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better. My first 4-H project was a sheep. I named him Moses.”
    “Moses? What kind of sheep name is that?”
    I waved my hand at him. “That’s who we were studying in Sunday school. Anyway, keep in mind that I was raised on a ranch. I knew before I even acquired Moses that a castrated male sheep served no purpose except for being on someone’s dinner plate. Moses won Grand Champion Market Lamb that year. When it came time for him to be auctioned off with the other lambs, I ran to Daddy, crying hysterically. It suddenly dawned on me what was going to happen to Moses. I couldn’t bear for Moses to be lamb stew. So, with me hanging on his arm bawling, he started bidding.”
    Hud listened intently, for once his dark brown eyes serious. “Then what happened?”
    We reached the front door of the agriculture building. A small crowd of children wearing bright orange Beth David Preschool T-shirts stopped us.
    “Sorry,” said a frazzled young woman trying to maneuver them into two lines. She wore a T-shirt identical to her charges. “We’re three parents short.”
    “No problem. We’re not in a hurry.”
    “Moses,” Hud prompted. “What happened?”
    I turned back to him. “Oh, Daddy bought him for an exorbitant price, mostly because his Farm Supply buddies saw what he was doing and kept jacking up the bid. We brought Moses home where he lived for sixteen more years. Dove said I should have named him Methuselah. And Daddy got razzed every week of his life of those sixteen years, not just because he was feeding a basically worthless animal, but also because it was a sheep and Daddy’s a cattleman. But he took it on the chin.” I cocked my head. “Because he’s a good daddy and I think you are too.”
    The children had finally lined up, locked sticky hands with their partners and were being led inside.
    “Great,” Hud said, walking behind me into the cool, cavernous building. His voice echoed slightly. “What if she never wants to let Mr. Prickles go? He will live out his life waking me at five a.m. every dang morning.”
    “Talk to Dove,” I said over my shoulder. “You annoy her, but she loves Maisie. I bet for the right price—possibly a generous donation to the San Celina Food Pantry—you could convince her to let him board at the ranch and Maisie can visit him. Dove keeps a small group of fancy chickens and other animals for Cattlewomen Association school tours.”
    “Thank you, ranch girl. You are my savior.”
    “Nope, Jesus is your savior, but you definitely owe me one, Inspector Clouseau.”
    “And I won’t forget it.”
    Suddenly the amusement in his face turned to concern. I turned around to see Maggie walking quickly toward us, her mouth tight with anger.
    “Benni, you aren’t going to believe this,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Someone’s stolen the Harriet Powers quilt.”

CHAPTER 2

    “W HAT?” I SAID.
    “When?” Hud said a nano-second later.
    “No one knows.” Maggie frowned at Hud. “Aren’t deputies supposed to be patrolling the fairgrounds?” She blinked her eyes quickly, fighting for control.
    Hud lifted an eyebrow and glanced at me, his mouth twitching. I shook my head slightly, willing him not to react. Maggie was just letting off steam. She worked with law enforcement and knew that they couldn’t be everywhere.
    “Jazz and Katsy are in the home arts building,” Maggie said.
    We followed her out of the agriculture building’s front door to the home arts building next door. It was a long, flat-roofed structure with shiplap siding painted a glossy sunflower yellow. Hundreds of multicolored pansies, gerbera daisies and marigolds were planted in the brick-lined beds surrounding the building. No doubt it would be a favorite spot for people taking family photos.
    The African American quilt exhibit sat directly inside the front door.
    It was obvious where the replica of the famous Harriet Powers quilt once hung. There was a conspicuous blank spot in the middle of