“The theme is traditional, winter, warm, and inviting,”she said quickly.
“Vehicle?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I’m working on that.”
“Driver?”
“I assumed someone would volunteer.”
“Stability plan?” I asked.
She stopped and looked at me. “When is the deadline?”
“Tomorrow at noon,” I told her.
The color drained from her face.
“I thought it was the day before the parade,” she said quietly. She swallowed, then straightened, determination sliding into place. “All right.”
I outlined the requirements carefully. Vehicle type. Load security. Lighting regulations. Fire safety. She wrote everything down, fast and neat, not interrupting once.
“If you have any questions, here is my card. I need all the relevant information by tomorrow noon to approve the float. There will also be a quick inspection the morning of the parade,” I said when I finished.
“I appreciate that,” she said.
I stepped back and watched her for a moment longer than necessary, noting the way she squared her shoulders. I hoped she figured it out.
It was not my job to solve her float problem. It was my job to keep people safe in a parade that would put vehicles, decorations, children, and winter weather into the same narrow street and call it festive. Every year, someone assumed good intentions were a substitute for a plan. Every few years, the parade committee discovered that good intentions did not stop a trailer from fishtailing.
I went to the station with Lydia still sitting in the back of my mind like an unfinished report. I nodded to Gail who gave me the mug salute. After changing into my uniform in the locker room, I grabbed myself a coffee, and opened the Wickham file on my computer.
It wasn’t much of a file. That was the first problem.
I flipped through the notes I had started after speaking with Lydia and her parents with the intent to transcribe them. Dates, names, and payments. The kind of details that mattered in court because they were measurable and could not be argued away with charm. The page that mattered most was also the one that frustrated me most.
There was no signed agreement, and no email trail that confirmed exact terms.
What existed was trust and verbal understanding. The warmth of optimism.
Wickham had used that.
I typed out the timeline. When Lydia first met Wickham. When she mentioned the inn. When he inserted himself into their planning. When the money disappeared. When he left town.
Then I wrote what we could actually prove.
The Bennets had held a dance. The ticket funds were gone, never deposited in any of their accounts. The charity money had disappeared as well. They believed Wickham had taken them. They could show that he had been present and involved in the event. They could say that he had made promises. They could not show those promises in writing.
There was a difference between what was true and what was prosecutable. People didn’t often like that difference, but it existed anyway.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the frustration settle. Wickham was gone. He had fled town and would likely never return, and never pay for the crime he had committed. All I had were witness statements, an accounting estimate of the money he had taken. There was little more I could do and yet I was loath to close the file.
I told myself it had nothing to do with a short Bennet who had a smile like sunshine that took on tasks bigger than herself.
Glancing at my clock, I realized it was time to hit the streets and do my scheduled patrol of Maple Ridge. We didn’t have much crime here, but it was important to keep a police presence so that the community knew we were here and able to protect them. I was more likely to investigate a fender bender than a robbery, but it wasn’t any less important.
Grabbing my jacket. I headed out to get my cruiser and do my job, ignoring the fact that I hadn’t closed the Wickham file.
Chapter Seven: An Old Friend
