My forehead breaks out in a cold, guilty sweat.
I carefully look into a peephole—I doubt this lady is Kenneth’s wife unless he is into cougars. The woman behind the door is standing with her hands on her massive hips that make even me jealous. She has rolls in her bright red hair and matching fuzzy slippers on her feet. Right as I look through the peephole, she steps closer and peers through it on the other side.
“I know you’re there, Sheriff. I see your car in the driveway. Open up.”
She doesn’t sound particularly pleasant, but it’s not my monkeys and not my circus, so I begin silently moving backward when she raises her voice.
“Don’t you dare run away from me, Kenneth Benjamin Benson! I’ll tell your mama that you disregarded my request. I’ll go to the mayor and tell him that!”
She did not just say that…
“Do you hear me?”
Yes, she did. My original plan to stay away from all of it goes down the drain. I don’t hear the water running, so Kenneth is not in the shower. Nor is he in the kitchen. And the woman just said his car is still here, which means he’s been so exhausted that he didn’t even hear her first attempt at shaking the house or her current yelling. A wave of protectiveness rises in my chest, making it tight. I walk back to the door with the determination of a bulldozer set on its course—those are vicious, trust me—and pull it open.
“May I help you?” I ask in a stern voice, making the lady stutter.
“Y-you—” she clears her throat. “Whoareyou?” She narrows her eyes at me.
“You’re knocking on the door at the ungodly hour of,” I look at the wall clock and then back at her, “six twenty-nine in the morning and have the balls to ask me who I am?”
Her eyes narrow even more. “Did your mama wash your filthy mouth with soap? I would.”
I give her a sweet smile, drawling on the words. “Well, good thing you’re not her.” And yes, my mama washed my mouth with soap, and this is precisely why I curse like a sailor.
Her mouth puckers into something that resembles a cat’s butthole. “I don’t know who you are, but you need to step away so I can talk to the sheriff.”
She makes a motion to push me aside and move through the door, but I step in her way. She moves to the other side, and I mimic her, not letting her pass. I might be short, but I am mighty.
“Move right this second, young lady!” she orders, pointing her index finger at my feet. Fumes are pretty much coming out of her ears. “I must speak to Sheriff right now.”
I give her another smile. “You can talk to him during normal business hoursat the station.” Then I add with snark, “Like normal people do.”
She gasps and brings her hand to her chest in horror. “How dare you?”
“What’s going on?” comes a raspy, sleepy voice behind me.
The morning guest latches onto it like a leech. “Kenny,” she starts, her voice breaking as if she’s about to cry, “this… thiswoman,” she throws a nasty look my way, “here insulted me.”
A loud sigh right behind me lands right on the back of my head, making the fine hairs on my neck stand up.
“What do you need, Mrs. Roberts?”
Mrs. Roberts glowers at me, but the second she turns toKenny,her eyes fill with adoration. “You know how I always have a cup of my morning coffee on my front porch? So, I was having a cup today as well. And it was a different cup than usual because this awful woman Donna refuses to sell me her special blend for some reason.”
I snort—I wonder why.
She sends me another nasty glare and continues her story. “So, where was I?” Her eyes turn upward for a moment. “Right. I was having my morning cup of horrible coffee and even bought those cupcakes from Mrs. Landy. Just like a treat, you know, since the coffee was so awful. And you know, it’s an early hour, and because of Donna, I had to brew my coffee twice because the first time turned out to be awful.” She lowers her voice at the last word as if sharing the secret. “So, when I finally managed to make the perfect cup, I took my cupcake, and I was—”
I let out a loud, dramatic snore because she is putting me into a coma, and begin wondering if there’s an end to this story before I turn forty.
She presses her lips tight, her eyes promising a slow death before she relaxes them enough to talk again.
“As I said before I was rudely interrupted, I took my cupcake and my coffee that was just slightly better than the first, if I may,” she presses her open palm to her generous chest covered in a white, fuzzy bathrobe, “and went to sit on my front porch. And then I saw it.”
Her lower lip begins trembling, and for a moment I feel bad for Mrs. Roberts—whatever made her almost cry must have been really horrible. But it doesn’t last long.
“I saw Mr. Cricket,” she almost yells his name, “taking my newspaper from the front lawn! Right in front of my very own eyes! Before I can even read it. Can you believe the audacity?”
