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last few weeks, Levi has received a few repulsive letters about him being appointed fair manager.”
    Hud murmured, “Shades of the sixties.”
    Jazz’s young face looked puzzled.
    “Has he reported it to law enforcement?” I asked.
    Katsy nodded. “The Paso police are aware of it, but I don’t know about the sheriff’s department.”
    Hud’s scowl informed us they weren’t. His Texas accent was cool. “Y’all might remember that the sheriff’s department has legal responsibility for the fair. We should have been informed.”
    Katsy gave him a long look. “It didn’t occur to us that they wouldn’t tell you. Seems to me that would be an issue between you and the Paso police.”
    I’d observed conflicts like this more than once since marrying Gabe. Like most people, Katsy wasn’t aware that often there was a rivalry—sometimes good-natured, more often acrimonious—between many police agencies. Because of Gabe’s position as chief of police, I was often privy to the carping that went on between various city police departments and the county sheriff. The fair would be a particularly touchy situation, Gabe told me. The actual fairgrounds were state-owned property, which, in some convoluted way, put them under the jurisdiction of the county sheriff, but the fairgrounds were technically located inside the Paso Robles city limits, which made the city police feel proprietary.
    When no one responded to his comment, Hud waved an impatient hand. “Tell me about the letters.”
    Katsy looked irritated. “First one came through the regular mail to the office two weeks ago. Another to his house a few days later. The third one was dropped in the suggestion box outside the administration office the day the fair opened.”
    “What did they say?” Jazz demanded.
    Katsy studied the pavement. “No direct threats, just innuendos about whether he’d gotten his job fairly. One said that he might have bitten off more than he can chew.” She looked back up. “Levi didn’t want the media to hear about the threats so he asked that the police keep a low profile and they have. He is determined not to let anything overshadow the fair and ruin it for people.”
    “Do the Paso police have any ideas who it could be?” I asked.
    “No,” Katsy said. “The Paso detective told Levi that there was a good chance it was just some nutty individual who was reacting to the stories the Tribune ran last month about Levi being the first African American fair manager in San Celina’s history.”
    “There are a few white extremist groups on the Central Coast,” Hud said. “We keep a pretty close eye on them. Mostly it’s just dirtbags who have nothing better to do than get together and whine about how life has crapped on them. So far we haven’t caught them doing anything illegal.”
    Jazz put her hands on her hips. “I’m so mad that Dad didn’t tell me.”
    “Cut him some slack,” Katsy said. “He was trying to protect you.”
    “I’m not six years old!” The young man inched closer to Jazz, but he didn’t touch her.
    Katsy reached over and patted Jazz’s shoulder. “That’s between you and your daddy. But let’s not overreact. That’s exactly what people like that are counting on.”
    “I’m not overreacting. C’mon, Cal,” Jazz said to the young man. “We’re going to talk to my dad right now.”
    Hud, Katsy and I watched the teenagers walk toward the fair’s administration buildings.
    “That poor girl,” Katsy said, shaking her head. “If she ever leaves the Central Coast she’s going to get a rude awakening.”
    Though Katsy had lived all of her life here on the Central Coast, unlike Maggie, she’d gone away to college, a full scholarship to Emory University in Atlanta.
    “Who’s the kid with Jazz?” I asked.
    “Her latest boyfriend,” Katsy said. “Calvin Jones. Goes by Cal. Nice young man. He’s done some work at our ranch. Works part time in Paso at the Mobil gas station over by Walmart.