Married to the Sheriff Page 6

  “Get over there!” The third man shoved Marsha at the other three girls.

  Over the noise, they could hear someone knocking hard against the door.

  “Hello! Hello, is anybody in there? Debbie? Laura? Sheila? Hello?”

  “What is this? The whole Ladies’ Church Club came here to celebrate your birthday?” the man with the gun muttered.

  “Oh—oh, no. That’s Beverly,” Debbie told Laura in a low voice.

  Not low enough, however. Overhearing her, the man who’d been by the window roughly grabbed her by the arm.

  “Friend of yours?” the guy asked. “Then you’re going to tell her to go away or we’re gonna kill her.”

  “No!” Debbie tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but he held her too tightly. “You’re hurting me, you brute.”

  “My husband’s Captain Donald Kenilworth,” Marsha informed them.

  “Yeah? So what?” the guy at the register, who was emptying all the cash from it, demanded.

  “So if he was here, he’d beat the living daylights out of all three of you!”

  “And her husband,” Irene said, pointing at Debbie, “is the sheriff! So you goons are really in trouble!”

  Behind the counter, Sheila admonished her with a glare and a sharp shake of her head.

  “Hello! I know somebody’s in there! I can hear you! Can I please come in?” Beverly hollered from the other side of the door.

  “She is really late,” Laura complained. “Debbie, don’t ever invite her to anything again. If she can’t be on time—”

  “Oh, I agree. Punctuality means a lot to me, too!” the one headed to the door mocked her before he turned to Debbie. “So you’re the sheriff’s little woman, huh, Debbie? Well, well, well. The town constable’s got some fine taste in women.”

  To emphasize the point, he gave her breast, the very top of which was barely peeking out through the top of her dress, a little pinch. Debbie slapped his face.

  “Don’t you ever touch me again!” She was infuriated.

  At that, the man’s eyed clouded with fury. He grabbed a handful of her hair at the back of her head, drawing a scream from both her and Laura.

  “Don’t hurt her!” Sheila shouted.

  “You’re lucky I don’t beat you within an inch of your life…Mrs. Sheriff!” The man snarled at her. “Now tell your friend to go away. That’s all. Tell her anything else, and I’ll drag her in here and kill you both.”

  As soon as he released her, Debbie rubbed the back of her head. She was breathing hard and facing the door.

  “Beverly, go away!” She tried, as best she could, to keep a sob out of her voice. “Please, go away!”

  I’ll drag her in here and kill you both. Debbie imagined Beverly’s little boy having to hear something from a police officer that no child should ever have to hear.

  And Mike being informed that she’d died inside O’Brien’s.

  No noise came from the other side of the door. Hopefully, Beverly had realized something was wrong and had gotten away. Debbie’s stomach tightened. She felt queasy, as if she were about to be sick to her stomach.

  “Smart lady, your friend.” The man shrugged. “Not very good about being on time, but smart. Now get back there with the other broads!”

  Like a rag doll, he tossed her back at her circle of friends. Irene caught Debbie before she could fall.

  “Hey—hey, weren’t there two fishermen?” the third man asked.

  The goon with the gun looked at the remaining fisherman, who wore an innocent expression on his face as he vehemently shook his head.

  “Where’s your friend?” the armed man asked, then grabbed Clayton by his shirt. “I asked you a question, now answer me!”

  “I don’t know where he is!” Then Clayton did something that no one had expected: He knocked the gun from the man’s hand.

  Hatred contorted the assailant’s face. “Why, you—”

  Both Clayton and the creep dove for the gun. As the girls watched, Sheila, who was close enough, grabbed a bottle of whiskey off one of the shelves and broke it hard over the goon’s head, knocking him out cold.

  “Get the gun!” Marsha shouted.

  What broke out next was nothing short of a melee. The third man charged toward the bar, only to be tackled by Irene, who brought him down roughly onto his stomach. Laura climbed aboard his back and looked comical, slapping him upside the head several times and scratching at his neck with her nails, making him yelp helplessly.

  “Give—me—back—my—necklace!” she ordered in clipped tones. “I want my necklace back!”

  The other man reached for a bottle behind the counter, only to catch a left hook from Clayton in the jaw. Recovering, he threw back his fist, prepared to strike the fisherman, when Debbie blinded him with the entire birthday cake pressed into his face.

  “Have some cake, you creep!” she shouted. “And I want my wedding ring back! Give me back my ring!”

  “Will you two dames get off me?” the one of the floor wailed, trying to dismount Laura and Irene.

  “You know who these guys are?” Sheila asked Marsha. “These are the cons who escaped a few weeks ago…”

  Groggily, the one who’d had the gun tried to get up, only to have the gun thrust within inches of his face by Clayton.

  “Stay where you are,” he told him. “Don’t any of you guys move…”

  Over the sound of the jukebox, which had been playing a continual stream of Bobby Darin, the Shirelles, and Dion and the Belmonts, sirens could be heard in the distance, becoming louder and stronger the closer they came.

  Sheila, with Marsha and Debbie’s help, pinned the one with the cake on his face to the sink.

  “Looks like you’re all going right back to jail,” she announced. “Exactly where you monsters belong…”

  * * * * *

  “You were right about those desperate men making a mistake, Sheriff,” Deputy Jesse Vance was saying as the ambulance workers brought out the men who’d attempted to rob O’Brien’s. “Their mistake was not realizing how tough our women are here in Lighthouse Cove.”

  Mike grinned at the remark. He’d calmed down once he arrived at the scene, along with all three of his deputies, the county cops, and some agents from the FBI who’d been assigned to return the escaped convicts back to prison. One by one they were brought out, the first one in cuffs, and the second, who’d had a bottle broken over his head, on a stretcher.

  The third, curiously enough, came out covered in cake. Most of it had been either washed or wiped off, but there was cake, strawberry glaze and whipped cream on his face, in his hair and on his shirt. One of the federal agents had him bound securely in handcuffs when he stopped in front of Lighthouse Cove’s sheriff.

  “Get ’em away from us, law man,” he pleaded. “Please—get those crazy women away from us!”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe and sound soon…in your jail cell,” Sheriff Brandt told him with a mirthless glare.

  He was calm but not completely. Not until he laid eyes on a very shaken Debbie, who stumbled out through the door to O’Brien’s right behind her friends, Laura and Marsha. For a lady who always fixed herself up before she stepped out of the house, her hair was a mess and her makeup was smudged, as if she’d been crying.

  “Baby,” he called to her.

  The women of Lighthouse Cove are tough cookies. Well, that went without saying. Still, his Debbie had been through an ordeal that afternoon. When he saw her like that, trembling, her eyes filling up with tears, he could barely contain himself.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” he said hoarsely and took her into his arms.

  No sooner was she in his arms that she began to cry softly. Mike held her tightly, closing his eyes and kissing her mouth, her neck, her hair. His own eyes had welled up, but he managed to remain strong, saying a silent prayer of thanks for her being safely returned to him that day.

  “They—one of them has my wedding ring,” she said through a sob. “He ma
de me give it to him. I didn’t want to, Mike. I didn’t want to give him my ring. That was mine. You put it on my finger when we got married—”

  “Oh, baby, now. That’s all right.” He stroked her hair, comforting her. “We’ll get it back. And if we don’t, I promise I’ll get you another one. All I care about is you. I got my baby back. You’re what’s important.”

  Even before that day, Mike knew he loved Debbie Phillips.

  Debbie…Brandt. Mrs. Debbie Brandt. His wife, the women who owned his heart, and she would own it for the rest of their lives.

  “We’ll wrap this up, Sheriff,” one of the feds informed him. “You and your wife can go on home. She’s been through quite a bit.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  With his arms around Debbie’s shoulders, and hers around his waist, they walked together from O’Brien’s, along the cobblestone path beside the waist-high stone wall. Beyond it, the sun’s shimmered on the water, like tiny, winking jewels, and the gulls glided in a leisurely flight around Lighthouse Cove’s lighthouse as one of the fishing trawlers returned from a journey at sea.

  FIVE

  If any good had come from all the hoopla following the capture of the prisoners who’d escaped from jail, it was that the chatter about what had happened in Mike’s office had been overshadowed by the newer story considerably.

  For a while, anyway. People hadn’t completely forgotten about it. Debbie knew that would linger in people’s memory.

  Yet a month had passed since that frightening day during which she, her friends, and everyone in O’Brien’s had been endangered. There was a huge write-up in the local newspaper, The Lighthouse Cove Tribune, calling everyone—especially Sheila O’Brien—incredibly brave. And gutsy, too. The reporter had actually called them gutsy! With, naturally, some credit attributed rightly to two of the town’s brave and quick-thinking sailors, as well.

  The story had also hit the local and national news, with one news anchor talking about the “impromptu” birthday celebration for the “widowed pub owner” thrown by her “average housewife friends” who’d demonstrated that “these ladies were a force to be reckoned with.”

  Debbie liked that. So much, she actually forgave the news anchor for his condescending “average housewife friends” remark.

  Personally, she loved being a housewife. Why did people, particularly some men, think of that as being “average?” What was supposedly so average or easy about running a household efficiently? Between housework, laundry, washing and ironing Mike’s uniforms, grocery shopping, cooking and other chores and errands that came up, she rarely had time to watch soap operas and nibble on bonbons, as so many men mistakenly assumed.

  They were still talking about that day in O’Brien’s that Friday morning while she was at the beauty parlor. Beverly Minter had accompanied her, both women getting their hair done. Now that Beverly’s son was back in school, and that was her day off from the factory where she worked, she was able to get a smidgeon of time to herself. Debbie enjoyed the fact she’d chosen to spend that time with her, as one of her few but loyal friends.

  “So when Debbie told you to go away,” one of the beauticians, Myra, said, her shears poised in her hand as she was about to cut an older woman’s baby-fine, silver hair, “from the other side of the door—”

  “I knew something was wrong, yes,” Beverly completed her sentence for her. “The door was locked, too. So strange that that should be in the middle of the day when O’Brien’s is usually open.”

  “So she ran and called Mike’s office,” Debbie joined in. She loved retelling the story, as exciting as it was. That had been one of the most exciting things, other than their terrible, yearly storms, that had ever happened in recent years in Lighthouse Cove. Certainly, it was one of the most exciting things that had ever occurred in her life.

  “And naturally, that fisherman had also escaped,” another customer, Dolores, recounted from what she’d read in the paper.

  “Rick took advantage while we were all distracted, including the escaped convicts, by Beverly being at the door!” Debbie laughed. “Wasn’t that brilliant?”

  “Smart man! And of course,” Alice, another beautician, who was busy setting another woman’s hair in curlers, was saying. “I heard from somewhere, don’t remember where, that Clayton punched the guy’s lights out.”

  “Well, no, but he did weaken him,” Debbie said, going on to brag, “Sheila was the one who knocked his lights out. Broke that bottle right over his head. Talk about a tough cookie!”

  All the women in the beauty parlor erupted in laughter with her. As Debbie turned to check her own hair, which had been trimmed and curled by her usual girl, Beverly got her attention with a hand on her knee.

  “Want to go for lunch with me?” her friend asked. “We can try that new place in town, the one down by the docks.”

  “Oh, I’d love to do that, Bev, but I actually have to get going. Sorry about that. I have to pick up some stamps at the post office and then I’m going to have to get home. You know how long it takes to make a decent beef stew.”

  “Oh, I know.” Understanding, Beverly nodded. She spoke a bit louder to hear herself over the whirrrrrrrrr of the hair dryer encircling her hair, wrapped in tissue paper and rollers. “Maybe next week sometime, you think? Oh—just remembered I’ll be off on Friday again in about two weeks.”

  “Wonderful! Call and remind me, you hear? And it’s a date,” Debbie announced enthusiastically.

  She was so glad she hadn’t listened to the other girls about keeping her distance from Beverly Minter. The woman was a sweet and trustworthy gal, a great listener, and fun to be with—all the most desirable elements needed in a friend.

  Things were going smoothly that day. She had bid Beverly goodbye, then hummed along with the car radio all the way to the post office, and only waited a few minutes on line for her postage stamps.

  She wasn’t really in a hurry; she was making good time. The good thing about making stew was that once she put everything in the pot, she could cook it on low and continue with her other chores, stopping occasionally to check on the meal and give it a stir.

  Though she was right on schedule, when she came to that pesky stop sign on Woodmere and Cullen Streets, which she’d never understood the need for as it was, she drove right through it…and forced another car to screech to a stop.

  Now that took her breath away. Where had that car come from? She waved at the angry man seated behind the steering wheel.

  “Sorry, sorry!” she apologized, though she doubted he could hear her from that distance. He said nothing, but she could see him through his windshield, shaking his head.

  She’d done the same thing only two weeks earlier, except there hadn’t been another car there, crossing the same intersection. Debbie was even more chagrined when she heard a siren piercing the air. Her stomach did a somersault when she caught sight of Deputy Bradley Wheeler’s car in the rearview mirror.

  “Ooops!” she mumbled under breath.

  Now she was in trouble.

  Well, maybe not. This will be the warning, she thought confidently. And I sure won’t do it ever again, so we won’t be getting to the warming, if I can help it.

  The deputy got out of his car and shuffled his boots, his heels clicking against the pavement all the way to her driver’s side window, which she’d rolled down even before getting pulled over.

  “’Afternoon, ma’am. Oh—” He suddenly realized who she was. “Mrs. Brandt, ma’am.”

  She smiled up at him. “Hi, Bradley. How are you?”

  “Fine. Uh…or I was.” He had one of those pleasant, chubby faces, and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned. “Mrs. Brandt, did you know you ran a stop sign back there on the corner of Woodmere and Cullen?”

  “Yes, Bradley, I do…” She sighed and leaned out the window, confiding, “Honestly, Bradley, I don’t know why that sign is even there.”

  He also sighed. “Well, gee, ma’am, it was pu
t there so people don’t get into accidents. Like…what almost happened to you back there. That other driver had to stop in a hurry. Could’ve been a serious accident, ma’am.”

  Debbie liked him too much to argue. Besides, arguing with one of Mike’s deputies wouldn’t sit well with him. Nor would she be sitting very well if it got back to her husband that she’d sassed one of his guys.

  After all, the boys are just doing their jobs, he told her, not long ago. And just because you’re my wife, that doesn’t mean you’ll get preferential treatment. You need to be a good example to other civilians, Debbie.

  Gently, she told him, “But I did it a couple of weeks ago and nothing happened.”

  “You mean this isn’t the first time you’ve run that stop sign?” Deputy Wheeler shook his head. “Ma’am, I’m going to let you go with a warning, much against my better judgment—”

  “Oh, thank you, Deputy. I really appre—”

  “But I’m going to have to tell the sheriff about this. Sorry, but I’m afraid it’s my duty to tell him.”

  Debbie’s lower jaw dropped open. Quickly, she closed her mouth and straightened in her seat.

  Better not to ask him to keep it between us, she thought. Firstly, it would cost the man his job, or at the very least, get him written up.

  It wouldn’t go particularly well for her, either.

  “Thank you for the warning,” she said, her tone docile. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure it won’t. Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  “You, too.”

  She was never one to cuss—which was good, because Mike wasn’t fond of hearing men or women use swear words—but she bit back a curse word as soon as the deputy stepped away from her window.

  A warning. That was all she was in for, for the time being. Unless Deputy Wheeler mentioned she had driven haphazardly through that stupid stop sign twice. Would the warning-first rule apply in that case?