Mary-Bell Daigle lay in her four poster bed, stretched across aubergine silk sheets like someone’s dead-eyed lover.

“Shit.” The word escaped under my breath. Mary-Bell was the fourth victim in so many weeks. The first woman.

She’d been murdered while wearing a dress that cost more than everything I owned, not counting my horse, gun, and house. And with her pale, flawless skin and silken dark hair, she reminded me of a porcelain doll put to bed by a doting owner. Not the latest victim of GloryLand’s first serial killer.

“Whatcha think, Sheriff? It’s the same feller?” my deputy, Tom, asked.  He spat a wad of tobacco juice onto the floor, staining the light pine with a deep brown splat. Mary-Belle would have kicked us out for such an offense, but the way things were, she wasn’t going to be complaining.

I drew a breath as I considered the words to say to my deputy, taking the time to dull their usually sharp edges.

Of course it’s the same killer. Four victims, all with their necks broken and their right hand draped over their mouths, shushing them into eternal silence. And they were all been posed just like Mary-Bell, spread across their beds.

With red brown hair and green eyes that always seemed on the verge of laughter, Tom was as handsome as he was dumb. Which was very. He was also loyal, so instead of snapping I said, “Looks that way, Tom.”

“Well shit.” My deputy echoed my sentiment.

The killing wasn’t the surprise. GloryLand had its share of killings, but they’d always been upright. Proper, even. Duels broke out over hands of seven card stud gone bad, or because some slick, Romeo-cowboy besmirched the honor of another man’s wife or daughter. They were natural killings.  They followed the code. They were moral.

But this was murder, and there wasn’t anything moral about that. Someone was offing people faster than we could dig holes to dump them in. And not just any people, either. The victims were the kinds of citizens that you’d never expect to find murdered—in their beds or otherwise.

I looked around the room, wondering what I’d missed. At the Daigle home, just like in the homes of every other victim, I’d found no clues. No forced entry. No Blood. Nothing. The crime scene was spotless, and even smelled like cinnamon and lemons. A small table stood upright beneath the window and held a vase of sunflower blooms. Nothing was overturned or out of place. Red dust collected along the window sill and at its base, but GloryLand was a dustbowl—red dirt was everywhere, in the homes of everyone. And when it rained, there was red mud.

A spotless room save for red dirt that was in every house in town wasn’t exactly a clue-chocked crime scene.

The folks around town were getting restless. I needed to put this crime to bed and soon. Being the first woman Sheriff in a town like GloryLand wasn’t easy. I had to do everything a male Sheriff would do, and I had to do it faster and better.

Good thing I was faster and better. Good thing I didn’t give a shit about people’s opinions. It was my job to keep them safe and lawful. It was not my job to make them like me. Not that I could have anyway.

Tom smiled around his wad of tobacco, no doubt excited over having a real case to solve. For someone so simple, Tom loved to read. Especially detective mysteries. He fancied himself Watson to my Sherlock. I didn’t care for those detective stories, personally. But if they made Tom happy, then I’d let him have his little fantasy.

“You should probably try and look a little less excited about it,” I added.

Instantly his grin vanished. “Sorry, Sheriff.”

I reached down and closed Mary-Bell’s eyes. The woman was 33, only a year older than me, and her eyes would never again open. I’d never liked Mary-Bell, but nobody deserved this.

“And one more thing, Tom,” I said.

“Yeah, Sheriff?”

“Don’t spit on a dead woman’s floors. Have a little decency.”

“Sorry, Sheriff. But you know, Mary-Bell ain’t going to care one way or the other.”

Even though I’d had the same thought, I gave him a hard look. Scarlet crept up his neck and colored his already ruddy complexion. At a burly 6’4 he didn’t look like the kind of man who would blush. He didn’t look like the kind of man who’d play second fiddle to a woman, either. But he did both readily.

The cowboy started following me around after I’d saved his life in the big bank robbery four years ago. I’d finally decided if he wasn’t going to leave me alone, then he might as well be useful. So I’d deputized him. It was an honor Tom took very seriously. Most days I didn’t regret it.

“So what’d we do next, Sherriff?”

“We solve this thing, Tom.” I walked to the bedroom door and ran my hand over the door frame, as I’d done on both the front and back entry ways. I’d already checked the bedroom windows, and the perimeter of the house. I’d circled the room at least four times. I didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly. At that moment—I would have settled for anything that even remotely suggested a clue. But all I had was red dust.

“No sign of forced entry,” I mumbled, mostly to myself, yet again.

“So what you thinking?” Tom whispered, “The husband?”  He opened his eyes wide at the idea.

And for good reason. A person couldn’t just go around accusing Viktor Daigle of murdering his wife.

“Normally, yes. But that wouldn’t make sense, would it?” I said, trying to guide the deputy to the right conclusion.

“I guess not, Sheriff.” Tom started to spit another squirt of tobacco juice onto the floor before remembering his earlier reprimand, and aiming it out the window instead. “Now, of course I know why that wouldn’t make sense, but maybe you should just go ahead and tell me what you’re thinking—so’s we can make sure we’re on the same page.”

I stifled a chuckle, “Good idea. I’m not saying that Viktor Daigle didn’t want to kill his wife. Everyone knows Mary-Bell slept around and Viktor ain’t exactly the kind of man to let himself be humiliated. But what about the other victims? Let’s say he is the killer, and he killed those other people first, then why would he kill Mary-Bell and draw our attention? With his kind of money, he could have just paid to have her disappear.” I paused and took in Tom’s slack face. I turned to walk the room one more time. “I guess he could have killed her in the same way after the other murders happened, so that he could be done with her, but let the serial killer take the fall—but it doesn’t seem likely. There is no way he could have gotten everything right. All of the little details are exactly the same, the kinds of things no one but me and you would know about.”

Tom’s brows were raised, and his mouth hung slightly open in what I thought of as his confused expression.

I gave up trying to explain. Sometimes short and direct was better. “No, Tom. I don’t think it was Viktor.”

Tom closed his mouth and nodded, his relief evident on his face. “Good thing, too. Ain’t like we could go arresting Mr. Daigle. He owns the whole damned town.”

“He don’t own me, Tom.” I bristled. “And if I thought he’d done it, then arrest him is exactly what I’d do.”

Tom considered what I’d said. “You’re right. He don’t own us.”

We continued with our fruitless investigation for another fifteen minutes or so, and still got nowhere. I had the feeling I was missing something—something important. It was like having a word on the tip of your tongue, but try as you might to say it, you couldn’t get it out of your mouth.

Tom gazed out the window. It wasn’t even noon. “You want to get a drink Sheriff?”

“Not yet. We got work to do.”

“Right, right. I just thought it might help, you know? Loosen up the ole membranes.” Tom tapped his forehead with his index finger.

“The what?”

“You know, Sheriff. The ole membranes.”

My mouth dropped open. “Tom. Do you mean it’ll loosen up your brain?”

Again Tom’s eyebrows shot upward, and his nose scrunched. He spat another wad of tobacco juice out the window. “Yeah, sure, Sheriff. But ain’t that the same thing? Like toe-may-toe and tah-may-toe? Brain and Membranes?”

“Tom, why...what?”

“It’s the power of that deduction reasoner. Both words end with brain. I think this new book I am reading is making me a bit smarter Sheriff. Try and keep up okay—I can loan it to you if you like.”

I stared at my deputy. I couldn’t believe I let this man walk around with a gun strapped to his hip. I shook my head. “Sure, Tom. Whatever you say. If you want a lunch time beer, then that’s what we’ll get.  I need to do some thinking anyway.”

Tom grinned. “See? You’ll be putting the ole membranes to work.”

I sighed and shook my head. “Let’s go. I guess my membranes could use some loosening.” I chuckled as I lead the way out of Mary-Bell Daigle’s bedroom and gave the signal for doc to take over. I needed to talk to Cheryl at the Rusty Nail anyway.