glanced up from the screen and gave me a tentative smile. “May I help you, ma’am?”
The inbred politeness of Southerners never fails to impress me. When they address you, it’s always “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am.” So different from their Northern counterparts. Folks there could take a page from their book.
I explained to Tammy Lynn that I was here to see Sheriff Wiggins. The whole time I kept thinking Connie Sue would give her eyeteeth to get her hands on the girl. Tammy Lynn had great bone structure. Even I could see that. The girl was in dire need of a makeover. With the right hairstyle and a little makeup, the girl could be a knockout. But all that potential was hidden beneath a well-scrubbed face and clothes more befitting her granny. On second thought, make that her great-granny. After all, I’m a grandmother myself and like to think I still possess some fashion know-how.
“Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
“Ah, no. Sorry,” I admitted rather sheepishly. In the commotion of my kitchen filling with smoke, a suicidal ceiling fan, and finding a repairman, calling for an appointment never entered my head. And if it had, I would have ignored it. I’m a true believer in the element of surprise. Especially when the “surprise” comes bearing gifts. “I’m positive the sheriff will want to hear what I have to say. I promise I won’t take up much of his time,” I tacked on for good measure.
Tammy Lynn picked up a phone and relayed to the sheriff the message that he had a visitor. She nodded several times, then hung up. “Ma’am, he’ll be with you shortly. Please have a seat.”
I plunked myself down in one of the molded plastic chairs and prepared to wait. The girl resumed pecking away at the keyboard. Dog-eared copies of Field & Stream and Popular Mechanics stacked on a corner table didn’t interest me. I used the time instead to examine my surroundings. The walls were covered in a faux-walnut paneling, the floors a nondescript brown linoleum. Various official-looking certificates hung in cheap plastic frames. If anything, the interior was a bigger disappointment than the exterior. It was downright . . . boring. I might as well have been at the tax assessor’s office.
The sheriff’s department was nothing like the energy-charged headquarters on Law & Order . Thanks to my local cable station, I watch reruns faithfully each evening. Only the perfunctory “Most Wanted” posters tacked on a bulletin board near the door hinted this might be a law-enforcement establishment. But even that was ho-hum. I see these same bearded, unsmiling faces every time I mail a package at the post office. Nevertheless I committed each face to memory—just in case. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.
The intercom buzzed just then. Tammy Lynn looked up from her keyboard and gave me a timid smile. “Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”
I smiled back, collected the cookies and my handbag from an adjacent chair, and walked down a short hallway to a door marked COUNTY SHERIFF.
Sumter Wiggins was just as impressive on second viewing. All hard muscle and bad attitude. Some might even call him intimidating. But not me. I’m too old to be easily intimidated. In spite of the little pep talk I gave myself, however, I felt a faint flutter of apprehension as I took the seat he indicated.
“Miz McCall,” he drawled in that velvety baritone. “What brings you here instead of out on the golf course this fine afternoon?”
I wonder if anyone had ever told him that voice of his could earn more money in a week dubbing commercials than he could in a year as county sheriff. Not that I had any direct knowledge of this, mind you, but I always make a point of reading the entertainment section of the paper. One picks up interesting tidbits from time to time.
I plunked the take-and-go container of chocolate-chip cookies on the desk in front of him. “I thought you and your men could use a little treat while
The inbred politeness of Southerners never fails to impress me. When they address you, it’s always “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am.” So different from their Northern counterparts. Folks there could take a page from their book.
I explained to Tammy Lynn that I was here to see Sheriff Wiggins. The whole time I kept thinking Connie Sue would give her eyeteeth to get her hands on the girl. Tammy Lynn had great bone structure. Even I could see that. The girl was in dire need of a makeover. With the right hairstyle and a little makeup, the girl could be a knockout. But all that potential was hidden beneath a well-scrubbed face and clothes more befitting her granny. On second thought, make that her great-granny. After all, I’m a grandmother myself and like to think I still possess some fashion know-how.
“Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
“Ah, no. Sorry,” I admitted rather sheepishly. In the commotion of my kitchen filling with smoke, a suicidal ceiling fan, and finding a repairman, calling for an appointment never entered my head. And if it had, I would have ignored it. I’m a true believer in the element of surprise. Especially when the “surprise” comes bearing gifts. “I’m positive the sheriff will want to hear what I have to say. I promise I won’t take up much of his time,” I tacked on for good measure.
Tammy Lynn picked up a phone and relayed to the sheriff the message that he had a visitor. She nodded several times, then hung up. “Ma’am, he’ll be with you shortly. Please have a seat.”
I plunked myself down in one of the molded plastic chairs and prepared to wait. The girl resumed pecking away at the keyboard. Dog-eared copies of Field & Stream and Popular Mechanics stacked on a corner table didn’t interest me. I used the time instead to examine my surroundings. The walls were covered in a faux-walnut paneling, the floors a nondescript brown linoleum. Various official-looking certificates hung in cheap plastic frames. If anything, the interior was a bigger disappointment than the exterior. It was downright . . . boring. I might as well have been at the tax assessor’s office.
The sheriff’s department was nothing like the energy-charged headquarters on Law & Order . Thanks to my local cable station, I watch reruns faithfully each evening. Only the perfunctory “Most Wanted” posters tacked on a bulletin board near the door hinted this might be a law-enforcement establishment. But even that was ho-hum. I see these same bearded, unsmiling faces every time I mail a package at the post office. Nevertheless I committed each face to memory—just in case. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.
The intercom buzzed just then. Tammy Lynn looked up from her keyboard and gave me a timid smile. “Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”
I smiled back, collected the cookies and my handbag from an adjacent chair, and walked down a short hallway to a door marked COUNTY SHERIFF.
Sumter Wiggins was just as impressive on second viewing. All hard muscle and bad attitude. Some might even call him intimidating. But not me. I’m too old to be easily intimidated. In spite of the little pep talk I gave myself, however, I felt a faint flutter of apprehension as I took the seat he indicated.
“Miz McCall,” he drawled in that velvety baritone. “What brings you here instead of out on the golf course this fine afternoon?”
I wonder if anyone had ever told him that voice of his could earn more money in a week dubbing commercials than he could in a year as county sheriff. Not that I had any direct knowledge of this, mind you, but I always make a point of reading the entertainment section of the paper. One picks up interesting tidbits from time to time.
I plunked the take-and-go container of chocolate-chip cookies on the desk in front of him. “I thought you and your men could use a little treat while
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