She grabbed a menu, though she was fairly certain there wasn’t anything new on the thing.
“When are you going to change some of this?” she called out to Sam.
“You get that friend of yours to move back to town and help me out back here, and maybe you can have something new.”
“I don’t think you can afford her.”
Her banter escaped right as Sheryl pushed through the two-way swinging doors that led to the back.
Her hands were full of a tub of ice.
Jo lifted her chin, made sure a smile was firmly in place. “Hi, Sheryl.”
This woman had known Jo since before she had her first period, was her best friend’s mother. The lady put her nose in the air and averted her eyes before she offered a weak greeting.
Jo counted it as a win. The last time she was in, Sheryl had completely ignored her.
As winning went, Jo had apparently sat in Sheryl’s section, so she had no choice but to talk to her.
“How does the soup look tonight?”
“Same as it has for twenty years.”
“I’ll skip it then.”
Sheryl didn’t crack a smile.
“How about an iced tea.”
Sheryl put away her pad of paper and twisted around.
Brenda moved behind the counter to grab the coffeepot. “When are Wyatt and Mel coming back?”
“Not for a week.”
“I’ve never been anywhere tropical.” Brenda hummed to herself. “Fiji . . . I hope she takes lots of pictures.”
“Me, too.”
“Think you’ll ever go?” Brenda asked.
Jo adjusted her gun belt so her .45 wasn’t digging into her waist. “And leave beautiful downtown River Bend? I’m good.”
Sam glanced through the window. “You just need a Wyatt in your life.”
“I’m too busy for that.”
“Ha!” The laugh came from down the counter.
“Grant? Aren’t you at the wrong bar?”
Grant had been known to spend a little time in the only jail cell in town for drinking a little too much and yelling at the dogs, the kids . . . and anyone who wasn’t drinking with him. The running joke in town was he needed a set of keys to the jail cell like that guy on The Andy Griffith Show.
It never really came to that since more serious overnight guests were taken into Waterville, where they had twenty-four-hour surveillance.
Not that it stopped Jo from occasionally making a kid on the wrong path spend the night in her jail. A tactic that had worked quite a bit for her dad.
“I’m on the wagon, Sheriff.”
Jo noticed the gloss in his eyes. “By wagon you mean you’re pacing yourself?”
“Well, let’s not be ridiculous.”
Jo couldn’t help but laugh.
Sheryl set an iced tea in front of her, pulled out her pad of paper again, and waited without comment.
“I’ll go with the roast beef.”
Without eye contact, Sheryl scribbled the order and tossed it in Sam’s window.
Brenda walked behind Jo and leaned in close. “Don’t take it personally.”
“Do I ever?”
“I don’t know . . . do you?”
Jo waved her off and turned to her drink.
“I have to say, Sheriff, you cleaned up really well the other night.”
“Why thanks, Sam. I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t remember the last time I saw you in something other than a uniform. You’re like a girl under all that stuff.” He waved at her as if he were washing away her badge.
“Most people in town already know that.” But thanks for announcing it to a restaurant full of them.
He winked and went back to the task of cooking.
When Sheryl placed food in front of her, Jo thanked her . . . then, because Grant grabbed Sheryl’s attention for coffee, Jo went ahead and made good use of her proximity.
“How is Zanya, Sheryl? I haven’t seen much of her.”
Sheryl quickly poured the coffee and returned the pot to the warmer. “She’s fine.”
“And Blaze? Getting big, I bet.”
No eye contact . . . her hands shook on the coffeepot.
Jo didn’t like the body language.
“He’s a big boy.”
Jo eased off. She’d found out enough for one night. Besides, Thursday morning was only a few hours away.
Everyone in town knew Wyatt Gibson and his new wife were on their honeymoon.
And since teenagers were known to liberate a little alcohol from unsuspecting homes from time to time, Ziggy made sure to keep the small town tradition going.
Deputy Emery’s squad car was parked in front of his house, which didn’t sit very far from anything in River Bend . . . and Ziggy noticed the moment JoAnne sat her firm little ass in a broken-down bar stool at Sam’s.
He socked away the fact his wife was talking to that bitch to use another time.
It was cold for late August, which gave Ziggy a reason to wear a dark coat to match the early dusk of night, and gloves. Well, the gloves were overkill, but if someone saw him, they wouldn’t look at him as if he were wearing shorts in twelve-degree weather.
He didn’t like the quiet of the town until he needed to hear every bark and whisper.
His senses heightened, and he worked his way to the house he’d seen but never been in. Nice little tucked away home. Perfect for his needs.
Ziggy had learned a few things in prison.
The art of disguise in case someone did see you. It wasn’t hard to darken up his beard or wear a hat. A wig under the hat was a little hard to manage, but there were plenty of old women in River Bend who took advantage of the farmers’ market, leaving their homes free for the picking. Alcohol wasn’t a score there, but the occasional trinket could be, though Ziggy refrained from lifting petty things and having the town alerted to a thief.