his mind munched on the concept of matchmaking. It had been a long time since any friend had tried to fix him up, mainly because most of his friends' marriages had failed. Unfortunately, too many cop marriages collapse under the unique pressures of being a law officer.
He cleared his throat. "I felt like I haven't been able to do anything to help with the Outreach meal today." He'd have to watch his emotions around Wendy. Somehow she'd found a tiny chink in his bachelor armor and had slipped inside, warming him with her sunny presence.
She sighed, sounding relieved. "Okay. Why don't you just head toward Highway 27 while I check the list?" She glanced down at the handwntten list with its many scribbled notes and fell silent beside him.
And that was just like her—she never tried to catch his attention. She was more dangerous than that. She caught his notice without even trying.
Looking out his window to keep his eyes away from Wendy, he drove through Steadfast past Carl and Patsy's Grill on Main Street. In the quiet, he let his mind drift away from Wendy back to today's first hint of another kind of trouble brewing.
Earlier, as he'd driven through the deserted, snow-blanketed village, he'd experienced a time-travel sensation, as though a century had slipped away and he should be riding a horse through the empty streets. The hush of deep winter had crept inside him, giving him a profound peace.
But whether he'd been a sheriff a century ago or today, one of his duties was to remind everyone that the law hadn't taken the holiday off. Though it seemed ironic, holidays often triggered an increase in police work, with domestic disputes and people overdoing what they called "holiday cheer." So he'd pulled up in front of the only business open on Main Street, Carl and Patsy's. Through the chilly morning snowfall, he'd walked inside the darkened interior.
"Hello, Sheriff!" Carl, a stocky, white-haired man well over retirement age, had called out from behind the bar. "Come on in. I'll buy you a Thanksgiving brew."
Rodd had waved his greeting and sat down on a barstool. A few old men were already at the bar, but they were drinking coffee and watching a muted Christmas parade on the small TV above the bar. Carl and Patsy's place usually gave him no problem. The average age of their customers must hover in the sixties. Carl's was more of a senior center than a bar, completely different from Flanagan's. "Make it a root beer, Carl, and I'll accept."
Carl chuckled. "One sarsaparilla coming up." He served Rodd a foaming mug. "Feel like we're in an old Western on TV. I'm the friendly old barkeep and you're the teetotaling young sheriff."
Rodd grinned. "And I just rode through the ghost town."
Carl nodded.
Rodd sipped his foam-topped root beer. "Just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving and I'll be hanging around town if you need me. I'm wearing my pager. Later I plan to stop by the church for Thanksgiving dinner. If you hear of anyone who wants to get together for a meal, send him there, would you?"
"Will do. But my Patsy roasted two twenty-pound birds and stirred up a vat of cranberry sauce last night. We'll be serving turkey sandwiches all day to customers."
"Sounds like a plan." Then into Rodd's peace, the day's first disturbing note had sounded.
Wiping the bar, Carl leaned close with his head down. "Sheriff, I heard a rumor. Maybe it's something, maybe not. Kids may be planning a kegger tonight. That useless Elroy Dietz might be getting paid by high school kids to set one up."
Rodd had given the barest nod, stood up, and put a dollar down. He'd waved good-bye to the men sitting at the bar and left. Then he'd driven around town once more before he parked by the church. All the while, he turned the word kegger over in his mind. A teen drinking party out somewhere isolated was a prescription for disaster. It would take some handling—if it proved to be more than a
He cleared his throat. "I felt like I haven't been able to do anything to help with the Outreach meal today." He'd have to watch his emotions around Wendy. Somehow she'd found a tiny chink in his bachelor armor and had slipped inside, warming him with her sunny presence.
She sighed, sounding relieved. "Okay. Why don't you just head toward Highway 27 while I check the list?" She glanced down at the handwntten list with its many scribbled notes and fell silent beside him.
And that was just like her—she never tried to catch his attention. She was more dangerous than that. She caught his notice without even trying.
Looking out his window to keep his eyes away from Wendy, he drove through Steadfast past Carl and Patsy's Grill on Main Street. In the quiet, he let his mind drift away from Wendy back to today's first hint of another kind of trouble brewing.
Earlier, as he'd driven through the deserted, snow-blanketed village, he'd experienced a time-travel sensation, as though a century had slipped away and he should be riding a horse through the empty streets. The hush of deep winter had crept inside him, giving him a profound peace.
But whether he'd been a sheriff a century ago or today, one of his duties was to remind everyone that the law hadn't taken the holiday off. Though it seemed ironic, holidays often triggered an increase in police work, with domestic disputes and people overdoing what they called "holiday cheer." So he'd pulled up in front of the only business open on Main Street, Carl and Patsy's. Through the chilly morning snowfall, he'd walked inside the darkened interior.
"Hello, Sheriff!" Carl, a stocky, white-haired man well over retirement age, had called out from behind the bar. "Come on in. I'll buy you a Thanksgiving brew."
Rodd had waved his greeting and sat down on a barstool. A few old men were already at the bar, but they were drinking coffee and watching a muted Christmas parade on the small TV above the bar. Carl and Patsy's place usually gave him no problem. The average age of their customers must hover in the sixties. Carl's was more of a senior center than a bar, completely different from Flanagan's. "Make it a root beer, Carl, and I'll accept."
Carl chuckled. "One sarsaparilla coming up." He served Rodd a foaming mug. "Feel like we're in an old Western on TV. I'm the friendly old barkeep and you're the teetotaling young sheriff."
Rodd grinned. "And I just rode through the ghost town."
Carl nodded.
Rodd sipped his foam-topped root beer. "Just wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving and I'll be hanging around town if you need me. I'm wearing my pager. Later I plan to stop by the church for Thanksgiving dinner. If you hear of anyone who wants to get together for a meal, send him there, would you?"
"Will do. But my Patsy roasted two twenty-pound birds and stirred up a vat of cranberry sauce last night. We'll be serving turkey sandwiches all day to customers."
"Sounds like a plan." Then into Rodd's peace, the day's first disturbing note had sounded.
Wiping the bar, Carl leaned close with his head down. "Sheriff, I heard a rumor. Maybe it's something, maybe not. Kids may be planning a kegger tonight. That useless Elroy Dietz might be getting paid by high school kids to set one up."
Rodd had given the barest nod, stood up, and put a dollar down. He'd waved good-bye to the men sitting at the bar and left. Then he'd driven around town once more before he parked by the church. All the while, he turned the word kegger over in his mind. A teen drinking party out somewhere isolated was a prescription for disaster. It would take some handling—if it proved to be more than a
Similar Books
