“And I should ask for whom?” She squinted at his name tag, sounding suspiciously defiant.
“Deputy Sheriff Whittaker.” Without wasting any more time, he walked back to his patrol car.
“Deputy Whittaker?” Her voice, clear, high and musical, sailed through the air like birdsong on the spring breeze.
Reluctantly he turned to look at her again. “Yes?”
“You said this was one of the roads to Applegate, but am I headed in the right direction?”
Had he ever, even as a boy, exuded such a wide-eyed innocence?
“You’re…you’re headed in the right direction.” He took a step backward and bumped into his car’s grille. When she winced, he added hastily, “You can’t miss Mel’s repair shop. Right next to the county courthouse.”
She fluttered her fingers next to her head, a half-wave, half-salute that made him think she might be mocking him.
Settling behind the wheel of the cruiser, he waited for her to be on her way. That was his excuse. Actually he’d have liked to sit on the side of the road indefinitely. Do nothing more than watch the wrens gather materials for their nests. But in an hour he had an appointment back at headquarters with that reporter from the Sun.
Another reason for the headache that originated at the base of his skull and pounded a path to his temples.
In a PR move to show the county residents how far the newly rehabilitated department had come, Sheriff Garrett McQuire had requested the newspaper interview. Mack saw the need. His boss and longtime buddy had worked ceaselessly, cleaning up the mess the former sheriff Easley and his cronies had left behind. What Mack hadn’t foreseen was that Garrett would take off on his honeymoon and leave Mack with the reporter. He suspected the sheriff saw the handover of responsibilities as part of his deputy’s personal rehabilitation. If Mack didn’t owe Garrett so much—both as a boss and as a buddy, he would’ve rescheduled.
Instead, he put the patrol car in gear and headed back to town. If he was going through with this, he needed to be the first on-site for the appointment. He didn’t need a member of the press waiting, unsupervised.
THE YUGO BUCKED IN complaint as Chloe drove in second gear down Applegate’s Main Street. Squinting against the sunlight, she searched for Mel’s repair shop. Ah, there was the domed courthouse and, in its shadow, a two-bay cinder block garage with kudzu creeping up one side. She parked in front, then pulled on the stubborn emergency brake. Reaching into the back seat, she grabbed a pad of paper to jot down a few notes and capture her first impression of Deputy Whittaker.
Thirty-something, he was handsome—the uniform automatically did that for a guy. Strong jaw. A nose that could have been considered classically Roman if the deputy hadn’t broken it. An old sports injury? From the barred and bolted look in Whittaker’s dark brown eyes, Chloe had an instinctive feeling he’d reveal nothing he didn’t want known. Either about his job or himself. If she had anything to do with him this week, he might prove problematic. A difficult lock resisting the pick.
The Colum County Sheriff’s Department. Now there lay a potentially rewarding project. Her first feature story. Her first byline. A tiny shiver ran through her as she anticipated the opportunity. Hastily she wrote, “Deputy Whittaker. Humorless. Stickler for details,” before tossing the notepad onto the passenger seat.
She wrestled with the door of the Yugo. “Honestly, you are one more act of resistance away from the scrap heap,” she warned the mutinous vehicle when she managed to break free. She kicked the door shut behind her.
At the garage’s first bay, she gingerly stepped around a pick up to approach the bottom half of a coverall-clad mechanic leaning well under the truck’s raised hood.
“Mr. Mel?” she inquired with well-practiced Southern deference. “Deputy Whittaker sent me.”
“Mr. Mel! Now that’s a hoot!” The top half of the technician popped into view.
Chloe immediately recognized her error.
The person in the coveralls would never be mistaken for a man. She had wild red hair caught up in a bandanna, a movie-star smile and classically feminine features, not to mention a voluptuous body. But the woman’s voice belonged to the racetrack pit or smoke-filled juke joints. Chloe didn’t even hazard a guess at her age.
The mechanic stuck her greasy hands on her hips. “So the deputy sent you over to see Mr. Mel. Maybe his sense of humor’s finally coming back.”
“It was my mistake. He said to pull into Mel’s auto repair. I jumped to conclusions. Sorry. That’s not my style.”
“Well, I’m Mel. Short for Melody. My mama was hoping for a girlie-girl.” She rolled her big blue eyes. “But grease monkeys defy gender, honey. Come on in the office. I’m due a break.” She wiped her hands on a rag.
Chloe followed the woman into a cramped room no bigger than a utility closet.
“Coffee?” Mel raised a half-full pot from the automatic coffeemaker perched on a packing crate. “Nectar of the goddess.”
“Please.”
“You’re new in town.” The woman handed Chloe a mug of sludge-black liquid.
“I’m a newspaper reporter for the Western Carolina Sun,” she replied, taking a sip of the bitter brew and noting the three-year-old SPCA calendar hanging on the wall.
“A reporter?” Mel paused, coffeepot in midair. The energy in the room shifted from positive to unnervingly negative.
“Sheriff McQuire suggested we do an article on his revamped department,” Chloe explained, trying to establish credibility. “I have my first interview with him in a few minutes.”
“That’ll be difficult, seeing as he’s on his honeymoon.” Mel’s chuckle swelled to a roar. She slapped her thigh, spilling coffee on the cracked linoleum floor. “I bet he did that deliberately.”
Chloe clenched her mug in both hands, hoping the heat would defuse her rising irritation. “And the reason would be?”
“Even though, as sheriff, Garrett would recognize the need for positive PR, personally, he and journalists aren’t on the best of terms after they hounded his wife.” Mel thumped the pot back on the coffeemaker’s heating ring. “Made the whole town miserable. You’d have to be living under a rock not to know about it.”
Okay. The runaway heiress. But…“I wasn’t part of that feeding frenzy.” No, she’d been stuck on the garden-club beat.
Mel raised one eyebrow.
“So—” in the face of this woman’s disbelief, Chloe forged ahead “—who’s left to handle my interview?”
“While Garrett’s gone, Mack’s in charge.”
“Mack?”
“Deputy Whittaker.”
Interesting. The lock in need of a pick.
“The guy who sent you here for…what?” Mel prodded.
“Yes. My car’s broken taillight. The deputy ran into me outside town. Didn’t cite me on condition I see you.”
“I gotta say this new department’s been good for my business.”
“Do you have an arrangement?” Chloe blurted out. She fumbled in her pocket for her notepad, then realized she’d left it in the Yugo. She’d heard of small towns adding to their coffers with overzealous ticketing or costly kick-back repairs that targeted motorists passing through.
Mel dropped