Falling For The Deputy

“That’s what you want it to be.”

He’d seen how Atherton’s face had lit up while Miss Sarah was talking. Reporters loved to chase human-interest stories the way Buster loved to chase squirrels. So let this rookie reporter humanize Breckinridge’s story, or McMillan’s or Sooner’s. His was confidential. There were some things even the electorate had no right to know. He winced as he thought of Miss Sarah describing him as a war hero.

Atherton reached out and ran her fingers lightly over the instruments on the patrol car’s dashboard, distracting him.

“Don’t touch,” he snapped.

“You or the dashboard?” she asked, pulling her hand back. “Where do you live?”

“Not in one of the expensive new developments,” he replied, ticked at himself for explaining. “So you can stop suspecting misappropriation of department funds.” Make that double-ticked for elaborating.

“Where, then?” She rolled her window down. Then up. Then halfway down. Then settled in to review the photos she’d taken. “The question’s not out of line. A big issue in many metro areas is that teachers, firefighters and police officers often can’t afford to live in the neighborhoods they service. Is it the same in Colum County?”

“Above the office there’s a small barracks. I live there.”

She plunked the Nikon in her lap. “Do the other deputies?” The surprise in her voice warned him to be cautious.

“Not full-time,” he admitted.

“Why do you?”

“Because I’m married to my job.” He wasn’t about to tell her how the sheriff, afraid Mack might backslide into alcohol, had installed him in the barracks. When his life had stabilized, Mack hadn’t seen much point in moving, although his parents kept bugging him about how they kept his room at the farmhouse available, should he ever want to return home.

Thankfully, the bed-and-breakfast came into view. He pulled the cruiser to a head-snapping halt in front.

“Deputy Whittaker?”

Without enthusiasm, he turned to look at his passenger. He could use a drink.

“Your doubts about our working together wouldn’t come from the fact that I’m a woman, would it?” she asked.

He gritted his teeth. Working with women—either in the department or in the army—had never been a problem. But how could he say so now without sounding defensive? “I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.” She got out of the car, but left her scent behind. Light. Appealing. Like fresh-baked goods. Simpler days.

He didn’t answer her. Didn’t set a time for their meeting again. Didn’t look in her direction. As soon as he heard her door click, he put the patrol car in gear. Automatic drive.

Chloe watched as Deputy Whittaker drove away, not like a cop, but like a hotrodder. The man was as thorny and closed as a pinecone after the rain. Why, back at Ms. Culpepper’s, when Chloe had suggested he call her by her first name, had he not made the slightest, begrudging suggestion she call him Mack? And why had he gone all wooden when the elderly woman mentioned his combat medals? Unless the other deputies proved as intriguing, Chloe was determined to follow Whittaker until she had him—and the pull he exerted in the county—figured out.

Shouldering her heavy backpack, she made her way up the front walk to the bed-and-breakfast, a rambling two-story structure that, despite the rockers on the front porch and the planters still filled with winter pansies, looked as if it might once have been a saloon. Chloe wasn’t sure whether June Parker would be offended or amused by that observation.

Chloe was fascinated by the owner. Part nineteenth-century sweet magnolia and part savvy twenty-first-century businesswoman, Ms. Parker was an exquisitely groomed woman of indeterminate age. As well as running a bed-and-breakfast, she apparently gave comportment lessons to the town children and headed an investment club for retired women—discreet signs at the front desk advertised as much.

“Afternoon, Miss Atherton.” Wearing a large sun hat, hot-pink Crocs, gardening gloves and an apron that read “I’m not old—I just need repotting,” Ms. Parker knelt in a flower bed. “Will you join us for tea at four? Everything on my tea cart is homemade.”

Chloe shouldn’t have eaten so many of Sarah Culpepper’s hermit bars. “Of course,” she replied, unwilling to miss an opportunity to gather information. “Do I have time to freshen up?”

Ms. Parker checked a delicate antique watch pinned to her blouse. “We both do. I’ll see you in the parlor in thirty minutes.”

Chloe retreated to her room, grateful for the small luxuries her hostess had provided. Hand-milled soaps, fluffy towels for a quick wash and a big, sensuously soft bed scented with crabapple blossoms from the gardens below. The April breezes ruffled the sheer curtains by the open window and acted as a narcotic, quickly lulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep when she’d only intended a catnap.

She awoke abruptly, wondering if it might be morning—and time to meet up with that puzzling deputy—until she smelled the pungent bergamot aroma of Earl Grey, mingled with baking spices. She found herself unexpectedly ravenous. Both for food and for information. Hopping out of bed and glancing in the mirror, she ran her fingers through her hair, then dashed downstairs to find Ms. Parker presiding at a silver tea set. Although a three-tiered sandwich and pastry tray held enough food for, if not an army, then a battalion, the innkeeper was the only person in the room.

“I’m sorry. I overslept,” Chloe explained. “Did I miss everyone?”

“Not at all,” Ms. Parker replied, pouring hot tea into a translucent china cup. “We’re only two today. Mondays aren’t particularly busy.”

Chloe accepted the tea and a seat on a chair covered in petit point at a table set with linen and fresh flowers. “And you went to all this trouble.”

“Trouble? I hardly think a civilized break in the middle of the day can be categorized as trouble. If I had no guests at all, I’d do this for myself. Call it part of my mental health program.”

No wonder you couldn’t tell June Parker’s age. She knew how to take care of herself. If Chloe hadn’t moved on to harder news, June would have made a lovely subject for the paper’s Living section.

“But all these goodies…” Chloe indicated the extravagant tea tray.

“At the end of the day I send what’s left over to the sheriff’s office. Those hardworking deputies deserve some TLC.”

An opening.

“About Mack Whittaker…”

“Him especially.”

Chloe was taken aback. If ever there was an individual who appeared able to look after himself, who appeared not to need—or notice—the softer things in life, that was Deputy Whittaker.

“Mack recently served in Iraq,” Ms. Parker explained.

“Ah, yes. Ms. Culpepper said he’d received medals.” Chloe nibbled on a cranberry-orange scone. Heaven. “Can you tell me what they were for?”

“I could. But you should have Mack tell you.” The inn owner fingered the delicate lace edging on her linen napkin. “Applegate is one big family, Ms. Atherton. Of course we talk among ourselves. But unless we know your daddy, granddaddy and great-granddaddy, we’re not going to talk to you behind a family member’s back.”

Chloe’s opened her eyes wide. Well. Now she knew where she stood. Whittaker’s medals she could research. But it intrigued her that this was the third time today she’d met apparent admiration for the deputy, tempered with a reluctance to talk about him.

“Perhaps we could switch to first names,” Ms. Parker said, “and you could tell me about yourself.”

Chloe fidgeted in her seat. Without her backpack and her tools of the trade, she felt exposed. She had made herself strong by becoming an observer and never liked being the object of attention.

“Were you born and raised around here?” June persisted.

“No. I’m from Atlanta originally. My father’s a mathematics professor at Emory and my mother’s an epidemiologist at the CDC—Centers for Disease Control. I’m a reporter, and that’s about all there is to tell,” she finished in one long breath.

June smiled over the rim of her teacup. “I’m sure there’s more to the story than that.”

“We’re a family that sticks to the facts,” Chloe replied with a twinge of discomfort. “To that end…I’m in town to learn about the sheriff’s department. Its procedures. Its personnel.”

“I certainly hope you’re not planning to rummage around in Mack’s personal pain to sell papers,” the innkeeper said, putting her teacup down with a sharp snick.

Chloe didn’t back down. “I’m searching for the right angle. Whether it’s the town itself, the sheriff’s department or the individuals who make up that department.”