Page 10 of A Dark and Stormy Night

Cornelia fixed her gaze on her destination, the Virtue Falls City Hall, across the street and on the square and, of course, she tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and sprawled flat.

She didn’t drop her backpack, though; her computer and tablet were her most treasured possessions.

As she picked herself up, a ten-year-old boy rode by on his bike and jeered.

Some things never changed.

Cornelia dusted off her knees. She’d fallen partly in the parking strip; she had a grass stain on the elbow of her sweater. Mason would be distressed. He fussed about stuff like that; he liked her to look nice, and she appreciated his care.

She trudged around the square, watching her step, then walked up the stairs and into city hall. Inside, the dust and mildew made her sneeze. She dug out a tissue and wiped her nose, then stepped up to the front desk and said, “I’d like to see Sheriff Foster.” It occurred to her the sheriff might not see just anyone, so she added, “Rainbow sent me. Because I have information. On a murder.”

The desk sergeant narrowed his eyes at her. “A murder.”

“Yes. Was I unclear?”

“No. Not at all.” The desk sergeant picked up the phone. “I’ll see if Sheriff Foster will speak to you.” He stepped back, so she mostly couldn’t hear him, but he could still keep an eye on her.

She seated herself on an old wooden bench — really, it looked more like a church pew — and proceeded to thoroughly blow her nose, sniff, and blow her nose again. When she looked up, Sheriff Foster stood in front of her.

Like her, he had been born and raised in Virtue Falls. Unlike her, he was a minor celebrity, the first law officer at the scene of the famed Banner murder case, the man who had collected the evidence and brought Charles Banner to justice.

Cornelia had always thought Sheriff Foster didn’t look much like a celebrity; he was scrawny, freckled, and about her height. But there was no use judging him on his looks. Someone’s life depended on his law enforcement skills.

She stood up. She offered her hand, and when he didn’t take it, she grabbed his hand and shook it heartily. “Hello, Sheriff Foster, I am here to report a murder.”

Sheriff Foster looked down at their joined hands, then carefully removed his. “You’re Cornelia Markum, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes!” Good deduction. She felt better about him already. “How did you know?”

“I’ve seen you in the Oceanview Café.”

“Oh. Do you come in?”

With awesome patience, he said, “Every day.”

She inspected him again. He really was nondescript.

She expected him to take her to the back, someplace private where they could discuss her findings. Instead, he stood there in the lobby of the town hall where anyone could hear them. And the desk sergeant was leaning over the counter and plainly eavesdropping.

Sheriff Foster pulled out his notebook and his pen. “Did you kill somebody?”

“What? No!” Why would he think that?

“All right. Then whose murder do you want to report?”

“I don’t know.”

He stared at her. He clicked the pen once. “When did it occur?”

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

One of the other law enforcement officers drifted in from the back.

“Why do you know about it?” Sheriff Foster asked.

“Because I hacked into a text conversation and discovered two local residents are planning to kill their mother.” That was clear enough.

For a moment, Sheriff Foster appeared flummoxed. “What local residents?”

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