Fried Pickles and the Fuzz

  Fried Pickles and the Fuzz

  The Redneck Fabulous Series

  by Calico Daniels

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  FRIED PICKLES AND THE FUZZ

  Copyright © 2013 CALICO DANIELS

  ISBN 978-1-62135-123-8

  Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs

  To Buford:

  As always, you’re the one who keeps me laughing, who keeps me smiling and makes me feel special in a way that gives me goosebumps.

  Sunday

  Sheriff Bronson Andrews released a long breath, slammed the door of his aging department-issued black and white SUV, and walked slowly up the well-lit sidewalk toward the Fried Pickle Café. As the recently appointed sheriff in Big Creek County, he was determined to uphold the law. Granted, it wasn’t hard to do in the small, sparsely populated West Texas county. He’d been welcomed with open arms by the residents. Made to feel like one of their own even though he came from about two hundred miles away and had never even been to Big Creek before taking office.

  And he liked it.

  Well… most of the time.

  Like any law enforcement officer, he had days when his job made him feel like he was really making a difference. Then there were the days when he pondered his choice of profession and the wisdom of the decision to make it a career. While most of the calls he had responded to during his time as sheriff could truly be classified by his fellow officers as “real police work”, the guys back in Austin would have a hearty chuckle if they knew he also spent a number of hours herding cows on county roads and settling disputes between neighbors about who rightfully owned the wisteria growing along a shared fence line.

  The brass bell above the door to the café jangled as he stepped out of the sweltering summer evening and into the air-conditioned haven. True to its name, fried pickles were on the menu, along with about any other southern battered and deep-fried goodie he could think of, right down to fried green beans and fried green tomatoes.

  Bronson passed bright red upholstered booths and tables with red-and-white checkered tablecloths, returning greetings to a few lingering townsfolk as he weaved his way to the counter. Pulling out a faded stool, he took up his regular spot at the end near the kitchen. As far as he was concerned, it was the best seat in the house. From his vantage point, he could clearly see the entire café, the main street out the front window, and he could listen to Heather sing along with the radio in her slightly off-key manner from the kitchen.

  One of the many things he’d learned during his short time as sheriff was that very little ever changed in Big Creek without a fight. The Pickle still resided in its original spot, smack dab in the center of downtown, and the deco was reminiscent of a time that had long ago faded away as the younger generation began to spread their wings and leave the relative comfort of the nest and the small community. Big Creek might still be the tight-knit ranching community it had started as, but with the years had also come some progress, technology, and a regular stream of tourists brought in by many of the newer, vacation-friendly businesses. Many of which the hometowners had strongly opposed. They wanted the town to stay the same. Safe and protected in a bubble.

  They relished in sharing stories about the black-and-white photos of the town in its early days that dotted the cream walls all around the interior of the café. They took comfort in the fact that Erma, the evening waitress, had been waiting the same tables for nearly fifty years. And every year just before school started again, the town would have its weeklong birthday celebration. Residents, current and past, seemed to look forward to the festivities almost as much as children anxiously awaited Christmas. It was a time for friends and family. Homecomings and reunions. Merrymaking and good, old-fashioned redneck fun.

  This would be the first of many he planned on being a part of. As sheriff, he’d head up the parade and oversee all of the events that would take place during the weeklong fiesta. When he’d seen the list of his Big Creek Days’ duties, the sheer number of activities had floored him. The parade was just the tip of the iceberg. Once that was over, there was a lawnmower race, cow patty bingo, a beer-burping contest, two different cakewalks, and a pie walk. There were the trade days, the fishing tournament, the pig grab, the rodeo, a scavenger hunt, and a boxed lunch auction and picnic. The final night the entire main street square would be shut down to traffic and a street dance would ensue. The following day, Sunday, the sheriff would host a brunch on the lawn of the town square and thank everyone for attending and pass out any awards that had been won.

  And those were just the events he could think of right off the top of his head.

  Bronson closed his eyes and drew in a steadying breath.

  A full week to be sure, but everyone in town had assured Bronson that a better time was not to be found anywhere in the Lone Star State. And everything kicked off first thing in the morning. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that it was going to be a stereotypical Monday and things were bound to go awry.

  Opening his eyes, Bronson glanced around the café. The dinner rush was over and the last few customers were slowly rising and heading to the register to pay their bills. Big Creek was nothing if not predictable. Another ten minutes and Erma would have the tables bussed and leave for the evening. Then, it’d be just him… and Heather.

  Alone.

  Just like every other night since just after he’d moved into the area. And who knew, maybe tonight would be the night he’d actually drum up the gumption to ask her out like he'd been planning on doing every single night for the past two months. Ever since he’d learned about the upcoming picnic. It would be the perfect date. Public but not too public. Romantic but not too intimate. Just the right amount of buffer in case she decided he was a total loser, and she needed an easy way out of a nightmare date.

  The woman of his dreams chose that exact moment to leave her normal post in the kitchen. The first glimpse of her, and all the stress of the day and the upcoming hullabaloo melted away. Her long honey-blonde hair was neatly plaited into a single braid that Bronson knew ran down the center of her back, ending about four inches above the waistline of her jeans. Her oval face was always free of make-up. Not that she needed any. He tended to like a woman who was comfortable enough with herself that she didn’t fuss over primping and preening. Her bright blue eyes were framed with long thick lashes, giving them a naturally smoky look many women spent a great deal of time and a ton of money to gain. She was pretty as a peach. If he didn’t know better, Bronson would never believe she spent her days toiling away in a sweltering kitchen, serving the good folks of Big Creek.

  “Evenin’, Bronson.” She placed a steaming bowl of dark red chili on the counter before him, its spicy aroma filling his nostrils and causing his stomach to rumble in anticipation. “You want cornbread?” Her lush pink lips tipped up at the corners, giving him a warm smile.

  “You know I do.” He followed her with his eyes as she returned to the kitchen, humming just under her breath as she went.

  “Gonna try the pickles tonight?” Though the question was slightly muffled by the swinging door that separated them, the dreaded words still pierced his ears.

&nbs
p; Bronson resisted the urge to shudder. Just the thought of a deep-fat fried dill pickle slice did not sound appetizing to him. “I’ll pass.”

  Close to ten years his junior, Heather was a breath of fresh air in the community. In her early twenties, she had come home right after college to take over her grandmother’s café when the older woman had passed on unexpectedly. Bronson hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting Joy before she died, but if Heather was anything like Granny Joy, it was no wonder the town loved her.

  There were rumors, of course, just as there were in every small town. Most of the gossip mill centered around the fact that Joy’s son, Bill, who was also Heather’s father, had sold the homestead farm as soon as he could after Joy’s death and before Heather could stop him. It was said that he’d waited until she went back to College Station to finish her finals and pack up her apartment, then he’d brokered a speedy sale with the owner of the property next to Joy’s. By the time Heather had returned to Big Creek, the deal was done and Bill had split with the proceeds and everything that had remained in Joy’s bank accounts, leaving Heather to deal with the expenses of the Café on her own.

  Fortunately, according to Unice over at the hardware store, Joy had had a sneaking suspicion that Bill would do exactly that, so she’d placed Heather’s name as the recipient of The Pickle in her will. It was the only thing Heather had left in the world that tied her to her family roots and, bless her soul, she lived and breathed the Fried Pickle.

  Heather came back into the dining room, carrying a round tray with a plate brimming with fresh cornbread and two small bowls. The hearty aroma of the just-from-the-oven bread sent his salivary glands into overdrive.

  “I gotta say, Heather, you certainly know how to keep a man happy.”

  She placed the plate by his bowl of chili. “Granny Joy taught me everything I know.” Turning, she filled a glass with iced tea and set it near his right hand. “How was your day?” She grabbed two spoons and added one each to the small bowls, one of sour cream and the other of shredded cheese, and set them down on the counter within his reach then placed the tray on the shelf below the counter.

  Bronson shrugged and crumbled a piece of the warm cornbread into his chili. “It wasn’t bad. I had to go help old man Schultz with a downed fence over off the county road by his west pasture, and we keep getting calls about a prowler in town, but no one seems to have any idea about what the perp looks like.”

  “Probably just a couple of the local boys out and about cuttin’ up before school starts again.”

  “For their sakes, I sure hope not. Mrs. Pearson’s organized a neighborhood watch, of all things. She’s bound and determined to uncover the mischief-makers at any cost. Says she wants them prosecuted to the fullest extent… made an example of.”

  “I’m sure that she’s just overly concerned because the Big Creek Days are starting tomorrow. It’s the biggest thing to happen around here all year.”

  Bronson tried to focus on his dinner before him. He knew if he looked at her he’d be lost. Things would likely just fall from his mouth before checking in with his brain. Yep, he’d make a total fool of himself. “I’ve looked over the list of events. Looks like it’ll be a fun time.”

  Heather ran her hands over the laminate countertop. “Oh, it is. I make a real nice lunch to go in the boxed lunch auction. Usually whip up a batch of that fried chicken you like so much with fried squash, mashed potatoes, homemade biscuits, and pecan pie.” She tapped a fingernail on the slick surface. “I’ve been thinking about making peach this year, though.”

  Bronson stirred the cornbread into his chili. Peach pie was his favorite.

  “No toppings tonight?” She nudged the bowl of shredded cheese closer to him.

  “You know me too well.” He glanced up from his chili and found her staring at him. His heart rate spiked. There was something very intimate about her knowing his habits and preferences. Like she was taking a special interest in him. Truth be told, she probably knew how every single patron she served liked their drinks and what sides they preferred, but it still made him feel special.

  “Good men aren’t hard to figure out.” Her blue eyes sparkled. “But like a five-pound bass, they’re hard to land.”

  Oh, man. Bronson swallowed hard. This was it. The perfect opportunity to ask her out to dinner. Or the picnic. Or anything. Say something, genius. “Um, Heather?”

  She tilted her head slightly to the left and edged closer to the counter. “Yes, Sheriff?”

  Man, she smelled good. Some kind of delicious cross between fresh flowers and apple pie. His heart pounded in his chest. He hadn’t been so nervous since his senior year in high school when he had asked Jenny Perkins to the prom. “I was wondering if…”

  Heather placed her elbows on the counter and leaned a bit closer. The creamy skin of her neck seemed to beg him to discover if it was as soft as it looked. “Yes, Bronson?”

  He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Wondering if maybe sometime… if maybe you’d like to…” The radio attached to his belt crackled.

  “Dispatch to Sheriff.”

  And just like that, the spell was broken. Like two teenagers who had just been caught neckin’ in a car behind the gym, they both straightened, instantly putting distance between them. Heather broke eye contact and began wiping down the countertop, moving away from him.

  Bronson reached up to his shoulder, depressed the button on his mic, and tried desperately to keep the irritation from his voice. “Go ahead, Martin.”

  “We’ve got a disturbance over by the water tower.”

  With a deep sigh, Bronson closed his eyes. Time to get back to work. He had to check it out. The town depended on him, and there had been three complaints in just over a week about some strange shadows lurking around town. Mrs. Pearson was threatening to round up her watch group and start doing nightly checks. The last thing Big Creek needed was a handful of geriatric locals shuffling down the streets at all hours of twilight, trying to rid their precious community of thugs and ending up with broken hips from a misplaced step. “On my way.”

  Glancing toward where Heather worked on the other end of the counter, he mentally groaned. He should just ask her. Otherwise it might be another two months before he found the courage to try again.

  “Go.” Heather smiled as she made her way back to him and picked up his bowl of barely touched chili. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Before he had a chance to think twice, she disappeared into the kitchen along with his dinner. And his shot at asking her out.

  Well, sugar-nuts. If this turned out to be a cow wandering around town, he was going to be mighty upset.

  Monday

  Monday dawned bright and cheery with not a cloud in the sky. The weatherman predicted the entire week would be rain-free with mild temperatures. Perfect weather for the Big Creek Days. Family, friends, and tons of country fun. With the parade scheduled to begin at six pm, Heather had a million things to do. Folks would be coming into town from all over the county and beyond. They did every year. Since most of the residents of Big Creek worked locally, having a yearly event that lasted an entire week didn’t get in the way of business. Of course, most of the owners tended to change hours of operation during the festivities to allow everyone to participate in the events.

  With The Pickle being right on the square where many of the events would be taking place, it was easy for Heather to close up, join in, and re-open so diners could come in and visit or enjoy a meal afterward. And since the festival was a long-standing tradition, no one minded. Big Creek wasn’t exactly on any major thoroughfares with the chance of passersby. If you ended up in town you had a reason… or you were really lost. It was just the way things were. Always had been and surely always would be.

  The downside? Because the café would be closed for about an hour and then open with an immediate influx of patrons, Heather had a boatload of prep to do before she could even think about the parade. Everything needed to be ready to go th
e minute she walked back into the kitchen… and she had a lot to do.

  With only about an hour and a half to go until the big event, she was grateful The Pickle was slow. Obviously everyone was either at home getting ready to come to town… or they were gearing up for the slew of customers who would inevitably rush the town square businesses right after the parade ended.

  At least Heather had a bit of company while she worked to get everything stocked for the dinner rush. While her best friend, Beth Ann, might not chip in and help out in the kitchen, she could be counted on to keep the mood light before the madness that would ensue.

  “I think he was going to ask me out.”

  “Really? Oh, girl. You’d better jump on that.” Beth Ann boosted herself up onto one of the gleaming stainless countertops in the Fried Pickle kitchen and grinned. “I know a lot of gals here in town who’re just itchin’ for a chance to catch his eye. You turn him down and they’ll be all over him like ducks on a June bug.”

  Heather chuckled. “Yeah, I know, but I can’t make him ask me.”

  Beth Ann grabbed the edge of the counter and leaned forward. “Girl, what decade do you think this is? You could ask him.” She sat back up and rolled her eyes. “Women have been doing it for a few years now. I think the chances of you being deemed a hussy are slim, even in this town. You haven’t been out on a date even once since you came back nearly six months ago.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it’s still nice to have the guy do the askin’.”

  “Humph. It might be nice, but who says it’s practical? Especially out here in the boonies when seventy percent of the male population is either related to you, jailbait, or older than dirt. Jump, girl, jump.”

  With a sigh, Heather turned back to her mashed potatoes and added a healthy dollop of butter. Not margarine, but real sweet cream butter. It was the secret to Granny Joy’s perfect spuds and the reason everyone seemed to love them. Especially Bronson. Every night he came in at the same time, slid into the same stool at the end of the counter, gave her that show-stopping smile that never failed to turn her legs to mud, and chat with her while he ate dinner. Then, if potatoes were a side of the daily special he always ordered, he would shyly ask for a second helping.