Curious, I leaned forward and whispered, “Where y’all going?”
He puffed out his chest proudly. “Oh, no place special. Just off to arrest Razor, aka president of the Iron Wraiths MC.”
My lips parted in surprise and I straightened. “Oh my.”
If Cletus Winston was the most dangerous man in East Tennessee, Razor Blade St. Claire was the second. The main difference being Cletus kept clandestine control over his power, while Razor was brazen about most everything.
As the president of the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club, he’d skirted the law for years, always just out of reach. It was generally known and accepted that he was a murderer. And a drug trafficker. And a perpetuator of plenty other sordid crimes, each more unpleasant than the last.
Chris Williams’s grin widened as he walked past. “That’s right. The big dog.”
The big dog . . . well, that was one way to put it.
A few of the deputies tipped their heads at me as they passed, but most appeared to be lost to the excitement of bringing in the head of the Iron Wraiths. Once they cleared, Sheriff James stepped forward and gave me a flat, distracted smile. He was still holding the envelope. His worry was completely understandable.
“Do you want to do this some other time?” I suggested, not wanting to impose when his mind was on more important matters.
“No, no. It’s fine. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.” He turned to Marion Davis, one of the administrative staff milling about, and waved her over. “Marion, will you take this to George in evidence for me?”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled brightly, regarding the unsealed envelope with reverence.
The sheriff hesitated for a beat, then passed it over to her waiting hands.
“Come this way.” He grabbed the foil-wrapped zucchini bread from where his son had left it and motioned me forward. I followed, casting furtive glances at Cletus Winston. Cletus’s attention was on the sheriff. And then it was on the mail machine. And then it was on Marion Davis. And then it was on the sheriff again.
He was up to something and I didn’t want to know what.
Once we were in the sheriff’s office, I pushed thoughts of Clandestine Cletus from my mind and prepped the sheriff for the video. I set up the shot, wanting to place his face on one side of the frame so the viewer would see the station beyond.
One of the only things I liked about doing the videos and Instagram promotions were the fundamentals of photography and videography I was learning as a byproduct. Aesthetically, setting the subject to one side was more visually appealing than just a man’s face in the center of the screen.
“Okay, are you ready?” I gave him an encouraging smile.
He returned it, crossing his arms. He uncrossed them and frowned. “What should I do with my arms?”
My grin widened. “Hold your right wrist with your left hand, in front of you. Yes, just like that. It looks very natural.”
He nodded, like this was serious business, and gave me the sign to start recording. So I did.
The sheriff was a natural, which was surprising since he was typically a man of few words. Yet he had no problem talking about my cupcakes, and that warmed my heart. I had what I needed, so I didn’t make him record a second testimonial.
We finished up. I left soon thereafter, noticing with relief that Cletus Winston was also gone. He posed no threat to me, but he still made me nervous. No one person should be allowed to be that pathologically intelligent and oppressively handsome.
After the station, I stopped by the Piggly Wiggly. I picked up my weekly crate of bananas and delivered them to the bakery. It was getting late and I was growing tired, so I carried the crate to the back cabinet of the industrial kitchen.
And that’s when I remembered I’d stuck my small-batch baking implements in the cabinet. There was nothing for it; I needed to clean up before I could go home and crawl into bed.
But I was uncomfortable. My feet hurt and the dress I wore hurt my ribs. It had one of those built-in bone bustiers, which made my shape look really nice but also served as a torture device. My mother had confiscated my overalls earlier and everyone else was long gone.
So I stripped off my dress, kicked off my shoes, peeled off my false eyelashes, tied on an apron, and did the dishes in my undies and garter belt. Many might consider cleaning while nearly naked as odd behavior, but I did it often. I was frequently alone after dark (or before dawn) at the bakery.
I was just finishing up, washing the last of the bowls, when my phone rang. It was my mother, likely wondering where I was.
I used my pinky finger to answer the call because my hands were wet. “Hey, Momma. I’m just finishing up at the bakery.”
“Are you working on those popovers for tomorrow? Already?”