Out of Season

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My polished-mahogany desktop was almost the way I’d left it earlier that Friday afternoon-unmarred except for the computer terminal and its ancillary junk: the old leather-edged desk blotter, one black felt-tip pen, and an empty wooden in-and-out letter tray.

In an effort to call my attention to them, a sheaf of papers had been dropped into the middle of all that organization. I wasn’t in the mood for paperwork, but as I sagged back into the comforting curves of my swivel chair, I recognized Sheriff Martin Holman’s precise penmanship on a Post-it note spotted to the front of the first sheet.

I dug my glasses out of my pocket, slipped them on and saw that the papers were a Posadas County Sheriff’s Department job application.

“I think you should talk with her,” the sheriff’s note said.

“Talk with whom?” I muttered aloud and scanned the first page of the application. “Well, for heaven’s sake.”

I leaned back in my leather chair and started reading at the top. So engrossed was I that the telephone buzzed half a dozen times before my hand drifted over to pick it up.

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