Barbecue and Bad News

by Nancy Naigle

  There was no sense in getting started on the story for Evelyn, since she’d just have to stop to meet up with Connor and Carolanne at the event down at the artisan center this afternoon. So she jotted down a couple of ideas for articles instead. Speed traps. Pumping your own gas. Small-town gossip. Diet differences. How many businesses does a town really need? Car choices—city versus rural. None of them seemed exciting, though.

  She shifted gears and made a quick grocery list and a to-do list and arranged the desk to her liking. Maybe she’d pick up a few stronger story ideas while she was in town.

  The small-town cops idea hit a little close to her discomfort zone, and Evelyn knew that, but the incident was funny, and Savannah knew she could turn that little speeding ticket story into something fun with nothing more than her imagination and memories from her hometown. Out of the few she’d brainstormed, that seemed to be the best one to start with. Besides, Evelyn already seemed to love that story and it would buy Savannah more time to figure out the others in the series.

  Right now, though, the priority was coffee.

  She shut the top of her laptop and headed downstairs to venture out. A quick cup of coffee and then a trip to the market to get the bare necessities should do it.

  The morning air was warm, but a breeze made it pleasant. The air smelled of breakfast. Not bagels and coffee, but bacon and sausage. Even the food preferences of small-town folks were different. She’d grown up on eggs, bacon, and toast slathered in butter. Not refrigerated hard pats of butter either, but butter that had been left right out on the kitchen counter so it’d be soft enough to really glop it on good. Those were the days, but then if she still ate like that, she’d have to spend every afternoon in the gym burning calories. Nowadays, she might get an occasional doughnut, but more often than not breakfast was limited to just coffee, and on the rare occasion a yogurt or maybe a piece of fresh fruit.

  She resisted the temptation to go back to Mac’s for another one of those amazing pastries and crossed the street to Jacob’s Diner. When she walked inside, the only seats left were at the counter. She slid into the chair closest to the door.

  Was it her imagination or was everyone staring at her?

  That feeling reminded her way too much of being back in Belles Corner. Rather than ignore it, she ordered two coffees to go and whole wheat toast, plain. Of course, the two coffees would probably get their tongues wagging. Who was she with? Was it one of their own? Blah-blah-blah.

  Too late. She’d already placed the order, and sure as heck people were still looking her way.

  She picked up the complimentary copy of the County Gazette from the counter and thumbed through it as she waited. The police blotter section caught her eye. She’d been bamboozled into that gig pretty quickly, but Connor seemed like a nice enough guy. How many lawyers would look out for their clients like that? Besides, she kind of hoped the police blotter would give her some more story ideas.

  If she got these assignments done, she might just be lounging around on Evelyn’s dime.

  Of course, Evelyn probably knew that would never happen. Savannah hadn’t taken a real vacation in the seven years they’d worked together. The busier she was, the better. She wasn’t sure if it was real ambition or a safety net, but either way it meant she was focused on work . . . all the time. She didn’t have time for friends or hobbies with the work schedule she kept. And she liked both better at arm’s distance anyway, no matter what Evelyn had to say about it.

  At least using the information from the blotter, she could limit her interaction with the people in town. Evelyn was always saying that it was never a good idea to get to know the subjects of your story too well. That could make it harder to write an unbiased article, and then she’d have a second small town wanting to run her out of it.

  Not that anyone here would even read the articles. Most of them didn’t look like the online-paper-reading type, and there was only local news in the County Gazette. She skimmed through the entire paper as she waited, and she didn’t see even one news item picked up from the wire on all six pages of it. She flipped back to the police blotter.

  The first report was “Resident on Valley Drive saw male duck.”

  Savannah stifled a giggle. The quack-quack kind, or is there a peeping Tom in this small town? The list of speeding tickets was collapsed into a table. In- and out-of-state offenders, speeding, equipment violations, and other. The only details were a list of the local infringements—only a total of eight of those. She’d be able to report this without too much effort.

  As she set the paper back on the counter for the next patrons, a family walked inside. The tall waitress with LARA embroidered across her blouse whisked them over to a table that had just been cleared and poured coffee for them.

  Savannah did a double take. Darned if it wasn’t Cody Tuggle, and he was even hotter in person than he had been onstage. He was with a beautiful blonde and a little boy.

  It was a nice diversion to feel like she wasn’t the center of attention as the room’s interest moved from her to the superstar and his little family.

  She pretended to check the messages on her phone and snuck a couple of quick pictures of them. Couldn’t hurt to have them tucked away for later. Maybe there was a story there to tell.

  “Here you go.” Lara came out with the two coffees and a bag full of condiments along with the toast. “I slipped in some of our apple butter for you to try. I know you said you wanted that toast plain, but we’re known for our apple butter, and it’s not even all that fattening. You’ve got room for the extra calories anyway.”

  Savannah shoved her phone into her pocket. “Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”

  “You’ll love it,” Lara said with a quick squeeze of Savannah’s arm.

  “By the way, your nails look beautiful. Where do you get them done?”

  “Nicole down at the Hair Station does them for me.” She wiggled her long fingers to show off the shiny lacquered nail color. “She’s the best. They do nails on Tuesdays and Thursdays. While you’re there, get Linda to wash your hair. Honey, that’s better than a spa treatment. She’ll scrub your head till you want to kick your leg like a coonhound. I swear.” She tugged a pen from her apron pocket and jotted the number right across one of the coffee cups. “There ya go. Just give her a call and tell her Lara sent ya. She’ll do you up right.”

  “I appreciate that.” Savannah gathered the cups and bag. “And can you tell me where the nearest market is?”

  Lara pointed behind them. “The Piggly Wiggly is right down that street.”

  “Perfect,” Savannah said. They didn’t have Piggly Wiggly up in DC, but they did back in Belles Corner. They’d always referred to the market as the Hoggly Woggly back home. Tripp had asked her out on their first date when he was bagging her groceries at the Hoggly Woggly. Momma had been more excited than Savannah had that day, insisting on stopping for Diet Coke floats on the way home to celebrate Savannah being asked out on her first real date. Momma had loved to celebrate every little thing.

  One time Momma had pulled her right out of school and taken her shopping for what she decided to call MD Day. Mother-Daughter Day. They bought carnations to match their outfits and had lunch at a fancy tea shop.

  Savannah balanced the diner bag in her arms.

  “I thought you were in a hurry to get out of town yesterday.”

  She froze at the sound of the male voice. Was he going to pop up over her shoulder everywhere she went? She spun around and met Sheriff Calvin’s gaze. Any other time her mouth ran in overdrive, but at this moment it opened and nothing happened. Not a hello or even a witty comeback. She blinked to break the lock from his hazel eyes. The flecks of gold didn’t go unnoticed. She shook off a tickling feeling, like he had pulled her into his space without so much as the whisper of a touch.

  Lara sauntered up with the coffeepot and a heavy ceramic mug. “Hey, Sheriff
,” she said, letting the words linger in the air. She filled the mug to the brim and pushed it his way on the counter.

  Savannah felt her lips twinge a little as she smiled. Guilt? Maybe for the topic of the article she was getting ready to write. “Change of plans. I’m sticking around for a little while.”

  “Really? The parade was that impressive?”

  “It was pretty good. Those bear claws are definitely worth a second look, though.”

  Did he just give her a nod, as if she was worth one too? Or was she imagining things? His scrutiny had her feeling as warm as the bacon sizzling next to a heaping mound of hash browns on the open grill.

  “Lara, here, hooking you up with her famous apple butter?”

  “Yeah, she is. Got my coffee to go.” Why did she even say that?

  “Can’t start the day without my coffee either.”

  “I was just reading the police blotter while I was waiting. You’ve been busy. I had to laugh. It said . . . Wait a second.” She reached for the paper and swung the page back. She ran her finger down to the spot. “Yeah. Here it is.” She held it out in his direction. “See. Resident on Valley Drive saw male duck.” She let out a hearty laugh. “That just cracked me up. I’m sure they meant a male subject ducked below a window or something, not a quack-quack duck.” She laughed again, but he wasn’t smiling. Clearly he didn’t see the humor in it. He looked like she’d just said his momma wore combat boots or something. “Anyway, it’s not that big of a deal that it wasn’t clear.” I should have stuck to the weather.

  Sheriff Calvin looked rather stoic. “Actually, it’s right just the way it is. Misty Johnson saw a male duck. As in waterfowl, or of the quack-quack persuasion, in your words.

  “Oh.” She pressed her lips together, unsure whether to apologize or just let it go.

  “One of our 4-H’er’s projects flew the coop, and Misty was reporting that she’d found it in her backyard.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Yeah. We rescued the runaway duck. It’s a small town. Everything is not peepers, perps, and bad guys around here, but it’s all important to the people of this community.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know what you think, but that kid would have lost out on the opportunity to show at the county fair if we hadn’t helped locate that duck. I don’t consider that a waste of resources. In fact, I’m glad this town has so little real crime that we have time to support our neighbors in things like that. It may not seem like newsworthy to read over your coffee, but it’s important around here.”

  Geez. Had she hit a sore spot or something? She totally should’ve stuck to the weather. What a grump.

  “My apologies for making light of your work.” She slid to the side in an exaggerated manner, still clutching her bag with the two coffees and toast. “Maybe you should drink your coffee.”

  He tugged the hat from his head and took a sip from the mug.

  Goodness gracious, he was just handing her the column on a silver platter. How do you even respond to a sheriff who is spending his time rescuing waterfowl?

  “Well, all in a good day’s work. Don’t work too hard, Sheriff.”

  She turned to leave, and as she opened the door to exit, she heard him call after her.

  “Scott. You can call me Scott.”

  Or not, she thought.

  Who did that sheriff think he was, getting all indignant with her first thing in the morning? Man, and she thought she was cranky without coffee. She’d definitely get to the grocery store and pick up a few things this afternoon, including coffee, because starting each morning with a run-in with the sheriff could be a real mood spoiler.

  Too bad too, because he seemed more handsome every time she saw him. “Looks can be deceiving,” she mumbled. He had her so fired up that she headed straight back to the apartment to crank out that article while her mind was still buzzing with ideas. The market could wait.

  What’s that quote? Don’t fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel. Something like that. Yeah, Sheriff Scott Calvin might want to get a little plaque of that one for his desk.

  She ran up the stairs and didn’t even bother locking the apartment door behind her. She pressed the Power button on her laptop, then spread out her breakfast next to it. She sat in the chair in front of the desk, but she was too darn short to sit and type for long. She got up and grabbed a pillow from the couch and tried again. Perfect.

  Closing her eyes, she rolled her shoulders and then set her hands to the keyboard, counted to three, and began to type. It was her process. It felt good to be typing her own story. Not a response to some whack-job reader who wanted advice. She chomped on the toast and slugged back coffee between lines. Fueling the fire.

  She typed and typed without even so much as a pause. A smile pulled at her lips as she transferred her recollection of the ticket yesterday and the run-in this morning onto the page. It had been a long time since she’d been able to sit down and write a real story—not an over-the-top answer to some amazingly out-there question, but an article from scratch. She was back in the zone . . . and it felt good.

  She opened her eyes and leaned back in the chair. From here she could see most of the merchants up and down Main Street. No parking meters here. Strictly first come, first served. The sheriff had probably stopped in at the diner after marking tires as a way of enforcing those forty-five-minute maximum parking time signs along the curbs. Seems like that would be just his style.

  She probably should have mentioned that she was going to be covering the police blotter for the County Gazette when she saw Scott at the diner, but under the circumstances there just hadn’t seemed to be a good way to mention it. Especially after she’d stuck her foot in her mouth about that darn duck. Boy, was he touchy.

  Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to know, and she’d be gone before they even crossed each other’s paths again.

  She pulled her feet into the chair and stared out the window. Main Street was quiet this morning. Maybe it was always quiet. It was so different from the view from her downtown condo in DC. It was never quiet there. Even when there was no traffic, there seemed to be a hum of energy in the air. Maybe it was nerves being pulled and the sizzle of the stress that came with the lifestyle in the city. She tapped her pen on the side of the desk, eager for a little noise in the space. As if on cue, music came through the wall of the other apartment. Good old classic rock.

  She hadn’t even thought to ask Connor about her neighbor. She’d seen the sign on the door that he was a private investigator. Her mind had jumped to the stereotype of a stodgy guy, like the ones in the old movies who somehow always seemed to have a cute, ditzy blonde working for them. Like that would ever happen in real life. Maybe he was an old fart, but he had good taste in music, and that was all she needed to hit her stride.

  The sound of her nails tapping against the keyboard had a way of lulling her right back to work. By the time the third song finished, she had pretty much the whole story typed out. The facts, anyway. Now to turn it into something entertaining.

  She plucked the laptop from its charger, went over to the couch, and reread the story.

  This won’t work at all.

  She’d spent way too much time describing the handsome sheriff and not nearly enough on the fact that she had been going just seven miles over the speed limit. How had that happened? That was not what she was going for.

  She turned on Track Changes and began electronically redlining the story. Only what she had left when she finished editing was pretty much a pile of red lines, like a tiger had slashed through the whole blessed thing.

  The Guns N’ Roses song “Welcome to the Jungle” started thrumming through the walls, and her neighbor must have kicked up the volume, because the thump-thump-thumping nearly vibrated the pine floors, which was fine by her. In fact, if she’d picked the song for her playlist personally, s
he couldn’t have paired her story to a song more perfectly.

  Her stomach growled. Maybe it was a good thing she had plans for lunch, because that toast wasn’t doing it this morning.

  But first things first. She put her fingers back on the keyboard and got down to business. A few facts from the police blotter, a couple of sly pokes at the sheriff for good measure, and she was done.

  Rereading it start to finish made her chuckle, and she already knew what had happened. Yeah, this would catch an eye or two.

  “Writers don’t get mad, they get even.”

  So she couldn’t kill him off in a novel, but she sure did just fry his butt in that article . . . even if he’d never know it.

  Payback. Karma. Call it what you like, but that cranky sheriff just got his dose.

  One down, just a few to go. She clapped her hands, relieved to have already cranked out the first piece of her commitment. One quick e-mail to Evelyn asking if she minded Savannah helping out with the police blotter down at the local paper while she was here, with the article attached . . . and off it went.

  “That felt good.” She shut down her computer and tucked it into the drawer of the desk. A quick brush to her hair, a dab of mascara, and she was ready enough for a community cookout.

  She locked the door behind her as she headed downstairs while her neighbor continued to rock on, probably totally unaware that she’d even moved in.

  Maybe he’d be around when she got back. Her creative mind was kicking into gear, and suddenly that stodgy image of an out-of-shape PI was replaced by something more in line with a movie star with muscles, oh, and really nice lips. Maybe she’d start on that novel after all. That last thought had all the makings of a good hero.

  Evelyn was right. She’d been all work and no play for way too long, and maybe, just maybe, there was a small-town love story here.

  Then the cigarette-smelling, pudgy PI came in focus in her mind again. Yeah. That would be her luck. She grabbed her car keys and the directions to the artisan center, taking the stairs two at a time to the beat of the music.