The older woman’s pine-bark brown eyes crinkled and her polite smile widened just a touch, letting me know she’d heard me but was too busy or disinclined to engage in small talk.
I live in a small town and everybody knows everybody. As an example, Flo—or Florence—McClure is known as the stubborn spinster sister to Carter McClure, the fire chief. People said she never married despite her string of would-be suitors because she didn’t want to give up her independence.
I suspected it wasn’t her independence she was afraid of losing. After watching her and Nancy Danvish engage in a furtive yet passionate argument at a Fourth of July parade five years ago, my money was on Flo McClure being firmly in the closet.
Anyway, everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows me. I’m the Banana Cake Queen. I make other kinds of cake, but I’m famous for my banana cake. I know this as fact because, when I’m introduced, it’s usually like this:
“This is Jennifer Sylvester. You know, the Banana Cake Queen? She’s famous for her banana cake.”
But I digress.
I turned from Flo McClure and found a seat in the corner of the small lobby of the police station, setting the wrapped zucchini walnut bread I’d brought on my lap. I crossed my legs at the ankles and waited.
I liked the sheriff. He was nice. Despite being a man of few words, he asked after my well-being. His smiles were genuine and kind. I liked that he was a good father and husband. And he cared about the folks under his jurisdiction. He was a good person, so I made him baked goods whenever I knew we’d be crossing paths.
I spent the next fifteen minutes people watching, avoiding the social media notifications on my phone. I wasn’t in charge of the accounts, but I still received all the alerts.
Hannah Townsend walked in, stormed to the desk, and argued with Flo about a speeding ticket.
A few moments later, the King brothers exited the big door leading to the main offices, whispering in hushed tones. I stiffened, bracing for an insult or an evocative proposition. It never came.
They looked ragged and maybe a little scared. Luckily, the pair didn’t even notice me as they bolted for the exit, paying no mind to Flo and Hannah either.
I wasn’t surprised to see the King brothers at the station. As low-ranking members of the Iron Wraiths—the biggest and most troublesome of the local motorcycle gangs—they were always in and out of jail. Ever since I was a teenager, when they spotted me on my own, I could count on aggressively suggestive remarks.
Not today, apparently. I exhaled my relief.
I turned my attention back to Hannah and Flo, their interaction becoming friendlier as the conversation turned to the subject of Hannah’s momma.
Hannah’s momma had been a car accident several years ago and Hannah, even though she’d been just seventeen at the time, took care of her. Hannah had been working two jobs since: as a hostess at the local steak house and at the Payton Mills. About two years ago, she’d quit her job at the mill in favor of becoming a stripper at the Pink Pony.
The desk phone rang and Flo held up her finger as she brought the receiver to her ear. “Just a second, Hannah. Let me get this. Yes?” The older woman’s eyes darted to me and away as she nodded, saying, “Yep, she’s here.”
I straightened in my seat because Hannah glanced at me. Her eyes flickered over my form and she stopped just short of rolling her eyes before looking away.
I didn’t blame Hannah. I really didn’t. We were the same age and in choir together growing up. I understood her scorn.
Outwardly, I was ridiculous: big, wavy bleached-blonde hair; acrylic nails always painted pink; high heels. My momma had me in full makeup (inclusive of false eyelashes) at sixteen, younger if you counted the pageants I’d participated in as a child. In public I was always attired in yellow or green—my signature colors since the age of four—and I always wore a knee-length dress and pearls.
I owned one pair of jeans and a pair of overalls, but had been forbidden long ago from stepping outside the house in anything other than Sunday garb. Momma said I was the face of the business, and pedestrian attire was bad for business.
I was a superficial caricature of a southern stereotype, but our customers loved it. They even hired me for parties. I’d stand behind the dessert table and serve cake with a bright smile and shaking hands. Nobody ever noticed my hands.
“Okay, I’ll send her back.” Flo nodded again, her gaze cutting to mine as she hung up the phone and flicked her wrist toward the door to the main offices. “The sheriff is ready for you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She didn’t respond, instead turning her attention back to Hannah. “Did you see that news crew up at the Winston house?”