A few blocks later, I noticed a car following me. I pulled into a dark alley and parked behind a large green Dumpster, thankful my little bug blended in.
The car sailed past the alley entrance, a silver cruiser like one of the new models for the PD. No wonder the Falls were so safe. Thirty-three square miles patrolled twenty-four hours kept it that way.
My heart lurched. Evan’s disorder and Gran’s Snickerdoodles would never save me if I was stopped by a cop with cocaine in my trunk. Even Captain Billington or the hot rookie couldn’t turn a blind eye to that little detail. I waited for what seemed like an hour before taking an indirect path as the safest route home. After locking my car in the garage, I paused behind a tall juniper in the yard to make sure no one had followed me. The street was dead quiet, except for a dog barking in the distance.
Gran was waiting at the door in her pink terry robe. “What took so long? I was worried half to death,” she hissed.
“Long story. Can we save it ’til tomorrow?” I gave her a hug with a pinch of reassurance, craving only the sweet oblivion of sleep. New ideas were always fresh in the morning. Ad lines percolated as fast as morning coffee when I consigned writer’s block to my subconscious at bedtime. Hopefully, that would also work when I had to think like a criminal.
Chapter Five
Mr. Wiggins woke me at 9:20 a.m. by kneading my belly with his front paws. I squinted at the clock, wishing I had another hour to germinate ideas. The smell of coffee and bacon finally coaxed me out of bed.
Gran commanded the kitchen table, doing the word jumble from last night’s
Milwaukee Journal
.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and snatched a piece of crisp bacon off the plate she pushed before me. The scrambled eggs and toast were barely warm, but I ravished them anyway.
“I didn’t want to wake you until Evan left for work.” She set aside the puzzle and searched my face, tapping her pencil. “So, what’s the story?”
I got to the point, as I knew she expected nothing less. She groaned when I told her the statue was still in the trunk of my car. I hoped her innate optimism would dilute the gravity of the situation. Gran had been tested by life, but at age seventy-two, she was as sharp and vital as a woman twenty years younger—if you discounted her tired eyes and gray-streaked hair. She had made a home for Evan since he was six years old, after our widowed mother was diagnosed with cancer. We had lived in a duplex a block away, and I stayed with Mom until she died several years later, joining Gran when
she
was widowed. The three of us had grown tight, the closest family we had since both my parents and grandfather had died so prematurely.
She tightened her robe, looking past me in thought. “Maybe Captain Billington would know what to do.”
I grimaced as I poured myself another cup of coffee. “How could we ask him—or any cop—to manipulate the law they swore to uphold?”
“Ply them with cookies?” She chuckled without mirth. “Maybe cookies baked with cocaine.”
I laughed. “That doesn’t work with cocaine, Gran. Marijuana brownies, maybe.”
“Couldn’t we just burn the Dutch boy—or add him to the garbage pickup?”
“Burning requires a permit and would draw attention. Cute little trash sometimes ends up at the recycling center. I squashed my hands together with an appropriate motor noise. Didn’t Evan get a couple of his lawn ducks from there?
Her chin receded into her neck. “How could that get back to us?”
“You ever watch
Columbo
reruns on TV?” We both laughed, knowing Gran was as addicted to
Columbo
as Evan was to
The Amazing Race.
“Seriously, Gran, Menomonee Falls is the largest village in Wisconsin. Probably the safest. I think our cops work hard to protect that image. Probably why only petty theft and gateway drugs take hold here.”
She slumped in her chair and sighed heavily. “Well, Katie, we’ve worked just as hard to protect Evan. He’s an adult now, subject to the law with or without Asperger’s for an excuse.”
I clunked my head against the high back of my chair. “Maybe we’re just overthinking all this.”
“Or maybe we need the advice of a lawyer?” Gran smirked over a sip of coffee.
We decided the Dutch boy was safe in my locked trunk while we considered alternative actions that didn’t cost a whopping attorney fee—or implicate anyone. Both of us found it hard to concentrate on anything else for the next few days, with each of us periodically coming up with solutions the other shot down. Options became a running joke—bumping off a stupid lawn ornament that could put us in a police lineup.
Friday afternoon, I washed my hair, creamed my face, and painted my toenails and fingernails Placid Peach, to compliment the peach flowers on my halter sundress. When I opened the door to Hot Stuff, I got the reaction I hoped for.
After a low whistle, he found his voice to drawl, “Peachy as a Texas rose.”
“I thought they were all yellow down there.”
He smiled, showing all his polished white teeth. “Just one of those big ol’ myths.” His gaze fanned my sundress. “You make me feel like an old penny in a pocketful of new change.” He looked down at his T-shirt that read
Homeland Security since 1492
above a picture of three Southwest Indians. “I thought this was appropriate for a police concert.”
I thought he was right. Notwithstanding the clever slogan, the T-shirt fit like a glove, tight around his upper arms and emphasizing a contoured chest above a silver belt buckle big as a saucer. His jeans were just as tight, boots polished, and when he removed his police cap, a lock of his black hair curled on his forehead. I sucked in a delicious whiff of lime.
For a few seconds, we stood there, staring at each other in silent appreciation.
“You do clean up well.” He grinned. “No trace of swamp anywhere.”
Heat rose in my face. “I don’t usually…wear a dress.” I almost admitted I only owned two—with few occasions to wear either.
Gran came in the back door, preoccupied with an armful of cut flowers. “What about drowning him in Mill Pond?” she said before she noticed Dallas at the door.
Holding his cap over his chest, he nodded. “Good evening, ma’am. I hope you’re not referring to me?”
I laughed, fiddling with my watchband. “Gran teases all my dates like that. It’s probably why I’m, uh, still single.” I glanced at my watch and cleared my throat. “Shouldn’t we be going?”
“Well, I surely hope we don’t have to drain the pond to find the truth,” he drawled. “Seein’ you all dressed to kill, I wondered about that myself, er, why y’all are still single, that is.”
Another heat wave collared my neck and crept upward. Compliments, much less suitors, were as rare as a dress in my closet. I slipped into my sandals beside the screen door and stepped outside.
He snapped his cap on and hurried to catch up.
My smile quickly faded when I realized our mode of transportation was not a car, but a big black-and-red 600 cc cycle parked at the curb.
“It was this or a police car,” he shrugged. “The deal was one I couldn’t refuse at the showroom in town. They even took my old coupe in trade for this floor model.”
Wondering if I had time to change, I clutched my skirt. “I’m not really dressed for a hog ride.” His blue eyes went soft with apology.
“I know. I figured you for a sporty chick.”
I watched him reach out to rub the handlebar as if he were consoling an insult to his cycle.
“I could have borrowed a police car when off duty, but thought maybe you’d take that as…
too much authority.
”
Avoiding his look, I bit my lip and decided there was no alternative. “Do you know how to shift a beetle?”
He handled my stick shift with ease. “Lots of pickup in this little car,” he said. “I could see it giving a precinct car a good chase.”
I sucked in my breath. “Have you already had any, um, traffic chases here?”
He shot me a sideways glance. “A couple. I’ve been told that’s about as exciting as it gets ’round here. Traffic violations and property thefts.” He noticed when I breathed a soft sigh of relief, but said nothing more until we arrived at the Fest.
Chapter Six
Since I didn’t bring a pocketbook, I deferred holding onto the car keys.
He slipped them into his jeans pocket after locking the car.
Even remembering what the trunk held, I felt safe knowing there was no reason for him to search my locked trunk, and as long as we stuck together, I would know where the keys were.
The benefit concert was well-attended. We sat in a section reserved for MFPD to the right of the bandstand. When we took our seats, Dallas tossed off a few friendly greetings to cops he knew, and we both waved to Captain Billington a few rows behind.
Drummer Copeland was probably the equivalent of Ringo Starr, both of them from an era that predated both of us by decades. We discussed how bands of that era were enjoying a resurgence of popularity from old and new fans. Some of the vintage tour groups were still defying expiration. I could see a lot of gray heads in the audience, matching the color of Copeland’s cropped hair. The musician proved to be especially sardonic when introducing famous numbers and the history behind them.
The crowd was engaged and equally enthused, quenching a thirsty demand for Milwaukee beer. The night air steamed around us like the inside of a local brewery. Dallas warmed to the music…and to me with each successive cup of beer. By the end of the concert, he had an arm locked firmly over my shoulders. Beer also had another notorious effect; I hit the rest rooms—twice.
Though it was already July 22nd, the concert ended with ten minutes of spectacular fireworks competing with a medley of patriotic songs. “Do they have fireworks in Texas,” I asked during the grand finale.
“Of course. All rumors aside, we haven’t seceded from the union yet. In fact, we also have fireworks on Texas Independence Day in March, and even for Lyndon B. Johnson’s birthday in August.” He looked beyond me with a slow smile. “My daddy used to tease me into believing we were related to the former President, and though we were never invited to any of his parties, we always celebrated the day anyway with one of Mom’s pecan cakes and a jug of Daddy’s home-brew.”
“Very impressive.” I laughed. “I always heard Texas does things in a big way.” I playfully tapped his silver belt buckle with a fingernail.
“Won that in a rodeo,” he snickered. “Nine seconds on a bull that nearly broke my arm. My hand was caught in the grip.”
“Which hand?” I squeezed the one that held mine and took a deep breath when I felt his grip tighten. We threaded our way through a parking lot filled with cars idling toward the park exits. After locating my car, I noticed he had a little trouble getting the key in the door lock while still holding my hand. “You can let go of the grip, cowboy.” I chuckled.
He bowed gracefully as he held the passenger door open.
I slipped inside less gracefully, and leaned over to open his door.
Once inside, he grinned at me a few seconds before making his move. Throwing a leg over the console, he pulled me into an embrace and kissed me lightly. His mouth moved to my ear and he murmured, “Can we try that again, Peaches.”
I could smell the beer on his breath. His lips were warm, and my heart was tripping like a jackhammer. It had been—what? Maybe three years since I had been kissed by an eligible male—one without blue eyes to his credit. I let him in. His tongue was tentative and slow, testing my mouth with fireworks that slid down my throat and exploded somewhere near my navel. One of us moaned a little. My body melted into the bucket seat until my back hit the gear shift, and the moan hit a higher pitch.
“Sorry about that, Peaches. Your little car is as inconvenient as my cycle was tonight.”
“Maybe we both could use some coffee.” I finger-combed my hair and adjusted my dress. “I know a Quickmart that has coffee AND Snickerdoodles.”
“Sounds good.” He started the car and followed the directions I gave him, concentrating all his attention on the road.
“You know, I never kissed a cop…” Too late, I bit my lip and could feel the heat shimmy up my neck. I couldn’t believe I’d said that—out loud.
He laughed, still focusing on the road. “We are a similar species, you know—much like ordinary men with two arms, two legs, one head, one heart—always at the service of a peachy lady.” He flashed a lazy beer grin my way.
“Mmm, sure you got the right body part there?” I muttered to myself.
“What did you say?”
“Everybody has a heart.”
Mine was certainly getting a jump start tonight.
Chapter Seven
I heard the pop just before we pulled into the Quickmart. The rear tire was still hissing air when we surveyed it.
“We’re lucky this happened before the wheel rim was damaged,” Dallas pointed out. He gave me five dollars to buy take-out coffee while he had the tire changed.
I purchased two 16 oz. cups of hazelnut decaf and two six-inch Snickerdoodles, and was delighted to find Molly Jamison, my best friend from school days, at the till. For years, she had been my persistent math tutor and an occasional date procurer, but our contact faded when she married a few years ago. When I gave her a hug, I noticed her baby bump, and for several minutes, we played catch-up, vowing to keep in touch more often.