Hot Stuff by C. J. Fosdick Page A

blue eyes. I hugged my shirt tighter, rocking up on my toes. “I’m…I’m her granddaughter, Kate. She’s uh, indisposed right now.”
    “Well, ma’am, I’ve been sent here because of a possible 10-99 in the neighborhood. I was given this address and told the Sanders widow might know something about it.”
    “You must be new to the PD.”
    His dark brows inched toward his nose before he nodded slowly.
    “From the West?
    He blinked.
    I pointed, with a knowing smile. “Your cowboy boots.”
    His gaze traveled from his tooled leather boots to the neon green nails on my bare feet, then migrated up my green-and-black striped leggings to my damp baggy tee. “And you must be from…a swamp?”
    Wincing, I plucked at my stained shirt. Oh, Lord, why didn’t I change? “Cola. Uh, Mr. Wiggins spilled cola on me.”
    His eyebrows rose.
    “Our cat. Mr. Wiggins is our cat. Long tail.”
    His cheek twinged ever so slightly. “Well, then, I’ve been told you may know the whereabouts of a small windmill and plaster Dutch boy?”
    “A plastered Dutch boy? I shrugged and waved my hand absently. “I have a younger brother, but he’s German and doesn’t imbibe…not even ‘the beer that made Milwaukee famous’. ” I tried to maintain a straight face, hoping some sophomoric humor might lighten his business tone. I knew a 10-99 was police scanner code for something lost or stolen.
    Again, his dark eyebrows migrated toward the bridge of his nose. “Okay then, maybe I need to put this another way. This may be some kind of a test for rookies, but my captain told me missing gnomes could end up at this address. This is 2482 Meadow Lane.” He took a few backward steps to verify the vertical numbers on our porch post, then shot me a squinty look and set his chiseled jaw.
    “Did Captain Billington send you here?” An innocent smile wasn’t working. I went for something with more voltage.
    “You know my captain?”
    I nodded cheerfully. “He is aware of our situation.”
    “Ma’am, what situation might that be?”
    “Follow me.”I slipped into the flip flops that were on the bench near the door, and then shaded my eyes against the bright sun peeking over the treetops.
    The tall wooden gate between our house and garage squeaked open into our backyard. “Welcome to the stockade.” I gestured to encompass our half-acre backyard and the tall cedar fencing that truly gave it a stockade look. “This is my brother’s world—started when he was a child.”
    The swing set that once amused Evan for hours was now painted a bright yellow, the glider had a new cushioned seat and a large tractor tire dangling from the top bar, instead of a narrow board swing. The yellow plastic slide was still clean, dulled only by a worn strip down the center. Evan kept the slide polished, and often enjoyed squeezing himself between the sides, arms stretched overhead, eyes closed in his version of a sun salute.
    A smaller version of a yellow circus tent dominated the yard, flanked by two large elm trees. Flagstone paths snaked through a jungle of bird baths, yellow benches, assorted statuary, flags, and solar lights cluttering the yard like a maze, all leading to the entrance of the yellow tent.
    “Evan likes yellow.” I grinned.
    In silence, we both scanned the yard, looking for a windmill and Dutch boy among the statuary. “You can see my brother has quite a collection.”
    The cop’s mouth froze open before he rubbed his bottom lip with the side of his fist. “An understatement, I’d say.”
    “All bought and paid for,” I added quickly. “Captain Billington knows we see to that.”
    He scratched his ear. “Just how old is your brother?”
    “Old enough to hold down a bus-boy job to help pay for all this. Evan has Asperger’s, a form of autism with obsessive compulsive behavior. He wasn’t formally diagnosed until he was nine, after he upgraded his collection from smurfs to garden gnomes. Over the years, we’ve learned some lawn