20
Sheriff Farrish was a giant of a man who wore huge leather boots and a heavy black belt that holstered a pearl-handled revolver. There were stories of him shooting people who’d rubbed him the wrong way. Everyone avoided the sheriff like the plague if they could help it, but Truman knew Sherlock Holmes would never back away from a lead.
Sheriff didn’t take kindly to Truman and Nelle waking him up when they knocked on the window of his patrol car. He was surly enough from the interruption of his afternoon nap but became even more so once Truman hinted that his own son, Elliot, had been involved in a crime.
He stepped out of his car and unfolded his body to the size of a giant oak tree until he towered over the two kids who intended to question him. The sheriff had one hand on his pearl-handled revolver, which just happened to be at Truman’s eyeline.
“I don’t know what you heard or what gossip people are sayin’, but I would advise you to stay clear of the matter,” he grumbled. “People who stick their noses into other people’s business tend to get them cut off,” he said without any humor.
Nelle was ready to slink off but Truman held his ground. “So, sir, you’re saying it’s not true?” He jutted out his lower jaw, trying to look tough. It had the opposite effect.
The sheriff just laughed. “It’s true what they say about you, boy. You do look like a bulldog, though not like any bulldog I ever owned.”
“Come on, Truman, let’s go,” said Nelle. Truman refused.
“Not until the sheriff tells us what’s going on around here. The press has the right to know if there’s some kind of cover-up, sir.” Truman didn’t know if his little ruse would work on a lawman.
“The press?” He guffawed. “Listen, you runt, if you’re the press, I’m President Hoover.”
Nelle started to wrench Truman away. “I’m a writer, Sheriff, and I’m going to write about this,” said Truman firmly.
The sheriff spat a glob of chaw near Truman’s white shoes. “Ain’t no story here, son,” he said, leaning over Truman. “Maybe it was the boogeyman who done it.”
“Or maybe the answer is in the snake pit,” said Truman, shaking.
The sheriff stared straight into Truman’s eyes. “You look just like your mother did at your age. She was trouble too. Guess the acorn don’t fall far from the tree.” He turned and got back in his car. As the engine roared to life, he took one last look at Truman. “You too pretty for a boy. You wouldn’t want to lose them pretty looks, now, would you?”
Truman gulped.
“Say hello to your dad for me, Miss Nelle. I’m sure he knows what you’re up to.”
He winked, gunned the engine, and sped out onto the road, disappearing into a cloud of dust.