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somebody had taken it by mistake. “Hey, Dusty?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Have you seen my purse anywhere?”
    “Uh…” He frowned. “What’s it look like?”
    “It’s a Dior bag, black and about yay big.” She indicated the size with her hands.
    “Willie Rae was in here,” some guy called out.
    “Ah, shit.” Dusty blushed. “I mean…darn it.”
    The back of her neck prickled. “What?”
    “She’s the town kleptophile.”
    “He means kleptomaniac,” said Blaine from behind her.
    Catherine turned around slowly. “What does that have to do with my purse?”
    “It has to do with that she probably took it.”
    “Can we call the police?”
    “Can if you want, but it won’t do any good.”
    I couldn’t have heard that right
. “Why not?”
    “Because nothing will come of it.”
    “Excuse me? What kind of place lets a known kleptomaniac run free?”
    Blaine gave her a steady stare. “Careful there. You don’t want to antagonize people your first day in town, do you?”

Chapter Four
    Left without a choice, Catherine waited for the sheriff at the counter. Rick came over. “Want a drink? It’s on the house.”
    A drink would be way over her daily allowable caloric intake, but this was no ordinary situation. Her purse—stolen! By a woman who was apparently famous for kleptomania! “Why not? Stoli Vanil with Diet Coke, please.”
    “Tastes better with regular.”
    “
Diet
please. Thank you.” She might be about to break her calorie allowance, but there was a limit.
    This was what she got for helping Salazar. Small town Americana, indeed. Amazing how nobody in the area thought it might be prudent to keep a kleptomaniac in jail. Or at least under house arrest to stop her from roaming around and helping herself to whatever caught her eye.
    Catherine couldn’t believe how blasé everyone was. Nobody seemed at all bothered by the theft, but the indignity was just too much for her. She’d lost her husband to one woman; did she have to lose her purse to another? Apparently fate wasn’t going to be satisfied unless Catherine suffered absolute and utter humiliation.
    The drink appeared in front of her. She noticed the tattoo on Rick’s ropey forearm—some kind of swirling initials melded together. The thorny vines around the letters and heart might have made the tattoo appear masochistic, or perhaps evoked heartbreak, but the plump roundness of the heart hinted at enduring love. So what should have looked like high school graffiti was instead elegant and quite artistic, turning the work into something sharp and intriguing. Whoever had designed the tattoo had some talent.
    Sipping the sweet alcohol, she checked her watch. Where was the sheriff? Blaine had called a while ago. The klepto woman—Willie Rae—had Catherine’s wallet, plus her brand new phone and the fob to her Aston Martin. Until she got them back, she was effectively stranded.
    Catherine glanced outside at the parking lot. At least her car was still there. So the klepto hadn’t committed a grand theft auto…yet.
    A little bit later the door opened, and a large raw-boned man in a khaki-colored uniform walked in. A dark khaki hat that Catherine was certain wasn’t part of the uniform was perched on his head. Far too stylish to be government-issue. He had a pair of smallish blue eyes, set wide over ruddy cheeks. The only hair above his neck was an impressive handlebar moustache that looked like something out of the old West. He approached the counter, boots moving purposefully.
    “Blaine,” he said in a surprisingly resonant voice.
    “Hey, Earl.”
    “So. Where’s the victim?”
    “Here.” Blaine gestured at Catherine. “Catherine, Earl Webber, Cooter’s Bluff’s sheriff. Earl, Catherine.”
    Touching the rim of his hat, Earl tipped his head. “Ma’am.”
    Catherine ground her teeth. First the waitress and now him. Did she look
that
old? But her purse took priority. “Sheriff. Thank you for coming over.”
    “I went by Willie