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Saturday was always the fête’s biggest day. Now, among the crowds of kids and parents and crafters and snacks of every sort, with an oompah band playing covers of heavy metal songs on the nearest stage, Di had to figure out how to trap a backwoods sheriff well enough that he wouldn’t find some squirmy, redneck way out of it.
Of course, the plans for this were all set, and only a few had had anything to do with him. Still, Di was half-mad to get started.
It wasn’t that he wanted to do this, but the wait was only making him come up with a thousand ways this could go wrong. That the oompah band was chugging their way through something which might have been Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs” wasn’t making it any easier to think.
“Di, cool it, willya?” Mac pressed him. “If you wear a hole in her carpet, Nora will seriously kill you when she recovers.”
True, Di was pacing and could not calm down. The general environment wasn’t helping.
The carpet he was abusing was pink. The color assault wasn’t making it any easier to think—and neither was the display of “Yes, Jesus Loves Me” items which had spread like a fungus over one of Cute ‘n’ Cuddly’s walls. They were printed on clothing for newborns through 5X and on everything from shirts to overalls, all in either pink or blue, just to be sure that everyone knew you held strictly to gender lines, as well.
Possibly being around Fuchsia had made him notice this more, but, as a man who stitched, he’d never been very good at doing the he-man, Tarzan thing, anyway—and the saccharine assault was getting on his nerves.
Trying to take in Mac’s advice, Di forced himself to stop pacing, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
It had already been a ridiculously-long day trying not to give away their plans with his intense nervousness around Sheriff Pommelroy. The fact that he hadn’t eaten anything, for terror that the sheriff might poison it when he wasn’t looking, wasn’t making things any easier. It was a miracle he’d made it to almost 2 p.m. without passing out.
He’d even brought in his own water bottle today, which hung from his belt. It was metallic, in cobalt and silver—the colors of their local high school—and said, “Prospectors Strike Gold!” The school had given them out in a fit of optimism a few years ago when the football team had made it to regionals. Despite the swag, they hadn’t made it any further.
Pommelroy had laughed at it, too, but at least that was hopefully keeping him from noticing what they were up to.
Outside, the oompah band slipped into Judas Priest’s “Another Thing Comin’” which meant they were working their way up to their grand finale, Iron Maiden’s “Run to the Hills.” That last one was such a ridiculously fast song that if only one of the tuba players passed out after it, it was considered a good day.
Either despite or because of the sonic assault, Di was trying not to jiggle his leg in constant, nervous agitation. He was supposed to be patrolling, and Mac was theoretically taking Sgt. Peewee for a walk, although the pup was actually hidden in the back room of Velveteen’s store with her two assistants looking after him. Di was simply praying that Pommelroy wouldn’t notice that they weren’t anywhere to be seen. At least, normally, he wasn’t that observant.
“You think this can possibly work?” he fidgeted.
Clearly, Mac was trying not to roll her eyes. As always, she was entirely cool.
In answer, she turned her head to stare at a pink, mass-produced teddy bear in an “I Wuv Grandma!” t-shirt.
“You gettin’ all of this, Stefan?”
“Ye-ep,” the man answered from the other side of the door to the stockroom.
Di really hoped Stefan didn’t cough, or they were toast.
The man was apparently the best friend of the son-in-law of the owner of the new resort. Mostly, he was known for doing videos at local weddings. As far as Di knew, he hadn’t been called on for surveillance before, but the mayor had asked him for a—paid—favor.
“This is crazy, right?” Di went on, as though none of this had happened. “I’m supposed to go get the sheriff in here by . . .”
Suddenly, his whole body went cold.
“What’s my line again?”
Briefly, Mac checked her watch.
“‘There’s something I need to talk to you about,’” she prompted. “‘And we should probably . . .’”
Trying not to shake from sheer adrenaline, Di finished.
“. . . ‘should probably do it in private.’ Right.”
The musical gauntlet which was “Run to the Hills” began outside. Di kind of wished he could follow its advice and do the same, except that, technically, he already was in the hills.
Just thinking about what he was supposed to do made his brain overheat.
They’d agreed that he was going to pretend to blackmail the sheriff with what he knew. Given Pommelroy, it was the sort of behavior he’d expect—and exactly what he’d do himself. They were planning to catch him directly before his afternoon snack, when he’d be especially grouchy and ready to tell someone off.
Mac’s gaze assessed him.
“You sure you want to be the one to do this?”
Di took in a deep, steadying breath.
“I’m sure I don’t want you to.”
“I’ll be in the backroom if you need me,” she assured him.
Sighing at his wimpy nature, Di tried to lecture himself.
You’ve gotta get this done. You can’t let Pommelroy keep killing people.
He let out a sigh.
But, man, why do I have to suck at this so much?
Looking at her watch again, Mac rose from a pink, fluffy chair which had embroidered on the back, Granny Always Gets the Throne, and went over to the backroom, opening the door to look in.
“You ready, Stefan?”
Although Di didn’t hear anything, from Mac’s nod, he guessed Stefan had agreed.
Looking back to Di, then, Mac sighed and crooked her finger at him.
“Come here, Di.”
Di did, and, for a moment, she rearranged his shirt collar and sort of turned him around, brushing him off. As Pommelroy was not exactly a pristine dresser himself, Di wasn’t certain what good this would do, as he ended up half in the backroom, but far be it from him to stop Mac if she wanted to touch him.
Finally, she stopped brushing him off, by which point he was pretty much against the stockroom shelves. Then, she murmured, “It’s time.”
But, as he was bracing himself to go get the sheriff, she reached up to his collar and pulled him down to her.
And then Di’s brain pretty much overloaded entirely, as she kissed him.
It was a really good kiss, too. He barely noticed the end of the oompah band’s set and their leader’s cheerful, “Only one tuba player down! Whoo-hoo!”
But, as she pulled away and patted him on the chest, she whispered, “Sorry. This is what’s gotta be.”
And, a second later, the stockroom door was closed in front of him, and he heard the key turn in the lock. When he looked only a second later to the screens Stefan had set up, she seemed completely casual, just as Pommelroy sauntered in.
“Whatchu want, Welles? Why’d you send me this note?” he wondered, waving the piece of paper.
And as time started to move again in Di’s brain, he realized that the woman he loved had already planned to put herself in danger on the other side of a locked door from him—and, if he didn’t want to get her seriously hurt—there was nothing at all he could do about it.