already. Bigelow men are good-looking and charming, but folks say they'll always put money ahead of their hearts. Joshua knew that, even then. Isabella was young, and she must have been dazzled. Their marriage would have united both ends of Bigelow County once and for all. But n.o.body counted on Isabella meeting, handsome Englishman, Richard Stanhope.

By the way, we don't hold any grudges when we lose a contest to Bigelow. At least none we admit until we reload.

Your friend off the runway, Katie Bell.

AMOS.