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That’s because you always call me when the going gets tough.” I made a sincere effort to stand but succeeded only in bumping Little Jacob against the edge of Chief Ackerman’s desk.
    “Ouch,” the chief said (Little Jacob couldn’t quite talk yet).
    It was really only a light tap, and the little feller was well protected by amniotic fluid, but it was just enough of a jolt to cause some of the tea to spill over the rim of the cup. Although I agreed with the young squirt from California that Constant Comment shouldn’t be ruined by milk, I objected to his conclusion that I was the Grim Reaper, and most of all, I was extremely annoyed that he had the chutzpah to comment on my wailing.
    “Chief, be a dear, will you, and run across the street to Yoder’s Corner Market and get me some milk.”
    He looked alarmed. “For your tea ?”
    “It’s the cravings, you know; they can’t be helped. And while you’re at it, see if Sam still has that jar of pickled artichoke hearts. I know it’s been there for years, but—”
    “That man is a thief. He rips off the Amish and the elderly, both segments of society who find it too difficult to get into bustling Bedford to shop for essentials. You can buy the same milk in the city for one-quarter as much, and I’ll bet it will be fresher.”
    “Not if you keep flapping your gums, dear.” I gave him a stern but motherly look. Alas, it didn’t seem to have much effect on him. It was time to trot out the officious boss-woman glare. “A mayor with unfulfilled cravings cannot possibly concentrate long enough to sign her employee’s checks, capice ?”
    He snapped to attention. “One percent or skim?”
    “Whole milk, of course; Little Jacob is not on a diet.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    And away he went.
     
     
    Call me a control freak, but after all, the boy was twenty-six, and I was forty-eight. In my day—never mind that; it was still my day, and would continue to be my day until Little Jacob arrived. Then it would be his day until he turned eighteen, or moved out of the house, whichever came first. Although from what I understood by listening to other mothers, being a parent is a lifelong commitment.
    At any rate, it would have been a complete waste of time for me to twiddle my thumbs while Chief Chris Ackerman was chasing down milk and pickled artichokes. I am sure that there are those who don’t agree, but if you ask me, the Good Lord wouldn’t have given me a gene for snooping if He hadn’t intended for me to use it. I do believe the Bible calls that sort of misuse a “buried talent.” And furthermore, on my second try to extricate myself from my chair, I practically flew out of it, as if my posterior had sprouted wings—perhaps little bunting wings.
    Therefore, it was with blessings from above that I glided over to the window and casually lowered the blinds. I wasn’t interested in riffling through the stacks of papers on the chief’s desk; it was the contents of his drawers that called to me.
    The Hernia Police Department’s single desk had been donated by the Commonwealth Map & Survey Company when it went out of business in the mid-1950s. The desk is made of solid wood, but painted battleship gray, and is large enough to spread a highway map on top and still have room left over. There is a shallow center drawer and two very deep drawers on either side. It was these deep drawers that held the most allure.
    Depending on whether or not Sam had customers to wait on, or perhaps was in an exceptionally garrulous mood (Sam’s six-hundred-and-eighty-four-pound wife, Dorothy, is the bane of his existence, and sometimes he feels the need to vent), the chief could be back in as little as two minutes, or as long as twenty. If I expected to find anything of note, I would have to get down on my knees and dig around in the bottom of each drawer—and then leave everything virtually intact.
    “Hang on, Little Jacob,” I said and, steadying myself with both hands gripping