“Yes.”
“Unlikely you’ll catch the guy,” Harris commented.
“That doesn’t mean it's irrelevant.”
He smiled faintly. “You sound like training videos.”
“I don’t sound like training videos." I frowned.
He shrugged. “A little.”
I let that go. “The file is incomplete. I want it closed cleanly.”
Harris leaned forward. “That one involved the Bennets, right?”
“It does.”
He made a thoughtful sound. “They have enough going on with the inn.”
“That is part of why I want it finished.”
Harris lifted an eyebrow that suggested he did not fully agree, but he did not argue. He slid the folder onto my desk and stood. “I will see you at the committee meeting.”
When he left, the station noise filled in around me again. A phone rang. Someone laughed softly near the front. A door opened and closed. Normal life, contained inside routine.
I shut the file and opened the parade materials. The parade folder included the route, the list of floats, and a set of guidelines that had been copied and pasted from last year with only minor edits. I read them anyway, every word. People skimmed instructions and then acted surprised when consequences arrived.
The float applications were a mix of practical and absurd. A local hardware store had written, We will have a truck with lights. A dance studio had written, We will be dancing thewhole route. A church group had written, We will be singing and handing out cookies. I made a note to find out if they were handing out items from a moving vehicle which was prohibited or simply walking and sharing.
Then I reached the Snowdrop Inn application.
It was submitted by Lydia Bennet.
The description was enthusiastic. Festive. It used words like sparkle and magical and unforgettable. It also lacked anything resembling a plan for weight distribution or secure fastenings.
The overlap was not ideal. Speaking to Lydia about Wickham then later reviewing her parade application could feel like scrutiny, even if it wasn’t. People didn’t separate contexts as neatly as I did.
I made two notes. One: schedule Wickham conversation first, separate from parade. Two: when discussing parade safety, keep it strictly about specifics of the float and safety.
I closed the folder and looked at the flyer on the board again. Someone had added glitter to the candy cane. I stared at it for a moment, then returned my attention to my work.
By afternoon, the parade committee had assembled in the small meeting room at town hall. The room smelled faintly of dry erase marker and the citrus cleaner someone used too generously. The committee was made up of people who cared deeply about Christmas and believed strongly that caring deeply counted as an organizational system.
Marjorie Pike, who ran the town events calendar like it was a personal responsibility, sat at the head of the table. Two volunteers sat with her. Both were holding thick binders.
“Sergeant North,” Marjorie said brightly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” I said, taking a seat and opening my notebook. “Let’s review barriers, traffic control, and the float inspection schedule.”
The meeting lasted longer than it should have. Every decision was tangled in someone’s feelings. Marjorie wanted the school band at the front because of tradition. Someone else wanted the church group earlier because of older members who shouldn’t be out in the cold so long. Another volunteer insisted the dance studio needed a position where the crowd would be thickest for visibility.
I listened. I took notes. I redirected where necessary.
When it came time to discuss float inspections, I outlined a simple process. Visual check. Secure fastenings. No loose items. No open flames. No handing out objects from a moving vehicle or float. Driver sobriety, which should have been obvious but was not always treated as such when people were in holiday moods.
Marjorie waved a hand. “Of course. We want everything safe.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I will be the person standing in the cold next to your staging area making people unhappy if it isn’t.”
