“I demand fingerprints from my fence latch, the doors of the cat houses, the awnings, and their tiny porches.” Mrs. Graves’ grey curls look like the result of a cat curling on her head for an afternoon nap.
I clutch the pen tighter. I promised myself I wouldn’t shed blood today, but I’m one more stupid comment away from it.
“I spotted him in town yesterday,” my sister drawls, crunching loudly. “You know, that hunky oldest Wilde cowboy.”
He is not hunky.
“It was almost as rare as spotting Bigfoot riding a bike through town.”
Is my sister looking to be my next victim? Between Mrs. Graves acting like an unhinged CSI intern and my sister playing Miss Obsessed FBI agent, I might need two very sharp pens—if I were a violent person.
This is why I don’t attend town meetings.
This is why I like the privacy of my office and the seclusion of my cabin.
“He’s aging like bourbon in an oak barrel. You don’t even need a lasso to catch him, just one look and you’re hooked.”
Did she just purr?
Thinking of Hart Wilde?
Nauseating.
Mayor Thomas Banks breathes through his nose, a slow, deliberate drag like he’s trying to inhale his patience.
The tip of his nose is flushed red, either from the obsessive polishing with his handkerchief or the mounting frustration as the meeting veers off course in record time.
Likely the latter.
I don’t blame him.
I feel that breath in my inner core.
If I weren’t heading a sponsorship for the regional rodeo out of town, I wouldn’t be here.
Also, if I could just get my fifteen minutes of fame over with before a certain cowboy has a chance to get here, that would be spectacular.
I glance at the clock. Time is ticking.
“For the third time, Mrs. Graves”—he exhales hard enough to stir the stack of handouts on the table in front of him—“we are not the police.”
The fact that the mayor had to say it even one time.
“He’s got that ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of trouble written all over him.” My sister’s words are meant to provoke me, but I refuse to bite.
Besides, it’s more like “I’m an asshole” kind of trouble written all over him.
“The sheriff won’t do fingerprints.” Mrs. Graves shoots the sheriff a look as if he had just tracked mud on her clean floor.
Although with a backyard full of cats, I’m sure mud would be the cleanest thing to walk through her back door.
Sheriff Nash doesn’t even twitch at the accusation. He just stands off to the side, hip propped against the scuffed wooden wall where the varnish faded years ago. Arms folded tight across his chest, badge catching the dim light, and one ankle slung over the other.
“Doesn’t have the resources.” Mrs. Graves’ eyes stay fixed on him, steady as a preacher’s sermon, while her fingers knit a storm right there on her lap.
I wouldn’t be surprised if those balls of yarn are spun from cat fur.
“He may wear the badge, but I’ve seen smarter kittens chasing their own tails.”
