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  Tony looked skeptical. “That kind of ‘special duty’ thing is done in big cities like L.A. and Chicago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Usually under corrupt circumstances.”

  “We’d be an exception, then, wouldn’t we?”

  The two poker players studied each other.

  Finally Tony said, “Okay, Vivian. Anything else?”

  “I get to keep the Vespa that was ordered for me.”

  He frowned. “You’re pushing it, Vivian.”

  “Whether that’s the case or not would depend.”

  “On?”

  “Whether you think it’s a fair trade for getting me to step down from my office.”

  He sighed. “I’ll present your conditions to the board of supervisors.”

  Mother sat back with a satisfied look. “Well, then, off you go, before I change my mind.”

  He stood. “Vivian, you were a trial to deal with as a sheriff. You were frankly a trial before you were sheriff too. But you know what?”

  “What, dear?”

  “You’re a hell of a detective.”

  She beamed at him. “I know, Chiefie dear.”

  I accompanied Tony to the front door, where we turned to each other.

  “Please, please,” I begged, “make this happen. Please don’t put her . . . don’t put me . . . through the ordeal of an impeachment proceeding.”

  “I thought you wanted her to be impeached.”

  “I want her out of that job, but not . . . humiliated.”

  His smile was a lovely thing. “I will push her demands through . . . if I have to throw the party, forge a badge with my bare hands, and buy the damn Vespa myself.”

  Then his voice softened and a hand came to my shoulder.

  “Come to dinner at the cabin,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything, including dessert.”

  “Okay,” I said with a smile. “See you tonight.”

  We kissed, a long, lingering kiss that held the promise of better times ahead.

  * * *

  Tony’s cabin was about five miles north of town along River Road, which followed the curves of the Mighty Mississippi. I turned left down the familiar narrow lane, then came to a stop behind Tony’s car, parking in front of the rustic, slightly oversized log cabin.

  Sushi, head over paws for Tony’s dog, Rocky, had begged her way along, and she scrambled out of my door the second I’d opened it.

  A few half-cut logs for steps led to a wide porch, where two birchwood rockers kept company with some potted plants. Sushi scratched at the front door as I knocked, and Tony opened it, wearing his idea of dressy casual—polo shirt and tan slacks.

  “You look nice,” he commented on my choice of a sweater, gauzy full skirt, short suede boots, and combed hair.

  “I clean up pretty good,” I said.

  Tony stepped aside and Sushi went in first, making a beeline for Rocky, a large mixed breed with a circle around one eye, who knew the drill: flop down on his side and let Soosh crawl all over him until she tuckered herself out.

  It had been several weeks since I’d been at the cabin, thanks to my deputy-daughter duties, and I’d missed its pleasant woodsy smell.

  The inside was roomier than you’d think from the outside, with both a cozy area consisting of a fireplace, currently crackling with logs, an overstuffed brown couch, and a recliner, plus a dining area near the front windows with a four-chair round oak table and small china hutch.

  The log walls displayed various collections of Tony’s—ancient snowshoes; old fishing creels, rods, and nets; and framed photos of fishermen and hunters, sepia shots of days gone by.

  The kitchen was just off the dining area, and from it wafted wonderful aromas.

  “What’s on the menu?” I asked.

  “Caesar salad, potato pave, Dover sole with mustard hollandaise sauce, and lemon cake with butter-cream icing.”

  My eyes grew big. “You made all that?”

  “No. That new French restaurant downtown. Picked it up after work.”

  We both laughed. Well, he chuckled, while I sounded like a mule braying. A delicate one, of course.

  Soon, with dusk settling in outside, we were enjoying the delicious meal, bathed in the flickering warmth of the fireplace, our light conversation going everywhere and nowhere—but nothing about his work or Mother. That was an unofficial rule out here.

  As the windows grew dark, and dessert was about to be served, Tony lit a candle in the center of the table.

  When I protested being too full to eat anything more, suggesting the cake be saved for later, he gave me a little smile and shook his head.

  Tony disappeared into the kitchen, came back with the cake with pale yellow icing, and placed it in front of me. Written on it in red icing, in his own cursive hand, was Will you marry me?

  And, girly-girl that I am, I burst into tears. He took me in his arms and led me gently away from the table.

  That night, we never did get around to eating the cake.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  For repeat sales, keep in touch with your best customers. Mother adds them to her ever-growing Christmas letter list, from which the only escape is moving with no forwarding address or, perhaps, dying. And even then, Mother would investigate, if the circumstances were at all suspicious.

  Photo by Bamford Studio

  BARBARA ALLAN is a joint pseudonym of husband-and-wife mystery writers Barbara and Max Allan Collins.

  BARBARA COLLINS is a highly respected short story writer in the mystery field, with appearances in over a dozen top anthologies, including Murder Most Delicious, Women on the Edge, Deadly Housewives, and the best-selling Cat Crimes series. She was the co-editor of (and a contributor to) the best-selling anthology Lethal Ladies, and her stories were selected for inclusion in the first three volumes of The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories.

  Two acclaimed hardcover collections of her work have been published: Too Many Tomcats and (with her husband) Murder—His and Hers. The Collins’s first novel together, the Baby Boomer thriller Regeneration, was a paperback bestseller; their second collaborative novel, Bombshell—in which Marilyn Monroe saves the world from World War III—was published in hardcover to excellent reviews. Both are back in print under the “Barbara Allan” byline.

  Barbara has been the production manager and/or line producer on various independent film projects emanating from the production company she and her husband jointly run.

  MAX ALLAN COLLINS in 2017 was named a Mystery Writers of America Grand Master. He has earned an unprecedented twenty-three Private Eye of America “Shamus” nominations, winning two Best Novel awards for his Nathan Heller historical thrillers, True Detective (1983), and Stolen Away (1991), and Best Short Story for his Mike Hammer story, “So Long Chief” (2014), completing an unfinished work by Mickey Spillane. His other credits include film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets, and movie/TV tie-in novels, including the New York Times best-sellers Saving Private Ryan and the Scribe Award–winning American Gangster. His graphic novel Road to Perdition, considered a classic of the form, is the basis of the Academy Award–winning film. Max’s other comics credits include the “Dick Tracy” syndicated strip; his own “Ms. Tree”; “Batman”; and “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation,” based on the hit TV series, for which he has also written six video games and ten best-selling novels.

  An acclaimed, award-winning filmmaker in the Midwest, he wrote and directed the Lifetime movie Mommy (1996) and three other features; his produced screenplays include the 1995 HBO World Premiere The Expert and The Last Lullaby (2008). His 1998 documentary Mike Hammer’s Mickey Spillane appears on the Criterion Collection release of the acclaimed film noir Kiss Me Deadly. The recent Cinemax TV series Quarry is based on his innovative book series.

  Max’s most current novels include two works begun by his mentor, the late mystery-writing legend Mickey Spillane: Masquerade for Murder (with Mike Hammer) and Th
e Legend of Caleb York, the first western credit for both Spillane and Collins.

  “BARBARA ALLAN” live(s) in Muscatine, Iowa, their Serenity-esque hometown. Son Nathan works as a translator of Japanese to English, with credits ranging from video games to novels.