All You Want

by Rachelle Ayala

  She has a point. With the way Todd kissed me, I might just be able to sway him. Only problem, I can’t let anyone know, or they’ll say he’s a crooked cop.

  “Todd’s not interested.” I press my lips flat to look discouraged.

  Her face falls as the allure of easy money fades. “It’s up to you, Tami Tornado. I have faith you’ll turn things around with Todd.”

  “I’ll just have to lobby the state senator to get our roads widened and put in another bridge.” I float a long shot trial balloon.

  “When pigs fly.” She chuckles drily. “Thanks for lunch.”

  “Pigs will fly. You’ll see.” I take the check. I don’t give up easily, and Todd Colson has yet to meet the determined side of me. What’s a small-town sheriff going to do when Tornado Tami blows his way?

  Eight

  ~ Todd ~

  If Tami knew how much time and space she occupies in my mind, she’d freak out. Everywhere I turn, I see a pie she has her fingers in—from the consignment store to the bed and breakfast to the real estate office to my sister’s dog rescue.

  She’s a ball of energy, a whirlwind, and all-around female—a woman I want to tap and more.

  Too bad her father’s a prick, and he controls the town’s purse strings. With dread in my veins, I head to the meeting with my uncle, Mayor Chip Colson. The budget shortfall with the fire department is serious, especially since funding from the state is not forthcoming.

  The rash of arsons and accidentally sparked wildfires this summer and fall have wreaked havoc on our town. My brother quit as fire chief, and the interim chief from down the valley has his priorities elsewhere.

  Late October up in this region swings between extremely dry and hot fire weather and the chance of early snowstorms. Thankfully, Spooky Fest is the last tourist-related festival our town holds. Once Mother Nature dumps the first winter storm over these parts, the roads become impassable, and old-timers break out the snowshoes and skis.

  A white Christmas above the snowline is my idea of heaven, but to get there, I have to get through Halloween and all the pranks and tricks the townspeople get into.

  Adding a haunted hotel across the creek is a logistical nightmare. With these brooding thoughts, I step into the Sixty Miners Saloon where my uncle holds court.

  He used to own this establishment, but he sampled too much of his stock and ran up a load of debts. Tami’s father bailed him out, and after a stint in rehab, he was lucky to find a young buyer with money from Silicon Valley. The new owner, Paul McCall, is a half-hearted volunteer firefighter who dabbles his fingers into too many ventures to count, from a charity for street kids to a mountain biking rental to the Sixty Miners Saloon.

  The afternoon light is dim inside the bar. I push aside the swinging washboard half-doors and stride in, feeling like an old-time sheriff. The highlight of the bar is the copper counter, marred and stained from years of abuse. It had been stolen and recovered so many times, rehammered and patched, that all I can say is it has character.

  At this hour, the only patrons are the old regulars—the retired and the idle. Bluegrass music plays on the stereo, and a couple of guys are shooting pool.

  My uncle’s posse hangs out in the back near the targets made of old mining pans where they play games of tossing gold-painted pebbles into the hole cut out of the center of the pan.

  I always put on a swagger when I enter the saloon to let any would-be miscreants know who’s the boss of this town. I have to make them nervous and wonder if I have anything on them. You’ll be surprised how many times I catch a crook without even knowing he’s done something bad by the hurried scurry to disappear as soon as I’m on the premises.

  Rolling my shoulders and slowly swiveling my neck, I look over the knots of people hanging out in the booths. A couple of them nod my direction, and others pretend I’m invisible.

  I narrow my eyes and make a note to check up on one of the drunks who’s received his fair share of complaints. As I turn toward the bar, my shoulder blades tingle, and I get the eerie sensation someone is watching me.

  I can’t let anyone see me spooked. That just won’t do. With an extra measure of cool calmness, I place my hand over the bulge of my service revolver and lean up against the bar, tilting my head just enough to catch a glimpse without focusing my eyes.

  It takes all my control not to inhale too harshly.

  Tami and Molly have their heads together, talking intensely. Molly notices me first, and her loud voice cuts off in midsentence. I thought I heard her say, “Pigs will fry. Oink. Oink.”

  Is she making fun of the police?

  I scratch my chin and glance at my watch. Even though I spot Mayor Chip sitting underneath the gold pan game, I stroll over to Tami and Molly.

  “Ladies?” I hook my thumbs in my belt loops.

  “Oh, hi, Sheriff,” Tami says. “Having a good day?”

  “Good as rain,” I reply and then focus in on Molly who has three cocktail glasses arrayed in front of her. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  “I am working,” she says with a hiccup. “Interviewing a witness.”

  “I didn’t ask you to interview witnesses. You’re a dispatcher. You answer the phone and call either me or Shane to respond.”

  “Why do we even need a dispatcher?” Molly whines. “It’s either you or Shane on duty. Can’t you forward the phone calls to your cell phone directly?”

  “You’re supposed to screen the telemarketers and spam calls. Answer basic questions not requiring dispatch. How many drinks have you had?”

  “None. These are Tami’s drinks.”

  I hate what I’m about to do, but no leader is ever respected if he lets people walk over him. I know Uncle Chip and all the town do-gooders will be upset, and there may be protests, but public safety is my first priority.

  “Don’t bother coming back to the station. You’re fired.”

  “What? You can’t fire me. I’m supposed to get off welfare.”

  “Then find another job. One where you can play solitaire, take naps on your ergonomic chair, and sneak bites from your boss’s sandwich in the fridge.”

  “That was Shane. Not me.” She pushes from the booth and wobbles on her way up to her feet.

  I don’t bother steadying her. No sense touching her and getting accused of sexual assault. Her arms flail for balance, and she knocks a highball glass onto the wooden floor.

  “Todd, it’s my fault,” Tami says. “I invited her to lunch to talk about police business.”

  She bends down to pick up the glass Molly dropped and gives me an eyeful of bounteous cleavage.

  “Stay out of it.” I snap my gaze back to Molly. “When I get back to the station, the only thing I’m giving you is your last paycheck.”

  “I’m keeping the ergonomic chair.” She stumbles toward the door of the saloon.

  “I’ll book you on theft. That chair was paid for by taxpayer money.”

  “But it’s for my bad back.”

  “It’s for the next dispatcher. If you steal it, I’ll dock your last paycheck. Now go and clear out.” I text Shane to let him know Molly is fired and to ask him to call the volunteer, Mrs. Anderson, to fill in.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say anything to me?” Tami asks when I’m done with Shane.

  “This is police business. Sorry you had to see that.” I tip my hat at her and walk away. I can’t let anyone suspect my true feelings for her, especially since she’s one of the town’s major rule breakers.

  “Humph.” She huffs and puffs, but she’s genteel enough not to yell and rail in public like a nagging fishwife.

  My heart’s beating extra fast though, because I don’t want to upset her. I’m still trying to get her permit approved, but it means extra deputies and security costs at a time when the town’s budget is already overdrawn.

  “Uncle Chip.” I stop in front of the back bar and pull up onto a barstool. “Sorry, I’m late.”

  “I saw you coming. What was t
hat all about with Molly back there?” Uncle Chip and his cronies have a half-empty pitcher of beer between them, piles of nachos and chicken wings, and are generally having an early happy hour.

  “Police business.” I take a tortilla chip from the pile of nachos and crunch on its cheesy goodness. “Did you go over the figures for the private security guards and parking aides for Spooky Fest?”

  “We can’t afford them,” Chip says. “We’re already shorthanded at the town square. Extending the festival to the red-light district, I mean ATC, is stretching our resources too thin.”

  “Then why did you approve Tami’s building permit?”

  My uncle’s friends chuckle and roll their eyes. They call themselves The Vice, short for vice squad, but I know them as Walt, Donnie, Johnson, and Corny.

  “What’s so funny?” The hairs on the back of my neck squirm, and I can sense a pair of high-powered eyeballs drilling holes into my back.

  Corny raises an eyebrow. “She’s standing but two feet in back of you.”

  “Yeah, Sheriff, you’re losing your touch,” Johnson says. “She could have knifed you already. Like old Madame Goldilocks back in the day. Sweet as honey and sharp as a straight-edge razor.”

  I refuse to turn around and let them needle me.

  “This isn’t personal, and all of you know it. If we can’t afford the additional security, we’ll have to cancel the event.”

  “My hotel is private property,” Tami says. “I don’t need a permit if I’m not having a public gathering. I’ve already received my business license. I have a right to book as many guests as I want.”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you,” I say without turning around. “But since you’ve decided to keep your guests within the confines of lodging in your hotel without a party that exceeds the fire code limit or spills out into the public roads, then you don’t need an event permit.”

  “Problem solved.” Uncle Chip claps his fleshy hands. “Let’s drink a round to that. Miss King, do you agree to keep your party private, limited to hotel guests, and cancel the campout?”

  “As long as I can build a buzz on social media. This is a grand opening.” Tami digs her fingernails into my forearm and whips me around to face her.

  “That’s your problem, not mine. My job is simple. Public safety. If we have another disaster like we had during Gold Rush Week, we can kiss all our tourist business goodbye.”

  “We had a blowout week,” Tami cries. “Our rooms were booked solid. The ashram was overflowing, and the campground was full. People drove by the burn site to gawk and take pictures in front of the trailer carcass. Church attendance was to the rafters, and everyone wanted to hear Jessie talk about Wonder Woman saving her from the fire underneath a burrito wrapper.”

  “Traffic was at a standstill,” Walt says. “I sold out of cider and soda pop.”

  “There was a run on souvenirs,” Johnson agrees. “We couldn’t keep any of those twisted crosses in stock.”

  “Right, and that’s why we need to have the camping attraction,” Tami argues. “Every room in town is booked solid. People are boarding visitors in their own houses.”

  “We can’t pay for security.” I cut her off. “Do you want your visitors to get hurt?”

  “Instead of saying what we can’t do, why don’t we figure out what we can do.” Tami’s voice is full of snark as she hefts her jiggly plus-size figure onto a barstool.

  I swallow the insane desire to touch and squeeze, but my body is fully aware of the pillows of energy perched too close to me.

  “I can deputize half the town if they’re willing to forego dressing in costume and attending the festivities,” I suggest. “They need to be citizens with clean records, physically fit, and able to handle a nightstick baton.”

  “We have an entire town of manly men who can take care of us,” Tami says hotly with many deep breaths that cause her chest to heave enticingly.

  “You’re looking at us, the Vice.” Donnie jumps up and shakes his fists like he’s a male gorilla banging on his chest. “We’ll be the deputies for the red-light district.”

  “Problem solved,” Uncle Chip crows. “I say we let Tami have her Harrowing Haunts Grand Opening Party. I’m planning on booking a room and spending the night.”

  “Hey, I like Harrowing Haunts better than Hallowed Haunts,” Tami chirps. “I might have enough time to change all the artwork for the launch.”

  The Vice Squad orders another round of beer, and I thank everyone even though I’m not stupid enough to believe the old Vice guys can deal with anything other than direct traffic.

  Tami’s right, though. I’m going to need to get creative and find deputies among the guys who will be on the scene. Even though I told old George King I denied her permit with a limit of ten, I was only pushing his buttons. I do want Tami to be happy and successful, but not at the cost of anyone getting hurt or worse.

  “I’ll need someone to make a motion,” Chip says, raising a tankard of beer.

  “I move that we deputize the Vice to patrol the red-light district on Spooky Fest,” Tami says.

  “I second,” the bartender shouts.

  “All those in favor say aye,” Chip slurs.

  “Aye!” the rest of the barflies gather around and cast their vote.

  “The ayes have it,” Chip says without asking for opposition. The waitress brings more pitchers of beer, and I leave the saloon with my swagger intact, even though I feel as if I should have my tail between my legs.

  Tami and her hotel are no safer with Walt, Donnie, Johnson, and Corny walking around with flashlights and nightsticks than a henhouse without chicken wire.

  “Wait!” Tami calls from behind me when I step out of the saloon. “I want to thank you, Toddkins.”

  “Shhh … Don’t call me that.” My glance shoots around for anyone within lurking distance. “We’re supposed to be cool, remember?”

  “Oh, you were too cold back there.” She huffs. “Maybe I don’t want to share my bonbons with you tonight.”

  “Can’t bribe me with bonbons. Just because we have deputies for the red-light district doesn’t mean your outdoors event permit is approved. You still have the traffic situation to contend with.”

  “I’ll contend you, tonight.” She huffs like a steam engine and stomps off in full jiggle, much to the delight of my “look but don’t touch” eyes. As for those bonbons, I’m looking forward to a full tasting and more.

  Nine

  ~ Tami ~

  I’m full of false bravado and righteous indignation at the way Todd treated me, but by the time I drive up to my family’s Victorian farmhouse, I’m out of hot air.

  What got into me to challenge him?

  What if Todd stands me up tonight?

  Should I text and remind him or show up and wait?

  I hate that I can’t even talk to my bestie because she’s his sister. As for my mother, I can’t get her hopes up, especially since I’ve been friendzoned by all the desirable men in town.

  Well, there are the town deadbeats, but I’m not that desperate.

  “Tami, is that you?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “I packed the picnic basket for you. Aren’t you going to tell me who you’re seeing tonight?”

  She’s so supportive that it makes me cringe, and of course, she packed the basket with all of Todd’s favorite goodies. She runs the town’s bed and breakfast, The Over Easy, and insists on doing the cooking. I know I’m lucky, because she’s loving, caring, busy, and domestic—the ideal mother who read me bedtime stories, brushed my hair until it shined, and dressed me in pretty clothes and shoes. She also encouraged my talents, including playing piano, singing, and trying out for beauty pageants, despite my weight.

  It's hereditary. Both my mom and dad are on the heavy side. Dad looks blocky, like the ex-football player he is, and Mother hides her figure behind flowing skirts and jumbo dresses. Her gray hair is cut in an old-fashioned bob, and she wears orthopedic shoes with arch supports. People say that a man ha
s only to look at his mother-in-law to know how his wife will age, and even though I love my mom to pieces, I don’t want to resemble her in the future.

  “It’s business.” I give her my customary hug. “Thanks.”

  “They’re lucky to have you on the planning commission,” Mom says. “I wish they appreciated all the effort you go to be hospitable. Is this enough food for all the committee members?”

  “Actually, this is a one-on-one meeting.” I fold up a tablecloth and place napkins in a plastic bag.

  “With who?” Mom’s radar perks unnecessarily.

  I might as well tell her. No one can hide a thing in our town, and someone might spy me driving out to Rainman’s Falls.

  “Sheriff Colson. He’s fretting about spreading the two-man police force too thin for Spooky Fest and doesn’t want me to have the Graveyard Party outside my hotel—or at least keep it off the streets.”

  “I tend to agree with him.” Mom closes her family heirloom recipe notebook and peers at me over her reading glasses. “Your hotel should be for guests only.”

  “But I want a lot of foot traffic so people can spread the word.”

  “Not if it means trampling mud over your rugs, breaking your decorations, and causing a traffic jam. I had several cancellations at the bed and breakfast because of the ghost selfie thing you did last night.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. How many did you lose?”

  “Three couples. Said they couldn’t get through traffic, so they went somewhere else.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t look so disappointed. I know you want to make a big splash, but it might be wiser to start out small. People will be more curious about what’s going on there if they aren’t allowed on the premises. You don’t want to give all your secrets away, do you?”

  I plop down on the barstool in front of the counter and let out a breath of tension. “It’s just that I want everything to be perfect, and my HEX sisters are coming to stay. I want them to be impressed.”