A lanky rustic, replete with drooping mustache and high heeled boots gazed unbelievingly at the dream-like creature that had opened the door to him. And a great, wistful sadness came into his eyes. "I'm Morton Miller," he drawled with a voice that so perfectly completed the homespun picture it was hard to believe he hadn't arrived by stage coach. "It could be worse," Toffee consoled, obviously in serious doubt of her own statement. "I'm the sheriff," the fellow elaborated. Marc and Toffee exchanged a glance that was a silent, two-way scream. "You got a body, lady?" "You ought to know," Toffee replied, snatching furtively after her retreating composure. "You've hardly taken your eyes off it." The sheriff cleared his throat and his voice dug its toe awkwardly into a hay stack. "No, lady," he said nervously. "That ain't what I mean. I'm lookin' fer a dead body." "We don't have any," Toffee lied promptly, as though speaking of termites. "That's funny," the sheriff mused chattily, now on firmer ground. "A fella called me on the phone and said a woman'd been shot out here." Marc swiftly joined them. He knew that the wheels of calamity had inexorably begun to turn. He could almost hear them grinding. "What fellow?" Toffee was asking. "Don't rightly know. Wouldn't give his name. Had a sort of whiney voice, as I recollect. Sounded kinda goofy." "He was goofy," Marc put in flatly. "Goofy as they come. No one's been shot here yet." Then, starting toward the door, he added, "Goodnight." "Just a minute," the sheriff said, placing a mammoth foot firmly on the doorsill. "I gotta look around. It's my duty." He eyed Marc suspiciously. "And just who are you?" "I'm Marc Pillsworth," Marc said almost ashamedly. "This is my place." The sheriff nodded, pushed the door open, and stepped authoritatively inside. Obviously, this was one arm of the law that had a well developed muscle, if not much else. "Always like to have the owner around, when I'm ransackin' fer a body," he said cryptically. "Usually find that's the bird that hid 'er there." "You're making a mistake," Toffee objected weakly. "Maybe," the sheriff replied composedly. Then he pointed to the closet. "First things first," he said with thread-bare philosophy. "What's in there?" "Nothing," Toffee replied with desperate casualness. "It's just an empty closet." In an attempt at simulated innocence, Toffee had managed to look completely like a Borgia, caught with her cyanide showing. Morton Miller gazed briefly on this laughable performance, and started wordlessly toward the closet. Toffee followed quickly after him. "Maybe you're right," she said with a surprising reversal of attitude. "You really ought to look around, and satisfy yourself that everything's all right. We wouldn't want you to go away feeling frustrated you know." She stepped lightly in front of him and opened the closet door. "It's pretty dark in there," the sheriff complained. "Ain't there a light?"