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than half an hour ago, and already it was rushing through the store like a hay field fire. "Yeah. So what?"
    "So we need to talk."
    "You gonna tell me that he's too old for me? Or that I'm takin' my life in my hands by sharin' a freakin' burger and soda with him?"
    "I'm tellin' you that if you want to priss your pretty little ass across stage durin' the Yamboree celebration, you'll listen to what I have to offer. Of course, if you'd rather have Ben Roberts press charges against you, that's fine, too. I'm sure First Runner-up Sally Davenport would appreciate havin' her picture circulated as Miss Yamboree."
    With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Charlotte set aside the shirt and accompanied Dillman out of the store.
    *
    The county courthouse had been built in 1857 out of limestone blocks hauled all the way from a quarry near Georgetown , Texas . By the looks of the interior walls and floors, there hadn't been a great many renovations to the building in the last century and a half. The green paint on the walls was peeling off in large, curling flakes. The wood floor was dull, pocked, and rutted. Aside from a telephone sitting on Cornwall's desk and a soda machine humming against the far wall, one would be hard-pressed to believe they hadn't stepped into a time machine and been sucked back to the nineteenth century. She expected to see Marshal Dillon walk through the door at any minute.
    For the last two hours, since Cornwall had hauled her away from the Carlyle farm, Alyson had waited in the small, stuffy room with only a view of the square to occupy her time. Normally, she might have found the goings-on up and down the bricked street relaxing if not amusing: two bald old men sat on a bench feeding peanuts to squirrels. A group of young people draped banners from streetlight to streetlight, the tall red and blue letters on the banners spelling out TICKY CREEK YAMBOREE . Across the courthouse lawn, vendors were setting up booths where they intended to sell cotton candy, taffy apples, and sweet potato pies to the hundreds of people who would pour into town to participate in the festivities celebrating the harvest of the revered yam. And across the street, between Martha's Old and New Antiquities and Crawford's Hardware, a group of men in grease-stained shirts were busily erecting carnival rides: a Ferris wheel, a carousel, an Octopus, and a Tilt-A-Whirl. There were game booths as well, tempting prospective players with heaps of brightly colored stuffed animals. Norman Rockwell would have felt right at home.
    Alyson walked to the door and stared hard at Cornwall , who sat hunched over a tuna sandwich and a newspaper. He glanced her way, offered her an apologetic smile, obviously embarrassed over having to detain her.
    "Aren't you supposed to be taking mug shots of me or something?"
    "You ain't been formally charged with anything yet. That'll be up to the Carlyles. I don't expect Henry will do anything, but I ain't so sure about Brandon . He gets pretty sore when it comes to people intrudin' on his privacy." He chewed and swallowed. "Sure you don't want half my sandwich, Ms. James? It's good. Dime A Cup Café can't be beat when it comes to tuna salad sandwiches. They don't scrimp on the sweet relish and eggs, like a lot of places."
    She shrugged. "Why not?" And while he was sharing a little tuna and sweet relish, maybe she could pick his brains about Carlyle's life in Ticky Creek.
    Cornwall gathered up the paper plate heaped with sandwich, potato chips, and a dill pickle spear, and carried it into the holding room. He placed it on the table and backed away, rubbing his hands together. He looked a little like Barney Fife, only bigger and with more hair.
    "Sorry 'bout this wait, Ms. James. I'm sure Brandon will be by shortly. I called the house. That nurse of Bernice's said he and Henry left for town a while back. Henry has a doctor's appointment. Got a bad heart, ya know. They gotta keep a real close eye on his blood pressure and such."