Page 119 of Under Daddy's Spell

“I am telling the truth,” she exclaimed with forced outrage. Then, like most guilty parties accused of a crime, she overreacted. “Who are you to say I’m not, anyway?” She squared her shoulders and moved past him toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

He caught her arm, spun her around to face him, and pulled something shiny out of his pocket. When he held up a badge, her heart fell like a rock into the pit of her stomach.

“I’m Sheriff Sam Golden, the law here on Wanaker Landing, which gives me full authority to ask questions when I see something suspicious. And you, little missy, are triggering alarm bells like mad in my head.”

Wasn’t that her god-awful luck, for the sheriff to walk in while she attempted to un-perpetrate a crime?

Why, oh, why, had she been so stupid?

He jerked his chin up slightly when he asked his next question. “What do you have in your apron?”

“Tips,” she blurted out as she plunged her free hand into her double-width front pocket. She fished around for evidence to prove she was telling the truth, almost fainting dead away when she felt the velvet jewelry box. Why had she shoved it in there, on her person, of all places?

Stupid. Stupid!

Still trying to cover for her boneheaded actions, she pulled out what she hoped was the ten spot a gentleman had slipped her earlier along with a few other items she’d stuffed into the smaller inside pocket at the beginning of her shift.

With her hand outstretched, palm up, she uncurled her fingers until the items were visible. Seeing a sugar packet and the pencil she’d tucked away for notes, alongside the wadded-up ten-dollar bill, she came close to heaving a sigh of relief. That would have incriminated her further, so she silently congratulated herself for keeping it in check.

“See?” she demanded. “Now, if you don’t mind...”

Unfortunately, her small moment of triumph didn’t last long.

The lawman grunted. “If you’ve only got tips, you won’t mind if I check for myself.”

Not asking for permission, and clearly not thinking he needed an invitation, while still holding her arm in his inflexible grasp, he dipped his other hand into her front pocket and rooted around.

“Hey!” she protested as his knuckles nudged her intimately.

“My friends downstairs can be generous,” he said as he withdrew the long velvet box, “but I’ve never known any of them to tip in jewelry.” The box creaked when he pried it open, and he whistled low. “By the look of this trinket, you’re in a passel of trouble, little girl. I’m guessing the charge will be grand larceny.”

“No! It dropped on the floor, and I was putting it back when you startled me.”

“Yeah? It jumped into your pocket on its own, I suppose. Digging your hole deeper with lies ain’t gonna help, missy. What else did you take?”

He dove into her apron again. This time he pulled out a wad of bills that looked huge even in his paw-like hand. She saw a few fifties and several hundreds, the tally probably close to $1000. No way had she made that much in tips in a few hours. Her face flamed with heat and got worse when she heard more footsteps in the hall.

“Sam? Is that you?” a man called. “We were wondering about the investigation. Was it what we expected?”

When he appeared in the door, Krista recognized George Peterson, her employer for the evening. The older man had been kind and made her feel welcome, assuring her she was here to work, nothing more. And how did she repay his kindness? By stealing—or what was a good as stealing, no matter her change of heart.

“It was trouble, my friend. The same as the last time, but when I arrived, I found more brewing here.”

Standing beside the sheriff who held out the evidence he’d found in her possession, she felt about two inches tall, and suddenly queasy.

The older man’s gaze shifted from the money to her face, his mouth downturned in disappointment. He’d obviously put two and two together, but the sheriff clarified it for him just in case.

“It seems you’ve got a thief on your wait staff tonight, George.”

At the word thief, her previous bravado evaporated, and the beginnings of tears stung her eyes. “I thought about taking some money, but when I saw that”—she waved at the black box—“I changed my mind. Please. I was returning everything when the sheriff walked in. I’ll leave right away, and you don’t have to pay me a dime. Just don’t call the police.”

“It’s too late for that, missy, or didn’t you hear me when I introduced myself?” This he murmured near her ear, and though the situation was serious, and tension crackled in the air, his voice seemed softer, and slightly amused. He inquired of their host, “What would you like to do with her, George? She’s got about a grand in cash, and depending on the value of this diamond necklace, which I’m guessing didn’t come cheap, we’re looking at more than a misdemeanor.”

“That’s my wife’s collar,” another man exclaimed as he shouldered his way past the judge into the room. He grabbed the black box and examined the choker. Appearing satisfied it was as it should be, he nodded then looked up at the sheriff. “She exchanges it for a leather one when we play. It’s platinum with six carats of diamonds. I paid $12,000 for it several years ago, but figure it’s worth about fifteen in today’s market.” He turned and glared accusingly at Krista. “I never thought for a moment it wouldn’t be safe up here.”

The big man holding her grunted. “And why would you? This sort of thing doesn’t happen at the mansion.” His gaze swung to her temporary employer. “How much time is she facing, Judge?”

“Judge!” she gasped.

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