Page 10 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Massimo

"Sheriff Ramsey," he says, not bothering to stand when we enter his temporary office above the hardware store. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" His gaze shifts to me, dismissive. "And...deputy."

"Mr. Shelby," Reese remains standing, forcing him to look up at her. "We're investigating the recent incidents affecting local businesses."

"Unfortunate timing," he says, leaning back in his leather chair. "Right before the festival."

"Very unfortunate for businesses that rejected your purchase offers," I say.

His eyes narrow. "Are you implying something?"

"Just establishing facts," Reese replies smoothly. "Three incidents targeting businesses that turned down your resort proposal."

"Coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences," she counters.

"Neither do I," he says, finally standing. "Which is why I find it interesting that these problems started right after I announced my plans. Almost like someone's trying to frame me."

"Or make businesses desperate enough to sell," I suggest.

Shelby laughs, a cold sound. "Look around, Deputy. Fairwick is dying. I'm offering fair market value for outdated properties in a town that sees tourists two weeks a year."

"The festival brings in enough—" Reese starts.

"The festival is charming," he interrupts. "My resort would bring year-round revenue. Jobs. Growth. But instead, your locals cling to their crumbling buildings and quaint traditions."

"People here value history," Reese says.

"People here fear change." He straightens his tie. "But change comes whether they want it or not."

"Is that a threat?" I ask.

"An observation." His smile is cold. "Now, unless you have actual evidence linking me to these unfortunate accidents, I have calls to make."

"We'll be in touch," Reese says.

Outside, she exhales slowly. "That went well."

"He's hiding something."

Ellen’s Bakery smells like sin—warm bread, sugar, butter. Tom Miller is crouched under the front counter, tool belt slung low on his hips.

“Sheriff,” he says without standing. “Pipe’s been fixed for weeks, but Ellen’s kept me busy—loose hinges, squeaky cooler door…” He pats the cabinet. “She says she can’t have festival customers thinking the place is falling apart.”

“Bet she appreciates having a man around to help out,” I say, glancing at Reese.

She doesn’t even blink. “Deputy Tucci wanted to hear your theory himself. Why you think the flood wasn’t just an accident.”

Tom wipes his hands. “Pipe wasn’t old enough to fail like that. Looked fine outside, but when I cut it open, the inside was scored—like someone had run a blade through it. Water pressure did the rest.”

“Find anything unusual while you were fixing other things?” I ask.

“Not that day. But last week, replacing the back of this cabinet, I found this. Meant to drop it by the station.” He hands me a thick blue card with GRIT printed in neat black script.

Reese pulls on gloves, takes it from me, and seals it in a bag. Our eyes meet over the plastic—hers sharp with curiosity, mine lingering a moment too long.

“Know what it means?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Ellen swears it wasn’t here before the flood. She also says I’ve earned my weight in muffins since, so I’m not complaining.”

I grin. “Muffins are a powerful motivator. Especially from a lovely lady.”

Reese’s look says behave , but the corner of her mouth curves before she turns away. She thanks Tom and Ellen, who wave us out with warm smiles.

As we leave, I can’t help thinking it’s like we’re in the middle of one of those small-town crime dramas—except the sheriff is smarter, sharper, and far better looking than TV ever delivers.

The library still carries a faint trace of smoke under the cleaner’s lemon scent. Mrs. Thompson, a woman with soft gray hair and a cardigan full of pins, greets Reese like an old friend.

“How’s the restoration going?” I ask.

“Slow,” she sighs. “Sprinklers soaked part of our local history section after the fire. Jack—you know, the wonderful firefighter who came to help—explained the wiring in the basement panel looked like it had been tampered with.”

Reese nods. “Anyone suspicious hanging around before the fire?”

Mrs. Thompson shakes her head. “Just our regular patrons and volunteers.”

Reese shows her the bagged GRIT card. “Ever seen anything like this?”

Mrs. Thompson tilts her head, eyes narrowing as if a memory is trying to surface.

Then she moves toward the donation bin. “Hold on… maybe.” She sifts through a stack of books, pulls one out, and slides a matching blue card from inside.

“Thought it was just a bookmark someone left behind. Didn’t think it could be related to the fire. ”

Another look between me and Reese. She passes me the evidence kit, our fingers brushing—her eyes dip for half a second before she steps back.

“‘Grit’ means courage. Endurance,” I say. “Like fighting through something hard.”

“Or refusing to quit even when you should,” she counters.

I smile. “Spoken like a stubborn woman who’s never walked away from a fight.”

At Jossie’s Coffee Shop, the new window frame still smells faintly of fresh paint. Jossie wipes her hands on her apron, cheeks warming as she talks about Daniel from the glass shop.

“Fixed it the same day, wouldn’t take full price,” she says. “He’s been stopping by every morning since. Says my coffee’s better than anything in the city.”

“Nice story,” I say, “but how does a window break on its own?”

She frowns. “Guess it doesn’t. Frame looked like it had been pried open—probably after someone cracked the glass.”

Reese asks if she’s seen a blue card like the others. Jossie shakes her head.

“Mail tampering’s a federal crime,” Reese says as we head to Mrs. Abernathy’s. “If this is connected, we need to know.”

Mrs. Abernathy’s white house smells of cinnamon.

She greets Reese like an old neighbor. “The mix-up brought Bob Beemer, my high school sweetheart right to my door. My niece’s wedding invitation went to him instead of me—if he hadn’t brought it over, I’d have missed it. Now I’m taking him as my date.”

I grin. “Postal service doing God’s work.”

“Talk to your mail carrier?” Reese asks.

“Sure did—he was puzzled, even a little concerned, and swore he didn’t make the mistake.”

“Anyone else on your street get misdelivered mail that you know of?” Reese asks.

“No. I’ve asked.”

“Mind checking your mail again for anything out of place?”

She shuffles through a stack on the kitchen table. “Well, I’ll be…” She pulls out a GRIT card and hands it over.

Another glance between me and Reese—third card, same paper, same print. The air between us feels warmer than it should.

Back at the station, Reese pins enlarged photos of the cards to the board, saying she’ll send the evidence bags to the lab for fingerprints.

“Three of the four incidents,” I say. “Same signature card.”

“All after Shelby started making offers,” she observes. “But why leave them?”

“Could be exactly what he said—someone trying to frame him,” I say. “Or maybe the cards aren’t about their meaning of the word grit at all. Maybe they’re just a way to make sure we see that the incidents are connected.”

"But there was no card at Jossie's coffee shop." Reese frowns, tapping her pen against the desk. "Why break the pattern?"

"Maybe they're trying to mislead us," I suggest. "Make us question if the incidents are actually connected."

"Or the coffee shop incident isn't related at all," she considers. "A coincidence or copycat that happened during the same timeframe."

"Maybe they ran out of cards," I offer with a half-smile. "Even criminals have supply chain issues."

She rolls her eyes but doesn't dismiss it entirely. "Whatever the reason, it's deliberate. Nothing about this case is random."

I step closer, lowering my voice. “You have a mind built for puzzles, Sheriff. Someone out there knows it—and maybe they’re leaving you pieces to put together.”

Her eyes lock on mine, and for a second the board, the case, the whole damn station falls away.

I want to solve this case.

And I want her—with the same hunger, the same drive. Actually, even more.