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“Who’s Gaston?”
“Oh just a friend. I’ll see you tonight.”
He gathered up his glasses, his script, and his coat, then headed out into the cold, stopping time and again to engage with fans. Gaston. What the hell kind of name was Gaston? There was no one in Rockmount with that name. I polished off the last bite of my burger, stuffed the four remaining fries into my mouth, and then tossed a twenty on the table to cover my food as well as gratuity. I had time before my talk to the kindergarteners.
I could hurry back to the sheriff’s office and run a fast check on anyone named Gaston in the area. Just as a precautionary nod to the big star calling our little hamlet home for the next six weeks. It would look bad if Gaston—which is an evil name if ever I heard it—hurt Tony. I didn’t want my brass star tarnished so checking on Gaston was a service to the community and the movie production team. Yep. That was my story, and I was sticking to it like glue.
***
The afternoon hadn’tgone well.
One of the kids threw up during my presentation.
After that, I had a call from Kyle Landford about some missing sheep he wanted an APB issued on. It took me forever to get his mind off an all-points bulletin and into making a call to the game commission. I feared he might have lost some of his flock to coyotes, and even mentioned that, but he swore up and down that the Pierson boys down the road had lifted his sheep. I told him I would check. I did. There were no sheep on the Pierson farm, only contented cows and one irate Frank Pierson. Frank didn’t cotton to being called a sheep wrangler. I didn’t say as I blamed him.
It was an old feud between the two men. I suspected a woman had been involved somewhere along the way, but since both were now in their sixties...well, they had to squabble about sheep.
There was also the fact that my search for a Gaston produced nothing.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I was tired, edgy, and not at all pleased with the amount of cow and sheep shit glued into the tread of my work boots. I’d offered Teddy a promotion if he would dig it out. He declined. Then I asked Wanda—the 911 day dispatcher who worked out of our little office—if she would do it. What she said in reply was not fit for delicate ears. Wanda Mueller was a wonderfully kind dispatcher but off the air, she had a mouth like a drunken sailor. So all the way home the heater in my SUV blew the stink of two barns into my face.
The only upside to the whole afternoon/evening was the funny feeling of coming home to see lights on and smoke rolling from the chimney. Knowing that it was Tony in there making things all cozy and fuzzy was disconcerting, to say the least. As I sat in the drive sniffing cow poop, I did my best to steel myself against his appeal. And the appeal of not coming home to a dark, cold, empty house. Sure, I had my cat, but he was not the best conversationalist nor did he spoon well. Ellery wasn’t a cuddle cat. He would snooze by your feet when it was cold but generally liked his own space, which was a lot like me so I couldn’t fault him.
The porch light came on. I stared as the front door opened, my cat raced in, and Tony stepped out to wave at me. Busted. I gathered myself up, threw on my cop face, and exited the vehicle.
“I thought I saw headlights,” Tony called, his words little puffs of steam that quickly dissipated. There would be frost tonight for sure. A heavy one by the feels. “Come on in. I have dinner ready!”
I slugged my way inside, stopped just inside the door, knelt down to untie my boots, and then opened the door to place them on the porch. After dinner, I’d pick the poo out of the tread with a screwdriver. Whatever Tony was cooking smelled amazing.
“I thought I recalled you enjoyed heavy meals with lots of gravy, so I stirred up some Swedish meatballs over rice,” he said as I slowly shucked my coat and removed my holster. His gaze followed the belt with my gun as I laid it on the side table. “Shouldn’t you lock that up?”
“You planning on shooting someone?” I stepped around him, eager to eat and then hide myself away in my room.
“Obviously not, but should it be lying around like that?” He followed me into the kitchen where the rich smell of beef, onions, and garlic was heavy. My stomach rumbled loudly.
“There are no kids here. I’ll take care of it when I eat,” I said, turned to look at him, and heaved a mighty sigh. Tony had this look—one that he obviously had perfected over the past twenty years—that was cutting censorship to the nth. “Fine. I’ll take care of it now.”
“Thank you. Guns make me nervous,” he confessed as I stalked back to get my weapon and tote it to my room. I’d actually known that about him but had forgotten. A cousin of his had been shot in a fatal accident when he was younger. I stowed the belt and weapon in the drawer of my nightstand and locked it, something I rarely did anymore, as it was only me and the cat here. Ever. And Ellery wasn’t interested in the Glock 22 in the least.
When I returned to the kitchen after changing out of my uniform and into fleece joggers and a long-sleeve Rockmount PD tee, I found Tony dishing up our dinner. A box of cupcakes from Becky’s Bakery set on the table. The man was trying to seduce me with food. Damn his soul. It might be working.
“Sit, eat. I found some wine for us to enjoy with the meal,” he said, spooning hearty meatballs coated with a thick, creamy sauce over a mound of fluffy white rice. “Or if you’d prefer, I picked up a six-pack of something more suitable to the meal than your usual light ale.”
“I’m watching my weight. What kind of beer did you buy?” I took the plate and placed it in front of me. He’d dug out the only cloth table covering that I owned, a lacy thing that my mother had just loved, and my wine glasses.
“A nice Flemish red.” He placed his dish on the table and then went to the fridge. When he bent over to grab a bottle of beer, I had to stare at his ass. It was right there in my face—almost. It was not saggy in the least. “I had to stop at a few bars to find one that carried something a little more—”
“Snooty?” I offered and got an eye roll. He handed me the beer.
“Less common. I think you’ll like the way the tartness of the beer plays with the creaminess of the gravy.”
He sat across from me, smiled, and poured himself a nice tot of Dolcetto wine. “I should have remembered this state doesn’t allow beer sales in grocery stores. Which makes finding a unique name even harder, but I got Gaston to drive me out to the beer distributor where we found that lovely red.”
I twisted the cap off the bottle of Flanders and took a swig. Damn, yeah, that was a nice beer. I nodded at him. He lifted his glass of wine in a salute.
“So, this Gaston guy,” I opened with as I put down my beer and speared a fat meatball. I stabbed it soundly and then looked at my dinner partner.
“Yes, what about him?” He cut his meatball in half. Such a refined man. Guess eating out with flashbulbs popping in your face drilled good manners into you. His dark eyes lifted from his meal to me. Lord they were pretty eyes. “Dreamy” is what Wanda had called them earlier.
