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located in a strip mall anchored by Wal-Mart and a Price-Slasher supermarket.
     
     
A Liar's Club of a different kind frequented Ruby's on Monday through Friday mornings. The long-haul truckers', fishermen's, hunters' and route drivers' allegations were no more factual than their elders' across town, but they were less inclined to begrudge the sheriff a table for one.
     
     
The aroma of fried apples, ham steaks and hominy grits swimming in creamery butter diffused the cigarette smoke roiling above the café's larger, crowded seating area. David returned the men's waves, nods, and mouthed "Howya doin'?" s He also knew it was the badge folks acknowledged, not necessarily the person wearing it.
     
     
The far table in front of the coffee station was unoccupied, as usual. Dingy batting oozed from slits in the chairs' vinyl upholstery. The tippy, burn-marked tabletop was sun-faded and chipped. Old soldiers, David thought, still spry enough to march in the parade, but demoted to its tag end.
     
     
His posterior hadn't met the seat before Ruby Amyx lumbered over with a brimming cup of coffee in hand. The diner's owner was in her early sixties, as tough as ten-penny nails, and never turned away a hungry stray, be it human or animal.
     
     
Her coal-black beehive, spit curls and lipstick rouge were a little…well, cartoonish, but Ruby was as likely to change them as she was to trade in her thirty-year-old red Caddy with fake fur glued to the dashboard.
     
     
"Hidey there, tall, dar—" Her customary welcome dissolved to a heaving sigh. "If'n you don't look like a cat done dragged you halfway to Half Way and back again, I don't know what would."
     
     
The Dallas County town named for its equidistance between Bolivar and Buffalo was outside David's jurisdiction, but the point was taken. He chuckled and said, "It's great to see you, too, Miz Amyx."
     
     
"Aw-w, you know' twas meant for a scold, not a belittlement." The mother hen with no chicks of her own arched a penciled eyebrow. "Them storms woulda blowed through the same last night, whether you was out in 'em, or home like you oughta been."
     
     
David swallowed down a yawn. Piece together a string of naps and he'd grossed about nine hours' sleep in the past thirty-six, or so. And he'd felt pretty good, until Ruby reminded him how tired he was.
     
     
A faint, intermittent whine in his ears was escalating to a steady high C. Irritating, but he'd be sacked out in his own bed by noon, and sharing it with Hannah by nine that night. Still, the day couldn't come soon enough when His and Hers applied to towels in the linen cupboard, instead of whose mattress he stretched out on.
     
     
If it ever did.
     
     
Doubt crept in, as pernicious as cigarette smoke drifting from the room's far side. Contrary to Sunday school teachings, a weary mind is the devil's playground. David's wandered to last night's telephone conversation with Hannah.
     
     
He hadn't been shocked to hear another resident manager candidate had flunked the interview. Hannah then called herself a hypocrite for prejudging applicants' dedication to the job, while she shacked up with David at his house whenever she could. Said she felt guiltier and guiltier for sneaking around behind everybody's back.
     
     
David objected to "shacked up," but knew that was her conscience talking. He sympathized. Admired her honesty, with him and herself. He'd even laughed when she went on about Kinderhook County's ten political commandments starting with Thine Sheriff can screw around with whomever he wants, as long as he parks his cruiser in her garage at night, instead of her driveway.
     
     
"Screw around" rankled, too, but venting frustration was fine. Healthy, even. What bothered him was a nagging uncertainty that her legitimate-sounding reasons for rejecting one applicant after another were just excuses.
     
     
If it was more stall than substance, David couldn't fault her for it. Would he give up his home and his