His eyes were burning with the sheer unnatural effort it took to hold back the laughter. But it was his job to be sympathetic and impartial, and damned if he wasn’t good at his job.
“That womanknewwe were having the press out today to Elysian Acres. The paper came around to photograph our displays this morning. Do you know how many photos they took of this? Around a hundred before you got here! The shame!”
Eli had shooed the “press,” a couple of giggling college interns with theHellcat Canyon Chroniclesnapping photos with their phones, away from the crime scene. But he supposed it didn’t hurt to have a lot of documentation. So he took his own photos, just to be sure.
He might even make one of them his screen saver.
The irony, on the other hand, was almost too much. Because the last thing he’d done last night was answer a call about a riot. And it was kind of the first thing he was doing today, too, in the crisp cool of the early morning, here at Elysian Acres.
Well, it was more on the order of an orgy than a riot.
“If it’s any consolation, Mrs.Kilgore, I’m pretty sure theHellcat Canyon Chroniclecan’t legally publish photos of... of this kind of activity.”
“This kind of activity” was a bit like Caligula, re-imagined by Disney.
Some of her gnome statues appeared to be humping the rabbit statues. The deer statues were humping each other. Another gnome was tipped over on its back, an empty bottle of Jägermeister next to its upraised hand. Another gnome was flat on its back at the feet of the cheerful lady gnome who was doing a cancan. He was clearly getting an up-skirt peek. On Carlotta’s stone bench, a boy gnome’s face was propped against a girl gnome’s crotch. The girl gnome was grinning broadly up at the sky. Near the front stoop, the little kneeling lady gnome had her face pressed against the groin of the bearded gnome whose hands were triumphantly resting on his hips.
“I understand why you’re upset, but they all seem to be... um... intact.”
Even if they’re not virgins anymore, he was so, so tempted to say.
“And it’s difficult to prove consent or lack thereof,” he added. “Seeing as how they’re statues.”
She glared at him.
“They all appear to be enjoying themselves. They’re all smiling, anyway. Except the rabbits. Though it’s often hard to tell what rabbits are thinking, in general.”
“You think this is funny, Eli!”
He surrendered to his, slightly ornery, bordering on anarchic mood. “Hell yeah, I think it’s funny.”
“Eli!” she was reproachful.
“C’mon, Mrs.Kilgore. Where do you think baby gnome statues come from? One reckless night at a gnome party just like this one.”
He was lucky the corner of her mouth twitched at that one and her eyes lit up.
He was going to lose it in a minute.
Last night he’d said good-bye to Bethany after the Misty Cat melee rather abruptly once he got out the door of the Misty Cat, but then, he had a legitimate excuse: squad cars filled with unruly drunks to be processed down at the station. Not to mention a head full of unruly thoughts.
And now two moments from last night replayed in his head, like jammed slides in a projector. Glory pulling her hand from him. Glory reaching out to take Franco Francone’s card. Glory pulling her hand from him. Glory reaching out to take Franco Francone’s card. Like that.Kachunk. Kachunk. Kachunk. Kachunk.
It was getting harder and harder to think of Kismet as bullshit when he’d been interruptedyet againwhen he happened to be touching Glory. And just when he’d been socloseto melting that wall between them.
Fucking Franco Francone.
“You can get fingerprints off the statues, can’t you?” Mrs.Kilgore was gazing up at him.
“I’m afraid you might be confusing Hellcat Canyon withCSI: NY, Mrs.Kilgore. And I have a hunch they’re all covered in each other’s fingerprints. That wassomegnome party.”
She snorted at that. “Nevertheless, this means war.”
Eli sighed. That was all he needed. The War of the Mobile Estates. He could see it now: the mobility scooter cavalry, infantry swinging walking sticks with tennis balls on the bottoms, a front line of briskly fit grandmas shot-putting brownies and oatmeal cookies, backed up by a few columns of the world’s gassiest grandpas.
Hell, maybe he’d get another commendation for intervening in that.
Maybe he could avoid it altogether if he became undersheriff and moved from Hellcat Canyon.