No Immunity

very contagious. It may he nothing; it could be deadly.”
    The woman edged back on her stool. “Well, where did she get it?”
    Thank you! Kiernan thought. “What did Jeff say?”
    “Not word one.” The blue flannel stamped his glass on the bar. Beer splashed over the side. The others ignored the gush as if it was not the first such episode.
    “Jeff can be pretty closed-mouthed for a guy who grew up here.” The red flannel lifted his glass slowly, the movement announcing he was readying himself for the rest of his pronouncement. “Suppose that’s a good thing in a doctor.”
    “Not if we’re talking epidemic,” the woman put in.
    “Jeff had no business—” Suddenly the blue flannel was staring at his glass.
    No business what? The words were almost out of Kiernan’s mouth when she caught herself. Dammit, this was the first promising thing any of them had said. And now the flannel had gone silent and the rest of them were studying their glasses like the amber liquids might hold arenaviruses. She was leaning an elbow on the bar, sitting facing them. Now she shifted, following the line of their vision in the mirror behind the bar.
    She turned to face the room and saw the problem. Jeez, this certainly was her bad-luck day.

CHAPTER 21

    “Ah, Sheriff Fox!“ Kiernan flashed him a smile. “Can I buy you a drink?”
    Fox’s round Bürgermeister face froze. Had he not recognized her from the back, or had she derailed a plan of attack of his own? He hesitated only a moment—she suspected no one else would have caught even that—and started toward her.
    “What’ll you have, Sheriff?” she asked. Not taunting, not quite.
    Fox nodded to the bartender—clearly the signal for a standing order—and pulled out his wallet.
    Money or not, she’d staked her ground here. And now to force his hand and make him alert his citizens. “We were just talking about the body in the morgue. You probably figured that, right?”
    Fox extricated a five and held it between his fingers.
    “Is she really the start of an epidemic, Sheriff?” the elderly woman asked.
    So Fox was not local or sociable enough to be called by first name. Less so than Jeff Tremaine, who kept his own counsel. The two flannels had edged back as if there were outstanding warrants for them. Even Connie was silent. Fleetingly Kiernan wondered what had brought Fox to this isolated little town.
    Fox took his glass—Scotch with a splash—paid and waited for his change. She wondered if he was considering his answer or waiting for someone else to jump in. No one spoke. The entire room was silent. “There’s no epidemic.”
    The silence resumed. Kiernan leaned back against the bar, ready to nudge Fox if she had to. But much better if questions came from the townspeople, who would have knowledge she didn’t.
    Finally the red flannel asked, “Did Jeff say that?”
    “What’s he say she died of?” his emboldened friend added.
    “Jeff’ll be sending the body down to Vegas tomorrow for autopsy.”
    “Then he doesn’t have any idea what’s wrong with her, right?” the woman demanded.
    Fox occupied himself with his drink.
    Connie slipped back in between the flannels and nodded at Milo, who about-faced to the bottles behind him. He moved slowly, slipping the glass into the ice bucket, pouring the liquor, all the time watching the show behind him in the mirror.
    Kiernan eyed Fox. Time for a nudge. “You must have some idea who the deceased is.”
    “Not yet.”
    “Are you circulating her picture? Someone must have seen her?”
    “Not necessarily,” he snapped. He was glaring at her as if they were alone; as if the room full of his constituents didn’t matter. Perhaps sheriff was not an elected office in this county.
    Connie was not about to be ignored. “Well, Sheriff, what does this woman look like? Maybe we’ve seen her.”
    Fox shot her a scowl. Her compatriots flinched, but Connie held her ground. Still, the tension between them was so sharp and formal, it was clear even to Kiernan that this was not their first skirmish. The flannels, the elderlies, Milo, and the rest of the drinkers leaned in from their safe distance like prizefight fans at ringside.
    “Well, Connie, she’s small, thin, could be Mexican...“
    “How old?”
    “Hard to say once she’s been sick enough to die. Ages you.”
    “Twenty? Sixty?” Without taking her eyes from the sheriff’s face, Connie accepted her glass from Milo. She was enjoying this.
    Fox was not.