Christine
It was just after breakfast when the newcomer from the old Beauclair place came into the jailhouse. Several days had passed since she first settled into the little house, which had sat empty after the former occupants had cleared out amidst all the troubles in Briar Ridge. Troubles no one had shared with the new tenant, apparently, given how happy she seemed to be here. A widow, or so the grapevine said between reports of a wedding ring and no man or any other soul living with her, and someone in the neighborhood did tell that the husband had been referred to in the past tense. So, there it was.

And here *She* Was, hovering just beyond the jailhouse threshold with a curious gaze cast toward the bullpen and an oddly shaped canvas rucksack slung over one shoulder, the bulky contents long and narrow and a little taller than the woman herself. She was dressed for outdoor work in brown trousers and a white collared shirt mostly obscured by a gray sweater, the sleeves of both rolled to the elbows. The skin was pale; despite her gear, she had clearly not been out of doors for any length of time recently. Sure enough, a wedding ring adorned the hand clutching the canvas strap.

Not lingering in her contemplation of the iron bars or whoever - if anyone - might be behind them, the woman took off a brimmed hat with her free hand and sought out the first (non-incarcerated) person she could spot.

"Pardon me. Is the sheriff available?" The voice was hopeful, unhurried. "I'd be happy to wait."
Kenneth
The Jailhouse was really a figure of speech these days. Everyone in town knew that Sheriff Aguilar Guerrero cared very little for the moonshining businesses that came through here, and let them run their own muck. Drinking alcohol wasn't a crime, and anyone who knew the sheriff knew that he cared only about genuine justice. Sure, there were a few public disturbances here and there, and paperwork that needed to be filed with the state which he knew how to do, but for all intents and purposes, the Sheriff was namely a glorified werewolf hunter, as evident by the large, ever-growing board that took up the bottom floor's leftmost wall.

The good Sheriff is standing at the desk when Caroline walks in, hearing her voice prompts him to turn around, and to offer a smile. The sheriff is a handsome man, albeit a tired one, and when he greets the newcomer, the first thing he does is offer her a tilt of the head, a little nod, and places his paperwork down, pocketing his hands to give her the undivided attention she might need.

"Ah, lo siento," He smiles kindly, wrinkles of wisdom forming around his eyes, "If you called before, I must not have heard you. I'm the sheriff —" His hand is outstretched, and now that his body language was open, bright, inviting, the sheriff's star, a bit tarnished but otherwise in tact, sits on his left breast pocket of the vest he's wearing, a gun hanging from his hip. The queer thing was — there was no one else around, save for ol' man Johnson, who was in the middle of sleeping off a two-day hangover after punching someone at the Davis Barn. No deputies — no clerks — nothing. It was a metaphor for something; an unburdened society thanks to a selfless soldier. Briar Ridge was good to him, kept him somewhat bored, so that he could continue his search and hunt for the werewolves. The second floor, blocked off, was probably some evidence of that.

_ _
He reaches out to shake her hand. "Sheriff Rafael Aguilar Guerrero. If 'Sheriff' is too formal for you, ma'am, then please, *Rafael* Is fine. What can I do for you today? Here to file a report about damaged property from the full moon? Ah, if you're here to reserve a firearm for next month, you have to fill out those forms and mail them. Keeps the messenger boys hungry for pocket change, *Si*? "
Christine
Caroline's first impression of the jailhouse was that it was quiet, yes, and almost assuredly an indication of the little town's peaceful nature. The sight of a drunk sleeping things off was quaint - a scene straight out of the funny papers - and only reinforced this notion held by a woman wholly unaware of a much darker reality. Her first impression of the town's sheriff was favorable, too; where she might have expected a solemn steward of the law, his friendly demeanor made Caroline feel like he was welcoming her into his home rather than his office. Whether this was more due to small town hospitality or to the man's own nature, she couldn't yet guess, but there was some hope that her pending request would go over smoothly.

Buoyed by this idea, Caroline ventured closer to meet the sheriff's smile with an equally sunny expression, the contents of her narrow pack emitting a faint metallic rattle as she did. The brimmed hat was passed from one hand to the other so she could return the handshake with a capable grip, listening to his introduction with eager curiosity. He had a kind face, she decided, and the accent was an intriguing feature she had not anticipated.

It was towards the middle of his greeting that confusion muddied her friendly smile. It was not the words themselves, for each one made perfect sense, but Caroline felt the absence of context and was reluctant to reveal her ignorance. Talk of full moons and damage made her think of mischief wrought by teenagers, perhaps, and the comment about firearms seemed like a reference to some town ordinance that didn't apply to her, having no weapons herself - though that did seem like an idea worth exploring. Later.

These considerations took no more than an instant, and by the time he was finished, Caroline managed to school the puzzled look from her features in favor a smile once again. 

"Actually, I'm here about something else. Caroline Gardner - pleased to meet you, Sheriff." 
_ _

She paused to stoop a few inches, almost as if she were curtsying, and set the bottom end of the canvas duffel to rest on the floor. Her shoulder gave a brief roll to relieve the ache as she held the tall, narrow bundle with one hand to keep it from toppling over. "I've just moved in across town, at the old Beauclair residence. I'll be conducting some research on behalf of the United States Geological Survey, and I'd like to start with a survey of the town."

The explanation was delivered with all the confidence and charm of a society lady, which was meant to gloss over the veracity of her statement. While the USGS had not sent her, it was true that the research would be forwarded to an old friend still supervising certain projects, who would then pass it along to the fellow in charge of mapping this region, who would certainly review and publish her findings in the next survey report. Probably. Hopefully. 

If Caroline had any poker tells, it was that she often tucked her hair behind an ear, which she did now - but that could be blamed on the stray curls escaping the pins at the nape of her neck. Her smile remained in place.

"I wanted to check in with the local authority to coordinate, if necessary, and see if there were any maps of the area available."
_ _