Fame and Fortune and Murder

An Insulting Kind of Day

I skipped around a small stack of pylons while my deputy cousin unloaded more of the same from the back of the sheriff’s pickup. I beamed at Robert Carlisle, not because I adored him. Quite the opposite. I couldn’t stand the wretched little piece of loathing with his seventies-esque bush of a black mustache or his pompous superiority that he got to be a cop and I didn’t or his growing beer belly and hideous leer he liked to aim at any woman under the age of fifty.

No,...