Kiss Me, Sheriff!

by Wendy Warren

  Gilberto nodded. He looked miserable still, but relieved and more than a little surprised. Was it over?

  Willa supposed she was excused from the meeting and pushed back her chair.

  “Walk me to the door, Ms. Holmes.” In an official tone, Derek commanded rather than asked for her compliance.

  Izzy appeared bemused by the entire exchange and simply shook her head. “I’m heading back to the deli. I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr. Lopez. Please feel free to order something on the house.” Walking around them all, Izzy was the first out the door, followed swiftly by Roddy, who pushed Gilberto along in front of him, saying they’d take a rain check on the free snacks.

  Now that her burst of adrenaline was spent, Willa felt exhausted all over again and proceeded heavily to the exit. Every movement felt like a Herculean effort. Raising his arm over her, Derek held the door while she passed through. Willa burrowed into her jacket, as she stepped onto a rain-sprinkled sidewalk. By tacit agreement, they walked several paces past the bakery then stopped.

  “Thanks for going to the station last night to give the description of the boy who stole the money.” Not bothered by the cold or the rain, Derek towered above her, six foot plus of straight-backed sheriff. “And for coming back to the bakery this afternoon. I thought it might be easier for everyone if we handled it away from my office. You know, still official, but less intimidating. I anticipated that would make it easier to figure out where we would go from here to help Gilberto.”

  Willa felt Derek studying her, but she kept her tired gaze on the street, watching the occasional car roll past.

  “What I didn’t figure on,” he continued, “was walking away with mud on my face. I didn’t figure on you.”

  She glanced up to see the first hint of anger she’d ever noticed him directing toward her.

  Resting both hands on his gun belt, he shook his head. “I’m a good judge of people. In my line of work, you have to be. But this time, I blew it. I never, ever judged you to be a liar.”

  Chapter Four

  “A liar?”

  Fire-engine red filled Willa’s body, flared in her face. She wouldn’t be surprised if the color poured in jets of steam from her ears. He was calling her a liar?

  Okay, she had lied. But the reason ought to be obvious.

  Her fists were stuffed into the pockets of her thin coat. Pulling one hand out, she jabbed a finger toward the end of the street and stormed off, rounding the corner, not stopping until she reached the alley. “How dare you?” Her voice shook. “I told you I didn’t want to get involved in this, but you had to keep pushing. If you could take no for an answer, there wouldn’t be a problem.”

  The implication of her words hit them both at the same time. He hadn’t accepted her “no” regarding Gilberto, and he hadn’t accepted her “no” regarding the two of them.

  Derek’s face grew stormier. “The problem was already here. If you think anything else, you’re being naïve.”

  Was he talking about Gilberto now or her? Willa pointed toward the bakery. “That man—Roddy,” she said. “He was going to make that poor kid’s life a nightmare.”

  “That ‘poor kid’ is going to make his own life a nightmare if he meets his needs by stealing. Roddy talks big, but he has a record, too. Petty crime is a family affair.”

  “I’m sure there are ways to help Gilberto that don’t involve the law, exactly. His school—”

  “‘The law’ is a set of boundaries designed to establish and maintain order. That’s exactly what Gilberto needs and exactly what he’s not going to get if bleeding hearts make excuses for him.”

  “Bleeding hearts! I can’t believe you said that.” Willa shook her head as if to dislodge his words from her brain. “Life does not respect rules and regulations. Life just happens, and it doesn’t ask your permission before it gets messy, although that might be hard for you to accept, Sheriff. I’ve seen the way you run around town, trying to convince people we’re all characters in a nineteen fifties TV sitcom.”

  “What are you talking about?” The words emerged muffled as Derek’s jaw and lips barely moved.

  “I’m talking about your town meetings and visits to the chamber of commerce and all the other places you go to tell people that as long as they do the right thing, they’ll stay safe and happy and the world will be a better place, now let’s all go have donuts. The end.”

  “I’m sorry you dislike the message that playing by the rules does make the world safer and better. I’ve found it to be true.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Derek’s entire manner was different from anything she had seen before. His body looked stiff enough to break, and Willa sensed she should stop talking, just let it go, but he was so sure of himself, so smug about the world and how it worked, and she couldn’t stay quiet. Especially since he’d called her a bleeding heart. “If you think Gilberto is going to have a better life because I rat him out to his bully of a cousin, then you’re the one who’s naïve, not me.”

  There were no lights in the alley, save for porch lights above the back doors of the businesses along Warm Springs Road, but Willa could see Derek’s expression—closed and distant—and knew he could see hers.

  In the chilly night, her breath came in small, visible puffs. She didn’t feel cold, though. Her face and hands felt hot enough to fry eggs.

  It wasn’t like her to confront and criticize. She wished he’d say something back. Something stubborn and intractable, so she could walk away thinking, See, I knew it. He’s just another lucky-so-far chump who thinks he’s in charge of his fate. Boy, is he in for a shock someday.

  Derek’s granite features changed not one whit as he tipped his head. “Thank you for coming tonight, Ms. Holmes. It’s dark out. Do you need a ride to your house, or are you alright?”

  Willa’s emotions slammed to a roadrunner-like halt. He was the sheriff again, just the sheriff. A lump filled her throat, making it hard to swallow. “I’m fine.”

  “Good night.” With another professionally polite nod, he turned. Willa watched him walk to the end of the alley and round the corner without a backward glance.

  * * *

  Usually, Willa awoke a good half hour before her alarm. Taking a shower before bed, all she had to do prior to heading to work was brush her teeth, comb her hair, pull on jeans, a Something Sweet T-shirt and her work clogs and head out the door. Once again, she’d barely slept at all, however, after the scene with Derek, and on this dark winter morning, she drank black tea and watched the digital clock until it read 2:45 a.m.

  Instantly speed-dialing Daisy Dunnigan, Willa waited for the grumpy, caffeine-deprived “I can’t believe it’s morning already” that was her best friend’s characteristic greeting. A renowned New York chef, Daisy owned and operated two unpretentious but fabulous restaurants—Goodness in Soho and More Goodness in Jackson Heights—and was one of the judges on a top-rated cable cooking show. Basically, she was a star, but Willa had known her since they’d attended culinary arts school together, and they were, above all, each other’s support system.

  This morning, Daisy answered on the fourth ring. “Damn, what time is it?” She sounded sleepier than usual.

  “Five forty-five in your neck of the woods,” Willa informed. “Didn’t your alarm go off?”

  “It must have been about to.” There was a rustling of sheets. “What’s up, tootsie? How’s life in Mayberry R.F.D.?”

  A smile rose to Willa’s face, and she was grateful already that she’d phoned. Padding to her kitchen, she pulled several carrot-raisin muffins out of a plastic container, drizzled them with water and popped them into the microwave so they would steam.

  “I pissed off the sheriff,” she said baldly, placing a challah bread she’d brought home from the bakery into a picnic basket.

  “Sheriff McYummy?
” Visiting Thunder Ridge for a weekend the previous spring, Daisy had noticed Derek immediately. “Is he still stalking you?”

  “He doesn’t stalk me.”

  “With his eyes, he does. I would love to be stalked by eyes the color of a Mississippi mud pie. So how’d you piss him off?”

  Ignoring the comment about Derek’s eyes (which, yes, were almost impossibly dark and chocolaty and, well, deep) Willa said as casually as she could, “We had a disagreement about how to handle a petty theft at the bakery. A child took a few bucks. Sheriff Neel wanted to do something about it, and I didn’t. Should have been the end of the story, but we got into a... I don’t know, I said some things I shouldn’t have, I suppose. Now I feel guilty. I mean, the whole thing—it’s no big deal, right? You can’t please everyone.” She shoved a can of cat food and a small plastic bowl into the basket. “You’re so good at saying what you think and damn the torpedoes. That’s how I want to be.” She forced a laugh. “That’s how I am going to be! I’m so glad you picked up the phone. I always feel better after we talk.”

  The silence on the other end was deafening. There weren’t even sounds of coffee preparation. Finally, Daisy commented with uncommon gentleness. “You’re starting to feel again.”

  Right in the solar plexus. That’s where Daisy’s comment struck. Waves of nausea and pain and anger washed through Willa. “I don’t know what you mean,” she half whispered, half gasped. “I’ve done nothing but feel for two years.”

  “No.” Daisy’s voice remained calm and low. “Honey, you felt pain and grief more than anyone should have to for longer than anyone should have to. Then you moved to that tiny Main Street, USA and buried yourself right along with—”

  “Stop! Don’t say it. Don’t—” Tears choked her throat, blocking words. No. She didn’t want to feel this. Didn’t have to. She shoved the pain away. “I actually have to go to work.”

  “Wills,” Daisy said, anxiety creeping into her voice, “I didn’t mean—”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine!” Daisy grew adamant. “You should do more than argue with that sheriff. You need to live again. Really live.”

  Willa bit her bottom lip so hard, it hurt. She couldn’t even remember what lust felt like.

  “This was a piss-poor way to start your day, huh?”

  Willa heard the self-deprecation in her friend’s awkward chuckle and felt guilty. “No, it’s fine.” Extracting the muffins from the microwave, she tried hard to infuse her tone with positivity. “Everything is fine. I do have to go, though. I’m sorry I had to call and run.”

  “Right.” Daisy clipped the word. “Just do me one favor, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Stop saying everything is fine.”

  * * *

  A mouthful of hot black coffee kept Derek awake. He wasn’t on patrol tonight, but had rolled out of bed in the wee hours, showered, dressed in street clothes then grabbed a heavy jacket and a thermos of coffee to ward off the 3:00 a.m. chill. Now, as he sat in his truck, waiting, he felt the lack of sleep catching up to him.

  He wasn’t up this early to watch over the streets of his town; he was up this early to watch over...

  Someone.

  She was late. Usually, she hit the corner of Pine and Fourth before his watch read three-oh-five. It was already ten minutes past.

  “You’re an idiot.” Sinking down into his coat, watching the windows on the cab of his truck fog up from the cold and his breath, he thought about the previous night. Frustration welled inside him all over again.

  She thought he was a joke. Out of touch. Annoying. Insensitive toward young children. A nineteen fifties TV sitcom.

  The cynicism in her voice and face last night had surprised him.

  “But then, you don’t really know her.” That was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d turned Willa into a fantasy, not a real woman. He only thought he knew everything he needed to. Izzy was right.

  His current fatigue and irritability aside, his body reacted like a sheriff’s the moment she came into view, one lone figure bundled into a puffy jacket that just barely covered her perfect jeans-clad bottom, a wool hat covering the red-gold hair that had made her blend into fall like a fairy. She typically wore her clogs on these morning strolls through town, and he was always afraid she was going to slip on black ice in those damn shoes.

  Staying in the truck for the first leg of her journey, he watched as she climbed the porch steps to Belleruth Hudson’s house. Belleruth was in her sixties, had famously suffered from insomnia since the death of her husband some ten years earlier and clicked her lights on around 2:00 a.m. She was one of the first customers at The Pickle Jar every morning. Willa had gotten to know her there. Shortly after Something Sweet had opened, Willa had begun carrying her picnic basket to the Hudson home in the wee hours. Sometimes she went in for a brief visit, but most of the time, like this morning, she dropped off some food and continued on her walk, in the opposite direction of Derek’s truck.

  He’d worn sneakers this morning, for their footstep-muffling effect. When Willa was far enough along the street that he could see her without risking her hearing him, he exited his vehicle.

  There were no sidewalks in this part of town, so he stayed close to the lawns belonging to the cottages and wood-sided, two-story homes that looped like pearls on a necklace through Thunder Ridge’s downtown residential neighborhood. At the corner, Willa turned left and headed to Doc Howard Park. Derek paused, mostly hidden from view behind Rand Moser’s fifth wheel. He knew it would take a few moments for Willa to complete this part of her nightly ritual, so he blew into his cold hands and waited.

  Before too long, the visitor she was waiting for arrived, pausing some distance from the bench. Reaching into the basket, she withdrew the container of cat food, emptied it into a bowl and it on the ground. The cat that had slithered out of its hiding places lunged for the food and ate voraciously. When the meal was over, Willa held out her hand, presumably holding another morsel, until it dared to approach. It was the same every morning. Still as a statue, she waited for the cat to sniff her hand. Eventually it ate the tendered treat then sat and stared at her as she slipped off the bench, crouched on the frosty grass and spoke patiently until the animal allowed her to stroke it. Sometimes she tucked the skinny feline into her jacket to warm it up, but tonight a dog barked in the distance, and the cat ran off. Willa looked after it for a while then rose to collect the empty bowl.

  And this was the cynical woman who had accused him of trying to recreate Mayberry.

  As she continued on her walk to the bakery, Derek started after her, but slipped on a patch of black ice. Grabbing for the bike rack on the back of Rand’s fifth wheel, he hung on while his feet flailed. The fifth wheel rocked, and a shouted cry of “Earthquake!” came from inside just moments before the trailer’s side door banged open to more shouting. “It’s The Big One!”

  “Shh! For Pete’s sake, be quiet, Rand!

  “Who’s there? Who’s that?”

  “It’s me, Derek.” Regaining his footing, Derek faced the man who had emerged wearing nothing but a pair of thermal underwear.

  “Derek? Did you feel the earthquake?” Rand’s question was practically a shout.

  “Shhh. There was no earthquake.”

  Lights clicked on next door at the Newman’s and across the street at Jim and Ellen Lathrop’s place. Aw, criminy. “Rand, go back inside.”

  “Can’t. Patty says she can hear my snoring clear into the living room.”

  “Well, go back in the trailer then.”

  “Sheriff?” Denise Newman, wrapped in a thick robe, called from her front door, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Please, go back in—”

  “Did you feel the shaking, Denise?” Rand called to his neighbor. “This could be The B
ig One. I say we all gather in the center of the street.”

  “No! No one gather in the center of the street.” Derek held up his hands. Glancing quickly toward the park, he noted it was empty. Damn. Willa had moved on and would now be walking by herself in the wee hours of the morning with no one to watch over her. Later this morning, he was going to talk to Izzy about changing Willa’s hours, so she didn’t have to go to work in the dark.

  Joining the modest throng around the fifth wheel, the Lathrops arrived, huddling in their pj’s. “We’re all wide awake now,” Jim observed in his eminently reasonable, retired radio announcer’s voice. “Perhaps this would be a good time to discuss the value of forming a disaster preparedness committee in Thunder Ridge.”

  As murmurs of assent rose around him, Derek clapped a palm to his forehead. Patty Moser opened her front door, first asking what all the commotion was about and then offering to start a pot of coffee and make cinnamon rolls from a can. “You’ll join us, won’t you, Willa?”

  Willa? Glancing all around until he saw a small figure standing quietly by the trailer’s bumper, Derek felt his heart lurch. She was staring at him.

  “I’m on my way to work, actually.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.” Denise Newman nodded. “I didn’t think you lived around here.”

  “Nope,” Willa agreed. “I live a few blocks south.” She continued to gaze at Derek. “How about you, sheriff? Do you live around here?” She tilted her head, brows arched. “You don’t look like you’re on duty.”

  All attention focused on him. Derek’s blood pressure spiked. “I’m not on duty, no.”

  “What were you doing around my fifth wheel?” asked Rand. “Were you staking out someone suspicious?” He glanced around.

  “No, Rand. Everything’s fine. I was...doing a foot patrol.”

  “Off duty?” Jim asked.

  Denise clasped her hands beneath her chin. “This is just why I moved from Portland. The caring, the concern. Sheriff, I sleep better knowing you’re near.”