“Don’t threaten us with a good time,” Basil added.
Her response was a single middle finger.
I chuckled at that, thankful they had moved on from questioning my growing affection for Jasper.
“This is self-care,” Callie said, lifting her glass in one hand and a maple-glazed pretzel in the other.
“I can make you a serum for that,” Nora said, pushing her jeweled glasses up her nose.
“Of course you can, witch queen. But first you promised me stretch mark cream,” Ruby shouted.
“I got you,” Nora said, pulling out her phone to make note of requests.
Tony mentioned his concern about the lack of tourists this spring, and the conversation turned again. Tourism was the lifeblood of this town. It sustained the local economy and provided jobs and opportunities for our young people.
“I don’t mind the break from the douchebags in Teslas who drive up for one jar of syrup and a sense of authenticity.”
“Yeah, but douchebags in Teslas keep the lights on in my store,” he said. “So let’s dial it up, get even more authentic. We can’t let this tragedy drive everyone away.”
“Birch Hollow is celebrating our struggle,” Ruby growled. “They are going all out for Fourth of July, think they can beat us this year.”
A hush fell over the table. Birch Hollow was twenty miles north of Maplewood, a pretty town with a river and covered bridges and cobblestone streets. And the citizens there were our nemeses. They had been trying to steal our Most Charming Small Town in America title for years, but they had yet to succeed.
“Have we considered that Birch Hollow might be behind this?” Etienne asked, his brows pulled low. “They have the most to gain from Maplewood’s downfall.”
That question set everyone off. There was nothing this town loved more than shitting on Birch Hollow.
I sincerely doubted that a group of small-town Vermont hippies would kill someone to get a leg up in a competition, but this crowd would not be deterred.
Regardless, I soaked it all in. The wacky ideas to attract tourists, the wild conspiracies about our rival town, and the gentle ribbing and support flowing around this table. Thesensation that took over was one of comfort, of belonging. I’d never experienced this until I moved to Maplewood. Not in college or previous jobs. Not even at home with my family.
But here, in this weird-ass town, I belonged. Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen, but for now, I’d enjoy it.
Chapter 13
Jasper
The Maplewood PD lobby smelled like burnt coffee and rubber. The large corkboard on the wall was covered with overlapping flyers asking about missing pets, notifying us about last year’s church bake sale, and reminding us that Jim offered chainsaw sharpening.
“Lawrence.” Nolan dipped his chin. “Thanks for coming in.”
I’d known Nolan Foster Junior my whole life. He’d played hockey with Josh growing up, and he and his parents were often present for our family’s Sunday dinners.
His dad had been chief of police for my entire childhood. Nolan Senior was a tall, broad guy with a thick mustache who walked the line between stern and kind perfectly. I’d never met anyone who took as much pride in this town and its history.
Foster’s mom, Kitty, had been a teller at the Maplewood bank. She’d helped me open my first savings account the summer my dad started paying me for farm work, and she sang in the church choir.
Sadly, both Foster Senior and Kitty were killed in a car crash on icy mountain roads about ten years ago.
The entire town mourned their loss.
But no one more than Nolan. He’d gone from fun-loving prankster to grumpy lawman in the blink of an eye. He and Josh were still friends, and I had a lot of respect for the guy, but as firefighters, we usually left the police to their own devices, really only interacting when business called for it.
A platter of delicious-looking cookies sat on a large table in the dispatch area. A piece of paper had been folded in half and propped up like a tent beside it withCompliments of Olive Foster. Do not share with my grandson. He’s a narcwritten on it.
With a hum, I confirmed that Nolan wasn’t looking and snuck a snickerdoodle from the platter.
Once I’d shoved the whole thing into my mouth, I followed him into a cramped office that smelled like it had once held cleaning supplies. The place was barely big enough for his desk, along with two wobbly chairs, and a coffee mug filled with pencils that looked like they’d been chewed by beavers.
