I was reading a travel guide to Europe. I was dressed in my uniform and sitting behind my desk at the police department, however, in deference to my position as chief of police of Maggody, Arkansas, population 755 at last count. Nobody counted very often because there wasn't much need. The outside world was not obsessed with an accurate head count, and the good citizens knew what every last person was doing and therefore could keep a running tally of births, deaths, and escapes.

I was in Maggody because I'd skulked home from a posh Manhattan existence to recuperate from a tasteless divorce (as opposed to an elegant one, in which both parties fall all over themselves to be fair about the property settlement and fondly kiss each other on the cheek on the courthouse steps…in Disney World). It wasn't that I was covered with oozing sores; there were only a few scabs to be picked at on a regular basis. I figured it would be only a couple more years before I was ready for the real world, which wasn't ringing all that much anymore.

I was the chief of police because I was the only applicant for the position who'd had any police training. I'd managed to avoid brain petrification only by spending most of my cognizant hours imagining myself elsewhere. And not with a capital E, either, since almost anyplace else was preferable to a one-street town noted for its ornery citizens, dusty weeds, boarded-up storefronts, and artful display of litter that ranged from rusted beer cans and disposable diapers to unmentionables.

At this point, I'd just left Florence, after a delightful stay at a quaint pensione that served robust breakfasts and elegant dinners at a reasonable price. Thus far, excluding airfare, I was well within my fabricated budget and I was considering a few days in Rome in a seventeenth-century villa overlooking the city. I could take a bus in every morning to sightsee, and idle away the evenings on the broad balcony, sipping wine and chatting with the resident contessa.

When the telephone rang, I marked my place (just south of Siena) and, in further deference to my position, answered it with, "Police department, Chief Ariel Hanks speaking."

"Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill, your mother speaking," came a most unfriendly voice. "I thought you were coming down here for supper."

"I am, but it's the middle of the afternoon. I still have time to check in at the Villa della Gatteschi and do the Colosseum before it gets dark."

"Don't give me any of that smart talk, young lady. Are you coming down here for supper or not?"

"Can I expect lasagna and osso buco?"

Her voice was so icy that my eardrum tingled. "Are you coming or not?"

"Of course I am," I said, trying not to sound as irritated as I was. It's not wise to mess with Ruby Bee, who looks like a chubby grandmother with her rosy round face and improbable blond hair but has a streak of something hard to define but best to avoid. Every now and then, one of them good ol' boys drinks one pitcher of beer too many at the bar and learns the hard way. One of them limps to this day. Truth.

"Well, then, get your fanny off your chair and get down here," Ruby Bee snapped, then hung up before I could think of anything else, smart or not, to say.

I got my fanny off my chair, vowed to renew my passport, and went out of the relative sanctuary of the PD into the whitewashed August heat of Maggody. A lone pickup truck was heading south, leaving a ghostly swirl of dust in its tracks. A car was parked in front of Roy Stiver's antique store, and I supposed some naïve tourist was in there trying to pull a fast one over on potbellied, slow-talking Roy, who has more CDs in the bank than a cow patty has flies.

My efficiency apartment was above the store. I gave it a wistful look but obediently trudged along the highway to find out what species of bee was buzzing in Ruby Bee's bonnet this time. I winced as I passed the site of the new supermarket, thinking about the poor souls putting on a tar roof in the heat. The building itself was rather peculiar. Jim Bob was too cheap to tear down the old Kwik-Screw, an ordinary convenience store, so some of the facade remained-like a boil.

As I watched, several trucks rolled in loaded with refrigeration equipment and metal shelving units. A beefy man in a hard hat came out to bellow at the drivers, most of whom ignored him and ambled over to the soda machine in front of the Suds of Fun Launderette next door. I didn't blame them. One of the roofers came to the edge and let out his version of a wolf whistle, presumably intended to flatter me into scampering up the ladder for a quick romp in the tar. I'd lived on the Upper East Side in another life, and responded with a minute yet succinct gesture.

Estelle's station wagon was the only car in front of Ruby Bee's, which was odd on a searing Saturday afternoon. There was a black Cadillac parked in front of the motel unit out back, which was odd, too. No one stays at the Flamingo Motel; its sign is a perpetual V CAN Y and every year its neon flamingo looks a little more inclined to molt into oblivion. Ruby Bee lives in number one and swears she prefers the solitude. I've always thought she didn't want to change the linen or mess with registration.

The bar and grill was bright pink on the outside but dim and cool on the inside. And pretty much deserted. Estelle was sitting at the bar with a glass of sherry, listening as Ruby Bee raged and sputtered over the sink.

Estelle, the owner and operator of Estelle's Hair Fantasies, is the antithesis of Ruby Bee. She's as tall as I-five nine-but she towers over me with her six-inch fiery red beehive hairdo. As a child, I'd kept a cautious eye on it, not sure what would happen if it slipped to one side. It never had, to my disappointment. It didn't even sway when she walked.

"It's about time," Ruby Bee said by way of warm welcome. "You want iced tea or milk?"

"Neither, thank you. I'll just sit here like a little mouse until you tell me all about whatever it is that's disturbing you." I climbed onto the stool next to Estelle and propped my elbows on the bar.

"This is hardly the time for jokes," Estelle said with a snort of disapproval. "You might show some concern for your own flesh and blood, Miss High Horse."

Ruby Bee grabbed a dishrag and began to wipe the counter so hard it squeaked. "Now, Estelle, there's no point in giving Arly a lecture on manners. She lived in Noow Yark, you know, where people don't pay any mind to anyone else. They make you turn in your party manners when you drive across the Brooklyn Bridge."

"I forgot," Estelle said, slapping her forehead like a heroine in a melodrama, which wasn't too far off base. "People in Noow Yark just watch out the window when someone gets mugged, and they can't be bothered to learn their neighbors' names or have a nice conversation in the elevator about the weather."

"Hot enough for you?" I inserted quickly.

Ruby Bee shot me a beady look, then attempted to wrest the starring role away from Estelle. "So there's no reason why I should expect Arly to be concerned about me having to live out the last years of my life in the county nursing home. Isn't Adele Wockermann out there?"

"Yes, but last I heard, she was visiting with aliens through her hearing aid," Estelle said, giving me her version of the Beady Look. It's not as effective, since one of hers wanders. "It's a crying shame, Ruby Bee, you not being able to enjoy yourself in your golden years. No grandbabies, no daughter who worries about you, no little cottage with a nice flower garden. A crying shame."

"A crying shame," Ruby Bee echoed. She wiped her eyes with the dishrag, then bravely straightened her shoulders and prepared to crumble into dust in a rocking chair next to Adele.