Page 1 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Reese

"That man's ass deserves its own zip code," Ruthie announces from her wicker throne as I walk past the Fairwick Garden Home.

"I stop mid-stride, coffee nearly spilling over the loose lid of my travel mug. "Good morning to you too, Ruthie."

"She's talking about the jogger," Della explains, fanning herself with what looks like a Medicare pamphlet. "The one who just passed. Did you see those shorts?"

"I was busy walking to work."

“Your loss,” Marge says, not looking up from her romance novel. Today’s cover features three mountain men and a smirking blonde in a red dress. Yesterday it was a shirtless cowboy. Tomorrow, probably a pirate. “Though I’ve seen better.”

"When?" Birdie asks from behind enormous sunglasses that cover half her face. "During the Eisenhower administration?"

"Bite me, Birdie."

"Can't. Dental adhesive."

The four of them cackle like well-dressed hyenas.

Every morning, weather permitting, they hold court on the wraparound porch of the retirement home that sits right next to the sheriff's station.

They're like a Greek chorus if the Greeks were obsessed with rating passing men and discussing their medications.

Ruthie's the leader—silver hair in a perfect bob, wearing pearls with her tracksuit.

Della's got arms covered in costume jewelry that jangles when she moves.

Marge clutches her smutty books like they're religious texts.

And Birdie... Birdie "sees" everything despite seeing nothing, behind those enormous sunglasses she never takes off, even on cloudy days, the lenses reflecting the morning sun like tiny mirrors.

"Rough morning, Sheriff Ramsey?" Della asks, eyeing my wrinkled uniform. "You look tired."

"It's six AM."

"We've been up since four-thirty," Ruthie says proudly.

"Why?"

"Insomnia," all four answer in unison.

"Plus, the morning news eye candy comes on at five," Marge adds. "That weatherman could predict my future anytime."

"He's twelve," Birdie says.

"He's thirty-two."

"Same difference at our age."

“ Our age? Speak for yourself. I’m only seventy-five and you’re, what… one-twenty?”

“Excuse you. I’m only eighty-four next month. And you’re seventy-nine.”

I inch toward the station door. "Ladies, I really need to—"

"How's your father?" Della interrupts. "Still fishing every morning?"

"Still avoiding his feelings," Birdie corrects. "Men of his generation think therapy is what you do to lawns."

"That's aeration," Ruthie says.

"Same emotional depth."

They're not wrong. Dad's been up and gone before dawn every day this week, leaving nothing but coffee rings on the counter and the lingering scent of fish bait. It's June, which means good bass fishing and zero communication about anything that matters.

"He's fine," I say.

"Liar," Birdie observes cheerfully. "Your left eye twitches when you fib. Just like your mother's used to."

The mention of my mother lands like a slap, but I keep my face neutral. Mom ran off with a medical equipment salesman when I was sixteen. The scandal kept this town entertained for months.

"I should get to work."

"Big crime spree to solve?" Marge asks innocently.

"Something like that."

"Heard the coffee shop window got smashed a few days ago," Della says. “Right before the festival.”

The Summer Festival. Three weeks away and my personal nightmare. Fairwick's biggest event, bringing in enough tourism dollars to keep the town afloat, and someone's been systematically sabotaging local businesses.

"These things happen," I say carefully.

"Four things in three weeks?" Ruthie counts on her fingers. "The bakery flood, the library electrical situation, all that mail going to wrong houses, now Jossie's window? Seems like more than coincidence."

"You girls watch too much true crime," I say.

"What else is there to do?" Marge asks. "Besides, have you seen the men in this town? Crime shows are more exciting."

"Crime shows have investigators who actually solve things," Birdie adds sweetly.

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes.

Mayor Brennan: We need to talk.

"Excuse me, ladies. Need to call the boss."

"Tell Paul his toupee's crooked!" Della calls after me.

"It's always crooked," Ruthie says.

"Like his moral compass," Birdie adds.

I escape into the station before they can elaborate on Paul Brennan's various deficiencies. Nancy's already at her desk, our dispatcher and the town's most efficient gossip distribution system.

"Morning, Sheriff. Mayor Brennan's in your office. All 5'5" of him."

"What? How?"

"He has a key, remember? Town property and all that."

I find Paul Brennan sitting behind MY desk like he owns it. His toupee is indeed crooked, listing slightly to port like a furry boat in distress.

"Reese. Finally."

"It's six-oh-eight, Paul. Also, that's my chair."

He doesn't move. "We need to discuss the festival situation."

"What situation?"

"The crime spree that's destroying our reputation!" His toupee shifts with his agitation. "Vendors are nervous. Ticket sales are down twenty percent. The council is asking questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Whether you're equipped to handle this."

I'm five-foot-nine in my boots, been sheriff for eighteen months, and have a degree in criminal justice. But sure, let's discuss my equipment.

"I'm handling it fine."

“Four crimes in less than a month doesn’t seem fine, Sheriff. The council’s already muttering about bringing in outside help. Especially because they all happened right before the festival. It looks coordinated.”

"They're not connected."

"How do you know?"

Because I’m quite sure they’re not. “Different MOs, different times, different targets.” Plus, admitting doubt would be like bleeding in shark-infested water.

"But all right before the festival." He finally stands, revealing he's been sitting on my incident reports. "The council wants answers."

"The council can—"

"Tonight. Eight PM. You'll present your investigation findings."

"That's in fourteen hours."

"Then you'd better get started." He heads for the door, pauses. "Oh, and Todd's wife called. He'll be back tomorrow."

"With a broken leg?"

"He can do desk work. Unless you'd prefer to handle everything without your Chief Deputy?"

The door closes behind him with a passive-aggressive click.

Nancy appears immediately. "Want me to put sugar in his gas tank?"

"Tempting… but illegal."

"Only if you catch me."

"I'm literally the sheriff."

"Right. Forgot." She refills my travel mug from the station pot. "So what's the plan?"

"Pretend I know what I'm doing until I actually figure out what's happening."

"Solid strategy. Very law enforcement."

I settle at my desk, studying the incident reports Paul's ass wrinkled. Four crimes, seemingly random, except they're not. There's a pattern here, something I'm missing.

"Nancy, do we have—"

My phone rings. Dad.

"Caught two bass this morning. Dinner at six?"

"Can't. Council meeting."

"Brennan giving you grief?"

"When isn't he?"

"Want me to put fish guts in his car?"

"That's the second illegal offer I've had this morning."

"Small towns. We support each other." He pauses. "You okay, kiddo?"

"I'm the sheriff, Dad. I can't be 'kiddo.'"

"You'll always be kiddo to me. Even when you're arresting people."

"I haven't arrested anyone lately."

"Slow crime season. It'll pick up."

"Gotta go, Dad. Crime to solve."

"That's my girl. Oh, and Reese? Brennan's toupee looked extra ridiculous at the grocery store yesterday. Like a hamster died on his head."

"Dad!"

"Just observing. Love you."

He hangs up before I can respond. We don't say "love you" often. It's understood, like how we both know he'll have dinner ready even if I can't make it, and I'll eat the leftovers cold at midnight while reviewing case files.

I head back outside. The June morning is already warm, promising another scorcher. The Summer Festival banners flutter from every lamppost—bright blue and yellow, advertising three days of music, food, and small-town charm. If we still have a town left by then.

"Back so soon?" Della calls from the porch.

"Crime never sleeps."

"Neither do we," Marge says. "Damn hot flashes."

"That's not hot flashes, that's the weatherman," Ruthie teases.

"Sheriff!" Birdie calls. "Quick question. Hypothetically, if someone wanted to cause chaos but not really hurt anyone, what would you recommend?"

I stop. "Why would you ask that?"

"Book club. We're reading a mystery."

"Since when do you have a book club?"

"Since Marge started sharing her romance novels and we needed to discuss the plot holes," Della explains.

"Those aren't plot holes, they're sex scenes," Marge protests.

"Just a different type of—"

I escape before they can elaborate on their literary criticism.

The day stretches ahead—fourteen hours to solve crimes that make no sense, save a festival that keeps this town alive, and convince the council I deserve this badge despite my obvious equipment deficiency.

At least it can't get worse.

Famous last words.