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pulled the leash out of the truck and walked over to snap it on Sherman’s collar. Cattle, sheep, cats, and dogs were allowed to roam free on the streets of Bramble, but pigs had to be on a leash. Which seemed like the worst sort of discrimination to Shirlene.
    “How long they gone for?” Moses asked. Without teeth or dentures, his mouth resembled a puckered peach left out in the sun too long.
    “At least a week or two. Colt’s got a lot to do if he wants to get his motorcycle shop moved here by winter.”
    Moses nodded. “Always knew that boy would turn out all right. A person don’t watch out for their mama and sister like he did and not have a good heart. ’Course you can’t tell the people of this town anything. They still think Colt spent time in prison.” He shook his head. “Durn fools.”
    Moses was right. The folks of Bramble might have their noses in everyone’s business, but rarely did they get their facts straight. Something Shirlene had given up trying to change a long time ago.
    “See you, Mr. Tate.” She tugged the disgruntled pig away from the wrapper. But she only made it halfway down the block before Kenny Gene’s girlfriend Twyla came trotting across the street, her over-processed hair teased higher than a Jersey girl’s.
    “Hey, Shirl. Missed you at the Founder’s Day decoratin’ meetin’.”
    Shirlene shot her a big smile. “Well, I’m sure you got things figured out just fine without me, honey.”
    “We shore did. Darla’s takin’ care of all the decoratin’ and Josephine the food.” Her gaze wandered over Shirlene’s hair. “I’m havin’ a special on cuts and dyes this week.”
    Since the woman could destroy hair better than nuclear fallout, Shirlene kept her mouth shut and continued to smile. The smile drooped when Twyla continued.
    “Did you hear the good news? Bubba’s back in town. I guess he just strutted right into Bootlegger’s last night as if he’d never been gone.” Her face turned all dreamy. “Wish I’d been there. Cindy Lynn said he was flirtin’ and dancin’ with all the girls like there was no tomorrow.”
    Fortunately, about then, Sherman spotted a paper cup blowing in the wind and took off after it. Glad for the excuse, Shirlene let him tug her down the street, waving a hand behind her. “Take care now, Twyla.”
    Like most of the other buildings on Main Street, the bank stood two stories high and was made out of red brick. It sat on the corner of Walnut and Main, its large maple doors facing out at an angle. Thanks to her industrious friend Hope, who had organized a painting party in early April, the wood trim was freshly painted a bright Bramble High purple. Shirlene had to admit that it looked real nice. Of course, she’d always loved purple. What she didn’t love was the fact that the bank doors were locked.
    “What in the world is goin’ on in this town?” she grumbled under her breath as she tried the other door.
    It was locked as well, which just didn’t make any sense. Shirlene knew it was early, but the bank manager, Luther Briggs, was always at his desk by seven. And even if he was late, The Bank of Bramble didn’t keep their front doors locked—that was what the huge gray vaultwas for. Of course, there had been that one time when the bank teller, Ruby Lee, had an affair with that Coca-Cola distributor. When her husband found out, he’d come to the bank with his shotgun and filled the Coke machine with buckshot, forcing Luther and two other employees to drag him out and lock the doors.
    But since Hank had long since forgiven Ruby her infidelity, Shirlene figured the locked doors were a mistake so she lifted her fist and knocked. After only a few minutes, the door was thrown open. Except it wasn’t Luther that greeted her, but a short skinny stranger with eyes beadier than Sherman’s and a skinny, black mustache above a thin, sweaty lip.
    “I’m sorry,” he stated in an uppity voice with not an ounce of Texas charm, “but