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He would have pointed out that he wasn’t exactly twiddling his thumbs but making a living selling his wares to all who wanted them, but Mrs. Baumgartner was already continuing her tirade. “If I were you I’d take down that sign,” she said now, pointing to the sign on the wall behind them that read, ‘Proud member of the Neighborhood Watch.’

“Well, I…”

“The police are doingnothing to stop these miscreants, nor do I expect them to, since they are, after all, civil servants, and can’t be bothered, but I’d really expected more from you, Wilbur, seeing as you’re supposed to be one of us.” She dropped a twenty dollar note and it fluttered down to the conveyor belt. “But all you care about is our money, not our safety. I should have known.” And with a shake of the head and a final dark frown, she grabbed her large canvas shopping bag containing her frankly meager haul, and stalked off, leaving Wilbur to stare after her, feeling bewildered and slightly annoyed.

“Don’t listen to her, Wilbur,” said his next customer, Father Reilly. “It’s not your fault that criminals are running circles around our law enforcement officers.”

“My fault? Your fault, you mean,” said Wilbur, for Father Reilly was as much a member of the newly launched neighborhood watch as he himself was.

“Myes, you’re probably right,” said the priest, fingering his tuft of white hair. “Maybe we should get together and see if we can’t put a stop to the latest crime wave to hit these shores.”

“Have you heard from Vesta yet?” asked Wilbur, referring to Vesta Muffin, the heroic founding mother and current leader of the watch.

“Can’t say that I have. But rest assured, if this crime wave is as bad as Ida seems to think it is, I’m sure that Vesta will be on top of it, and so will Scarlett.”

“I hope so,” said Wilbur. “We pledged to keep this town safe from crime, Francis, and if what Ida is saying is true, we’re failing in our sacred duty.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” said Father Reilly soothingly. “Ida tends to see danger where there is none. We all know that about her.”

This was true. Ida was one of those people with hypochondriacal tendencies, and spent more time at the doctor’s office than out and about. Still, it’s one thing to imagine yourself the victim of every disease on WebMD and another to accuse the neighborhood watch of gross negligence in the face of a violent crime wave sweeping through the town. “I’ll talk to Vesta,” said Wilbur therefore. “Tellher to organize a meeting. If there really is a gang of burglars hitting our town, we need to get on top of this pronto, Francis. Or we’ll be tarred and feathered for not doing what we promised people we’d do.”

After Francis had walked out carrying his two bottles of wine and a nice block of Brie cheese, Wilbur took his phone and called Vesta. He didn’t like being accused of gross negligence, but what he liked even less were criminals taking what didn’t belong to them. And as he waited for Vesta to pick up, suddenly he saw that some teenager was grabbing a can of Red Bull and tucking it into the waistband of his cargo pants, then pulling down his Bugs Bunny sweater over it. “I saw that, Bart Stupes!” he yelled, and disconnected again, just when Vesta’s voice called out, “Wilbur? What do you want?”

But the store owner was already stalking down the aisles en route to catching a sneak thief in the act.

Chapter 8

“And what did they take, exactly?” asked Tex as he studied his patient with a measure of exasperation.

He’d known, when becoming a doctor, that he’d have to deal with his fair share of annoying patients from time to time, but never in his wildest dreams had he expected to encounter a hypochondriac stalker who’d walk into his office on a daily basis. Ida Baumgartner was every doctor’s worst nightmare. She scoured the internet for new and fascinating diseases she was absolutely sure she suffered from, and even though Tex explained to her time and time again that, apart from a slight tendency to suffer from hypertension, she was as healthy as a young oxen, she wouldn’t take his word for it, and demand he examine her for whatever new disease she’d discovered online.

This morning, however, Ida had other things on her mind apart from the precarious state of her health. Someone had broken into her home the night before, and she was anxious to tell anyone who would listen all about it, and even those who wouldn’t listen, too. Or those who had a waiting room full of patients, like Dr. Tex Poole.

“They took my painting,” she declared now, with a sense of importance that had put a blush on her cheeks. “My priceless painting, if you please.”

“What painting would this be?” asked Tex, casting a sad glance at his monitor that fed him a live image of his waiting room, where six patients were more or less patiently waiting for Ida to finish her tale of woe and damnation.