thank you.”
The sheriff snorted. “Yeah, right… Go on… Take a load off.”
“Really, I’m fine. If you’ll just…”
“Listen, sugar,” the sheriff interrupted yet again. This time he rocked forward in the chair, then rested his elbows on the paper-strewn desktop as he tilted his head down and looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. “I know what you’re doing, and I ain’t got time for your little bureaucratic, girl-power bullshit.”
“Excuse me? My what?”
“Position and power, honey. Basic psychology. Right now you’re trying to prove that you can write your name in the snow bigger and better than anyone else because you’re a woman with a badge who has something to prove. On top of that, you’re showing me that you’re the one in charge because you work for the FBI. So look…I get it. You’re a Fed, I’m a small town cop. We’re all one big happy family as long as you’re on top. Fine. But I’m here to tell ya’, you can stop dancin’ because I’ve already done this waltz with every damn one of your predecessors.
“Now…” He waved his finger at her then thrust it toward the chair. “Since you’re standin’ there in a pair of brand new high heels, and we both know you’re dyin’ to sit down because your feet are killing you, quit tryin’ to prove that you’re the alpha bitch in this pack and just park it.”
Constance stood her ground and snapped, “I take it you have some sort of problem with women, Sheriff Carmichael?”
He shook his head and replied in an exasperated huff. “Damn, you’re a piece of work… First off, I said call me Skip. Secondly, hell no, I don’t have a problem with women. I love ‘em. I even married one. Got three daughters too.
“What I do have a problem with, however, is people wasting my time playing games like you’re doing right now. So either sit your ass down or get the hell out of my office, Special Agent Mandalay. Your choice.”
Once his diatribe was finished, the sheriff picked up his pencil and returned his attention to the paperwork at hand, as if Constance wasn’t even in the room.
Well, at least he was paying attention enough to catch my name, she thought to herself while continuing to stare at him long enough for the second hand to make a quarter orbit around the clock face. Personality-wise, Ben- the homicide detective she’d been dating for some time now-was a younger version of the sheriff: gruff, opinionated, and more than willing to speak his mind. He definitely hadn’t been mellowing with age, either. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she was stuck in some sort of Dickens-inspired nightmare and the Ghost of Christmas Future was torturing her with a glimpse of what may come. She gave a small shudder at the thought and then shook it off.
Finally she conceded. Draping her coat over the uncomfortable-looking straight back of the chair, she let out a small sigh then perched herself in the seat. As it turned out, appearances were not deceiving at all. The chair was just as uncomfortable as it looked.
“There, I’m sitting,” she announced. “Are you happy now?”
A full minute passed before the sheriff answered. Without looking up from his work he grunted. “Not my feet that’s hurtin’, young lady. Question is, are you happy now?”
She regarded him quietly for a moment, then asked, “Okay, I’ll admit it; I’m curious. How did you know my feet were hurting? Lucky guess?”
“Those shoes would hurt my feet. I figure they gotta hurt yours.”
“You barely glanced at me when I came in. How did you even know I was wearing heels?”
“I ain’t deaf yet, honey. I heard ‘em the minute you hit the front door.”
“Okay,” she conceded. “But that still doesn’t explain how you know I just bought them.”
The sheriff sighed and tossed his pencil back onto the papers again as he leaned back. He gave her the sort of look a teacher would bestow upon a student who wasn’t grasping the idea that one plus one equals two. “This a test?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean did your other Fed buddies tell you to screw with me?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Sweetheart…” he muttered, then shook his head. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get it over with so we can get some police work done.” Wagging his finger up and down at her, he began to explain, “That blazer you’re wearing is a Charles Gray of London, unless I missed my guess, but I don’t think I did because my youngest daughter has one just like it. Not the highest dollar, but pricey, nice, and it’s current on the style. The one you’re wearing has been custom altered to drape properly because you carry your sidearm in a belt rig-on your right, by the way. That tells me you’re particular about your appearance and like to keep up with fashion, so it stands to reason that the shoes would be important too.” Now directing his index finger at the doorway, he continued, “But, when you walked in here a few minutes ago, you were favoring your left foot, even though based on the way you move it’s obvious you’re no stranger to walking in heels. In fact, I’d say you could even run in them if you were pressed.
“Anyway, then you stood here in front of my desk and kept shifting your weight from foot to foot, which means your right was bothering you too. That little dance tells me either you’re wearing new shoes that aren’t broken in yet and they hurt your feet, or you really have to pee. Now, I may be wrong, but I’m pretty certain that if you had to pee that bad you would have asked Clovis to point you at the restroom before you had her bring you in here to talk to me.”
Constance stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then asked, “You picked up all that from a quick glance?”
“You gonna tell me I’m wrong?” he huffed.
“Well… No… It was that obvious, huh?”
“Yeah, it was. To me, anyway. Don’t they teach you kids anything at Quantico these days?”
Constance ignored the gibe. “I have to say, Sheriff, your powers of observation and deduction border on uncanny.”
“For a sheriff of Podunk, you mean.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Were you in law enforcement before-”
He verbally truncated her question with one of his own. “You mean, ‘was I a hotshot homicide detective on some major metropolitan police force before burning out and retiring to the rural Midwest where I could be an Andy Taylor clone and not even have to carry a gun?’ That’d be kinda cliche, don’t you think?”
“Yes, actually.”
“You’re right, it is. And, I am. All except the part about Andy Taylor and the fact that I’m not stupid enough to think I can get away without carrying a sidearm in this day and age. Even here in Hulis.”
“But you were, as you put it, a hotshot homicide detective.” Her words were a statement and not a question.
“I cleared a few cases in my day,” he grunted while looking around his desk, lifting papers and shifting file folders in the process. “I take it none of this information was in the file you read?”
“The file was on the case, not you.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he replied absently, still searching for something in the clutter. “Heard that one before. All I have to say is that’s some piss-poor police work for a bunch of Feds. If your research is that bad, my opinion of you G-men just ratcheted down another couple of notches.”
“Well, hopefully I can change that.”
“Yeah, I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Seven murders in seven years, all on the same damn day; we’re still at square one, and I’ve got my fifth new Fed to babysit. No offense, but from where I am, you’ve got your work cut out for you changin’ my mind.”
Constance ignored the negative commentary and pressed forward. “So, speaking of the murders, has the card arrived yet?”
“Yeah, it was waitin’ for me when I got here this morning, just like clockwork… Hang on a sec…” Sheriff Carmichael gave up his apparently futile search and pressed the side of his hand on the talk button of an intercom box that looked only slightly newer than the chair and desk, then called out, “Hey, Clovis?”
A handful of seconds later the speaker crackled, “What do you need, Skip?”
“Have you seen my coffee cup?”
