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job to expose who does what in this town behind closed doors, as long as they are consenting adults, and they are not doing bodily harm to each other.”
    “Ah, yes, the Sodom and Gomorrah clause. No offense, Chris, but it was the former chief, your mentor, who insisted on its inclusion.”
    “Nevertheless, Miss Yoder, you wouldn’t want to know what really goes on.”
    “Yes, I would.”
    “Trust me, you wouldn’t. Just last night I had to use bolt cutters and not for the usual reason either.”
    “So if was it wasn’t to cut bolts—”
    “I’ll save you some time, Miss Yoder; it was for cutting handcuffs free from bedposts.”
    “What on earth would handcuffs be doing around bedposts?”
    “You see? You’re not ready to know what goes on behind closed doors, not even in a conservative town like Hernia.”
    “But I am,” I wailed. “I’m intensely curious—I am ready !”
    By then we’d pulled next to the police station and it was time to resume acting like a grown-up, instead of the oversexed adolescent my raging hormones had turned me into.
    “Last one inside is a rotten egg,” I said.
     
     
    Hernia City Jail was definitely not built for comfort. We’ve purposely kept our bunks hard and narrow, our mattresses lumpy, our pillows stained, all in hopes of discouraging recidivism. I know it’s worked in my case: I was there only one night—in fact, just part of a night—before breaking out.
    Unfortunately, not everyone is turned off by the grim accommodations. Some folks, like my sister, Susannah, have been in and out of Hernia’s slammer so many times that they keep their own toothbrushes there. In my sister’s case, even though she’s cleaned up her act, her name has been carved into so many flat surfaces that she won’t be forgotten until there has been a complete renovation, which is the second Tuesday after never.
    It was during one of her many stints behind bars that Susannah fell in love with then chief of police Melvin Stoltzfus. For the record, I was always dead set against this match between my sister and the giant praying mantis, and I was horrified, but not shocked, when Melvin murdered my pastor, Reverend Shrock. It pains me to say that this horrible creature managed to break out of the state prison and is now on the loose. Rumors as to his whereabouts abound, the most consistent of which is that he is still in the Greater Hernia area.
    Now, where was I? Oh yes, the Hernia jail. On the morning of Minerva J. Jay’s untimely death, the rancid sludge in the coffeepot informed me that there had been no prisoners in residence for quite some time. This also meant that the Bloughs, the Amish couple who maintained the building, either were on vacation, or were experiencing some family tragedy. The sad fact that my gray matter continues to shrink at an alarming rate did not stop Chris from instantly reading my mind.
    “They’ve gone to Sarasota—just like about half the retired Amish population around here. Is this something recent? I would have thought Florida vacations were too worldly for them.”
    “That’s what the other half of our Amish think—and rather strongly so. It’s a phenomenon that has divided Amish communities across America in recent decades. Those that do spend a portion of their golden years there are able to justify their actions with the fact that there is now already an Amish community in Sarasota to meet their spiritual and physical needs, so that they can still live apart. It was much more difficult for the pioneer retirees, so to speak.”
    In deference to my hemorrhoids (about which I’ve complained loudly in the past), Chris offered me his office chair. It boasts the only padded seat in the police station, so I wisely did not turn it down, as I’ve been known to do, just to prove my mettle.
    “Sorry, I don’t have any hot chocolate to offer you,” he said, “but I have a huge assortment of flavored teas. They’re all decaf, of course.”
    “Do you