Just Folking Around: Good Folk: Modern Folktales, Book #0.5

by Penny Reid

  When I'd come upon the trio of eleven-year-olds behind The Bait and Tackle, they'd clearly panicked. I suspected the stolen pie had launched out of DJ's hand on instinct. This kid had one hell of a pitching arm and a good aim.

  My grimace had been inspired by the fact that they'd stolen the pies in the first place. Stolen pies necessitated a third call this month from Daisy Payton—local business owner and community heavy weight—complaining about a group of kids sneaking into her diner's kitchen during business hours to swipe fresh baked pies. This time they’d made off with six. Last time they’d only taken two.

  Understandably, Daisy Payton wasn't pleased. And when Daisy Payton wasn't pleased, she called the sheriff, who also happened to be my father. And when my father wanted to make a show of taking action, he called either Deputy Monroe, Deputy Boone, or me. But if the complaint originated with a Payton—especially Daisy—I was always tapped for the job, regardless of date or time, regardless of whether or not I was on duty.

  “I've got Jackson on it, Daisy,” he'd say, and that always made her feel better, settle ruffled feathers long enough for the situation to be handled.

  But back to now and spending my rare Saturday off chasing down eleven-year-olds wielding stolen pies as though launched by trebuchet.

  “Jackson! What happened to your face?” Bonnie Linton called from across the street.

  I tipped my head in her direction while power walking, a blob of meringue falling to the steamy sidewalk in front of Big Ben’s Dulcimer Shop. “Just trying out a new beauty regimen, Ms. Linton.”

  “Having a bad day?” Karen Smith taunted from where she stood next to Bonnie Linton. I imagined she enjoyed this, probably considered it ‘just desserts’ for her DUI arrest last year.

  Keeping my eyes forward, I inspected a line of overgrown azalea bushes while slowing my steps. The second bush back from the sidewalk rustled, and it seemed to be having a heated, whispered argument with itself.

  I heard a harsh, Shhh, and a, Stop pushing! and I stopped, placing my hands on my hips. “I know you're behind the azaleas. I used to hide in there myself when I was y'all's age. I need you to come out.”

  “With our hands up?” came a defiant little voice I recognized as belonging to Mac Hill.

  “Sure, if you want. Unless one of those hands holds a pie. If you've still got those with you, just keep them safe.” I glanced to my right and took a step closer to the bush. A few folks—some I recognized, some I didn’t—had halted their Saturday window shopping to watch.

  “Are you going to arrest us?” Kimmy Mitchell squeaked, and I was uncertain if she sounded worried or excited by the prospect.

  There was no way I’d be arresting Kimmy Mitchell. Firstly, she was eleven. Secondly, arresting anybody for pie thievery without violence or breaking and entering didn’t make much sense. At least, it didn’t make sense to me. And thirdly, I was in the process of courting Kimmy’s momma, Charlotte Mitchell.

  Although, had Charlotte and I not been courting, even I—a perpetual rule non-bender—would’ve given the law a wee little flex for Charlotte Mitchell and her kids. Around town and among the deputies it was just understood as fact, different rules applied to a single mom of four kids.

  Regardless, I couldn’t come right out and say, No. I’m not arresting you ‘cause your momma has enough to deal with.

  So instead, I said, “Now, that depends,” while wiping at my left eyebrow with a knuckle. Tossing a fair bit of lemon curd to the pavement, I brought my hand back to my hip. “If y'all come out now, agree to apologize, stop stealing Ms. Daisy's pies, and figure out a way to make things right, we can avoid a trip to the station.”

  “What about my momma?” DJ asked, fear tinting his words. “Are you going to tell my momma?”

  I sighed again, noting that the number of spectators grown. “Can y'all come out so we can talk man-to-man?” The back of my neck prickled. I shoved the heightening discomfort aside, determined to focus on reasoning with the three kids rather than worrying about the good or bad opinions of a crowd.

  “Hey! I aint no man,” came little Kimmy’s voice just before she stepped out of the tall azalea. Her eyes fierce, she balanced a pie in each hand. From the looks of it, she held a blueberry and an apple.

  "Fine then, man-to-woman." I crouched down on my haunches so that we were now eye level. “And I see Miss Mitchell is the bravest among you.”

  The little girl lifted her chin proudly as the two boys still hidden in the bush grumbled.

  “Having a bad day, Jackson?” JT MacIntyre's blustery voice sounded from somewhere behind me. “You need any help?”

  “No. Thank you, JT,” I said without turning, keeping my eyes on Kimmy. “It’s a fine day and we’re just having a conversation.”

  In my peripheral vision I saw that a person I didn't recognize had pulled out their phone, probably a tourist, which was fine. It wouldn't be the first time I'd been filmed while trying to deescalate a silly situation, but it would be the first time I'd done so covered in pie.

  I licked my lips to keep from laughing my frustration, the lemony sweetness and eggy merengue not at all pleasant in the heat of a June afternoon. Funny thing, I’d eaten this very same kind of pie off the breasts of a naked woman last year and it had been damn delicious. I supposed dessert tasted different when worn involuntarily.

  Mac climbed out of the azalea next, followed by DJ. As soon as DJ appeared, I locked eyes with him. His cheeks were bright red—maybe from the earlier chase—and he wore a scowl that reminded me of his father. I’d arrested Deveron Stokes at least ten times over the last decade and seeing the familiar petulant expression on little DJ unsettled me.

  “I don't see what the big deal is,” DJ spat, holding a chocolate pie of some sort in his right hand and nothing in his left. “Daisy has plenty of pie. Why can't she just give us some?”

  This statement also reminded me of DJ’s father. Deveron was always playing entitled victim, thinking everyone else owed him what he hadn’t earned.

  Narrowing my eyes, I gestured for the pie thieves to come closer so I wouldn't have to raise my voice to be heard. They shared looks with each other and then shuffled forward as a group, looking sour. Between them, they still held five pies. Well, that’s something at least.

  When they were close enough to hear my whisper, I spoke, “Here's what we're going to do. We're going to return these pies to Ms. Daisy. Then we're going to ask her if she has any work needs doing that y'all can help with.”

  “You mean you want us to do chores,” Kimmy supplied, her face screwing up.

  “In my line of work, it's called reparations,” I said gently. “But yes. Y'all took property that didn't belong to you, and so now you need to make that right.”

  DJ stepped closer. “But Daisy has—"

  “It doesn't matter if Daisy Payton has a thousand pies. If you want one of those pies, you work for it or pay for it.”

  Fire flashing in his eyes, DJ shook his head. “No. No way. I aint doing no chores.”

  My eyebrow lifted at his defiance and I had to tilt my head back to keep an avalanche of lemon and meringue from falling into my eyes. “If you have another idea on how to make things right, go ahead. Tell us.”

  DJ glanced from side to side, and then focused on the crowd gathered behind me. “You can't touch us, cop. Not now, not here. We’re just kids and that guy over there is filming everything. You’ll get in trouble. So how about you just let us walk?”

  I felt my mouth curve into a sad smile as my heart sunk and my thoughts oscillated between This poor kid and You little shit.

  “You stole those pies. That means I can touch you.” I kept my tone relaxed, still hoping—despite the crowd, despite the clown filming us, despite the distrust and defiance in DJ’s stare—that I could diffuse his temper. “Here's the truth, DJ—I don't want to touch you. I want you to do the right thing, and I think you want to do the right thing, too.”

  “Fuck off, cop.”

&nbs
p; Ignoring that—likely something he’d heard his daddy say—I pulled in a deep breath, adding, “So, the way I see it, y’all got two choices: either you come with me now, on your own, making it your decision, or you spend the rest of the day running while I chase you around town.”

  DJ scoffed. “You’re gonna spend all day running after us?”

  “As you can see, I’m in my running clothes. I was getting ready to go on a run when I got the call about these here stolen pies.” I shrugged. “I need the exercise. Either it’s running on a treadmill or running after y’all. Don’t matter to me either way and I need to get in thirteen miles. You wanna run for thirteen miles?”

  “Don't you need to go chase other bad guys?” DJ eyed me, like he hadn’t yet made up his mind whether I was serious.

  “First, you're not a bad guy. You're making some real sketch decisions, DJ. But you're not bad. Second, today is my day off. So, no. I got nowhere to be, nothing to do. I'm happy to spend my whole day chasing you.” The first part of what I’d said was true, but the second part was mostly a lie. I did have somewhere to be this evening, namely taking Charlotte Mitchell out on a date.

  Rebelliousness and irritation glittered behind DJ’s eyes, his mouth forming an unhappy curve. He looked at me. I looked at him. I waited.

  “Fine,” he bit out. But before I could feel relieved, he turned his hand and threw the pie he held to the pavement, ruining it.

  I bit my lip, doing my best not to glare at the kid. I understood why—in his mind—he’d done it. He didn't want to spend all day running and he needed to save face in front of his friends. That said, the action, though it might've felt good in the moment, was only going to make both his life and mine harder.

  Meanwhile, Kimmy Mitchell gasped. “That was the chocolate mousse with chocolate cookie crust, you idiot!”

  Mac Hill made a sad grunting sound. “Why’d you have to do that? I still have the pumpkin pie right here. If you were going to—”

  “Let's just go.” DJ held out his arms, as though he expected me to cuff them.

  I'd cuffed kids before, not many times, but I'd done it. It was always the last resort and always when the minor was in process of physically hurting themselves or someone else. Neither of those scenarios were true at present.

  “Come on.” I stood, ignoring his outstretched hands and gesturing in the direction of my parked truck. I hadn't brought the cruiser, not wanting to be the one to give young DJ Stokes his first official ride in the back of a law enforcement vehicle. “Y’all can practice your groveling on the way.”

  “What about my momma?” DJ asked, sullenly stuffing his now empty hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  “I already called your momma. She knows what's up and she said whatever Daisy decides is fine by her.”

  His shoulders slumped as he walked in front of me, and I could guess why. His momma was a sweet lady who’d had a hard life, but she was also a screamer. I suspected he didn’t want to disappoint her, but I thought maybe the imminent screaming fit was the true reason for his bowed posture.

  I nodded to JT MacIntyre, Genie Lee, and a few unfamiliar faces as we approached. “You're in the passenger seat, at the front of the truck, DJ. Kimmy, I got a booster seat for you in the back.”

  “You mean you don't have your cop car?” Mac sounded regretful.

  “I didn't bring it, no.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the same stranger from before still recording.

  “That's too bad,” Mac said on a sigh.

  I split my attention between the kids and the man with his phone as we walked closer. “If you want to do a ride along, I'll call your momma and get one scheduled.”

  "Oh!" Mac sent me a quick grin.

  “Can I come, too?” Kimmy turned to walk backward. I took one of the pies from her grip.

  “I'll ask your momma next time I see her.” Charlotte hadn’t told her kids about me yet, about us. We’d been together for two months, but we’d only managed the three official dates so far if you didn’t count grabbing a quick bite for lunch. I understood her hesitation. She needed to be certain of a man before taking that kind of step.

  “Y'all are traitors,” DJ grumbled. “He's not cool, he's a pig.”

  “Hey, the only reason I got food on my face is 'cause y'all put it there.” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

  Kimmy abruptly stepped closer to me, peering at the onlookers who hadn’t yet dispersed. “Why are so many people watching us?”

  “They're looking at me.” I patted her shoulder, making sure I sounded unconcerned. “Ignore them.”

  “This is so embarrassing.” She lowered her face, her hair falling forward. “Oh no. There’s Mrs. Smith. She’s so mean.”

  “Is that guy filming us?” Mac was looking over his shoulder at the stranger in sunglasses we’d just passed. The man was now following us, still holding his cell out.

  I opened the passenger side of the cab and handed the pie I held back to Kimmy. "Here, get in. I'll go talk to him. And be careful with the pies. The more we can return to Daisy, the better."

  Giving the man filming us a hard look that was likely disguised by the remaining sticky residue, I strolled the short distance over and ignored the phone he held. “Hey there. Can I help you?”

  “Where are you taking those kids? What’s your badge number?” he thrust the phone forward and into my face.

  Genie Lee, standing nearby, lifted her voice to holler, “Put that phone down, you fool. That’s Jackson James. He’s having a bad day.”

  “No worries, Genie. Day’s been just fine, thank you.” Working to make my smile appear more natural, I lowered my voice so only the man—and his phone—could hear me. “I don't mind if you record me, sir. But these kids are underage, and you shouldn’t be filming them."

  "Is that a threat?" The stranger straightened, peeling off his sunglasses to glare at me.

  "Nope." I shook my head. “And it’s not against the law in a public place, so I’m not gonna do anything other than point out you’re scaring them. So, if you could stop scaring the kids, I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

  That done, I turned back toward the truck as a bystander in the slowly dispersing crowd called out, “Bad day, Jackson?”

  I lifted my head to offer a friendly retort when something—or rather, someone—caught my eye.

  Doing a double take, I spotted Jethro Winston standing among the remaining crowd, his movie star wife next to him, and his three boys. But their faces hadn't been the source of my surprise or stunned focus. Breath whooshed out of me like I’d been punched in the gut and my heart hammered between my ears. I stopped mid-stride. I stared.

  Raquel.

  Raquel Ezra.

  Holy shit.

  The woman who, for the last six years, had never been far from my thoughts.

  Unreachable.

  Untouchable.

  A fantasy.

  Holy fucking shit.

  Here.

  Now.

  Looking right at me.

  And I’m covered in pie.

  “Jackson?” A heavy hand on my shoulder roused me from the evanescent stupor. Shaking myself, I stared at the arm, shoulder, and face connected to the hand, finding Fire Chief McClure giving me a paternal smile. “You got a little something on your face, son.”

  I glanced down at the offered handkerchief. I blinked at it.

  “Bad day?” he asked.

  I nodded, dumbly accepting the folded square. “Yes, sir.” I spoke around a sudden roughness, my mind wild. “You could definitely say that.”

  ** END SNEAK PEEK **

  Pre-Order Totally Folked, coming July 20th, 2021!

  About the Author

  Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a f
ull time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.

  Come find me -

  Mailing List: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/

  Goodreads:http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/pennyreidwriter

  Instagram: www.instagram.com/reidromance

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/reidromance

  Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/smartypantsromance

  Email: pennreid@gmail.com …hey, you! Email me ;-)

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Knitting in the City Series

  (Interconnected Standalones, Adult Contemporary Romantic Comedy)

  Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance (#1)

  Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (#1.5)

  Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance (#2)

  Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)

  Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (#4)

  Ninja at First Sight (#4.75)

  Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance (#5)

  Dating-ish: A Humanoid Romance (#6)

  Marriage of Inconvenience: (#7)

  Neanderthal Seeks Extra Yarns (#8)

  Knitting in the City Coloring Book (#9)

  * * *

  Winston Brothers Series

  (Interconnected Standalones, Adult Contemporary Romantic Comedy, spinoff of Beauty and the Mustache)

  Beauty and the Mustache (#0.5)

  Truth or Beard (#1)

  Grin and Beard It (#2)

  Beard Science (#3)

  Beard in Mind (#4)

  Beard In Hiding (#4.5, coming 2021)

  Dr. Strange Beard (#5)

  Beard with Me (#6)

  Beard Necessities (#7)

  Winston Brothers Paper Doll Book (#8)

  * * *

  Hypothesis Series