everyone in town was already gathered and those who weren’t would soon hear about it—sat Gina’s red sports car about to be accosted by a dirty yellow tow truck. And next to the curb, holding a department-issued clipboard and weighing in at two hundred pounds of armed good looks, was Gina’s reason for eating at The B-Cubed. Sheriff Logan Miller.
“Oh, boy.” Shelby scrambled out of the booth, grabbing her purse.
Mrs. McKinney reached out for her arm. “The total is eighteen, ninety-four. Plus gratuity.”
Shelby tossed a twenty on the table and, ignoring Mrs. McKinney’s reminder that twenty percent was the Southern way, raced out to stop Gina before she went from misdemeanor to felony with a deadly butter knife.
A blast of hot air hit her as she walked outside. Crossing the street, she waved at Beatrice Brice, of Bea’s Quilting Barn. A handful of “howdy’s” and a “sun’s so hot it’s like a turkey on Thanksgiving out here” later and Shelby was at the scene of the soon-to-be crime.
“You don’t even have enough cars to use up all the spaces, Logan, and you know it!” Gina accused.
Logan focused on the task at hand, writing out a ticket in that little notebook of his, not even sparing Gina a glance, which irritated her more. But Shelby noticed that under his hat his eyes were crinkling at the corners, fully aware that he was pushing each and every button Gina possessed. And enjoying it.
“Plus, I work for the county. Just like you! This is abuse of power!”
Logan looked up, pushed his hat back and jerked his head to the side. “Sign right there stipulates patrol cars only. And you, sweetheart, are a lawyer, not a deputy. Maybe living in the big city things were different, but here the law’s pretty straightforward.” Logan tore off the ticket and held it out. “Would think with that fancy degree you’d be able to figure it out on your own, especially seeing as how we’ve had this talk before.”
She grabbed the ticket, ripped it into a dozen pieces, took off his hat, shoved them inside and slammed it back on his head. “Wouldn’t want a littering ticket now, would I?”
The car jerked forward as Mister engaged the winch to pull it onto the flatbed of the truck. Running to the front of the car, wedging her body between the bumper and her symbol of big-city success, Gina splayed her hands over the hood, trying to stop its movement.
“Mister, you stop this right now or I’ll tell Ms. Luella I saw you eating a slice of Mrs. McKinney’s peach pie at The B-Cubed last week. With ice cream.”
Mister hesitated, for just a moment, his mouth going a little slack. Shelby’s mouth, on the other hand, gaped open. Was Ms. Luella seeing Mister? And was Mister blushing? She really needed to pay more attention if she was ever going to become a small-town girl.
“Now, you wouldn’t do that. Ms. Luella would be serving Rocky Mountain oysters for supper, and they’d be mine.” Mister took off his trucker’s hat that read “Mister’s Auto and Body: Certified Mechanic and Acupuncturist,” tipping it respectfully. “Sorry for the language, Shelby.”
“It’s all right.” Shelby laughed, understanding his fear. “Ms. Luella can get a little . . . competitive over her baking.”
“Competitive? Hell, the woman downright scares me. Haven’t eaten out once since we started seeing one another. Afraid she’d accuse me of cheating. Only went to The B-Cubed ’cuz Ms. Luella’s a purist, which I admire, but with it being so hot out I really wanted some ice cream on my pie.”
“Well, if you still want to walk come morning, then you’d better release my car,” Gina threatened, pulling out her phone and scrolling to Ms. Luella’s number.
“Stop bullying Mister. He’s just doing his job,” the sheriff said.
“Come on, Logan.” Gina pocketed her phone. “Let me off with a warning.” Most people would take her begging and sunken shoulders as a sign of defeat, but Shelby knew her friend was just changing tactics. “You can’t impound my car. I’ve got court today.”
“Walk.”
“It’s the Olsen case. I’ve got all that physical evidence to carry.”
“That case is so tight you don’t even need to show up. The guy practically convicted himself.”
“I promised I’d take Sidney to see that new Winnie-the-Pooh movie.”
Boom, a direct hit. Logan stopped at his daughter’s name and ran his hand over the back of his neck. A few years ago he’d been married to his college sweetheart, recently elected sheriff, and a proud new papa. All it took was a dark county road, one drunk driver, and a blind turn to leave Logan a widower, Sidney motherless, and Gina a twin without her other half.
Logan’s world was Sidney and he would do just about anything for her. Including toss out a parking violation, which was more about teaching his impulsive sister-in-law a lesson than upholding the law.
“All right, promise not to park in my men’s spot anymore and I’m willing to deal.”
“I knew you’d cave. Plus, I have a request in with the city to redistrict some of those spots to the county prosecutor’s office.”
“You are the county prosecutor’s office.”
Gina shrugged.
“It’ll never pass. Anyway, do you want to hear my deal?”
Gina circled her hand impatiently, indicating that he continue.
“We’ve got a problem with the Summer Sweet Spectacular. According to Opal Peterson, she went and had herself a stroke, rendering her incapable of speaking.” Logan put up a disbelieving hand. “No proof exists to support her claim, which she called to inform me of. Hell, as far as I can tell she hasn’t been to the hospital in over a year, plus I saw her doing water aerobics at the community pool on Monday. But, since I can’t call a woman who has been in my mom’s knitting club since before I was born a liar, we’re once again short an event chair.”
“What? Wait, are you suggesting that I organize the fair? No way! You know I don’t play well with others. That’s why I’m a lawyer.”
“Your car for a few hours of your time. Take it or not, I don’t care.”
Shelby sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that Logan hadn’t just conned her into organizing the Summer Sweet Spectacular. She may have made Sweet Plains her home only three years ago, but even she knew how much time, patience, and referee skills it took to organize the Sweet Plains’s annual school fund-raiser.
The biggest downside of small-town living was the school district. Fewer kids meant less funding from the state. So every year, right around the time school was winding down, the town got together and held a fund-raiser. Complete with a Miss Sweet pageant, cook-off, father-son football game, and auction, the fair usually raised enough money to fund the kids’ art and sports programs. And every year the reigning organizer either quit, left the state, or—apparently—tried to claim a brush with death to get out of doing it.
Gina swallowed, her eyes boring into Logan’s, pleading with him to change his mind, offer up another alternative. When he didn’t, Gina succumbed. “Fine, but don’t come crying to me when the Ladies
