The radio crackled to life. “Car 11, there’s a Code 33 taking place at the Wishing Well Motel, repeat, Code Five at the Wishing Well,” the dispatcher’s voice said.
“I’m right around the corner, I’ll take it. On my way, ETA one minute,” he said, and activated the car’s lights and siren.
“What’s a Code 33?” she asked, as they quickly turned down a narrow side road.
“Burglary.”
“Somebody’s burglarizing the wishing well?”
“Happens more often than you’d think,” he said. “And it pisses me off every time, because those coins go to the local food bank.”
They turned down Wishing Well Road and raced towards a small, picturesque motel. The sheriff drove past the motel and up a small hill, where the well sat.
“Let me handle this.”
As they pulled up in front of the wishing well, they saw a skinny young man run past them, all elbows and knees poking out of holes in his clothes.
The sheriff quickly parked, and the young man dropped to his hands and knees. His clothes fell off him as he shifted into the form of a scrawny coyote. The sheriff leaped out of the car and followed suit, shifting into an enormous gray wolf and racing right out of his clothes to chase after the coyote.
He easily overtook him and the coyote fell to the ground, rolling onto his back and waving his paws in surrender. Less than a minute later, both men had shifted back and trotted over to where Ginger stood, holding out the sheriff’s clothes which she’d scooped up off the ground.
She looked away, shielding her eyes. She’d gotten a brief glimpse of the sheriff’s naked body, the solid muscles outlined in sharp relief, the massive muscles of his thighs, and the thick phallus that dangled between his legs, and she was struggling not to hyperventilate. Could she suddenly have developed asthma, at age 26? Where did they keep all the damned air around here, anyway?
“Good lord, woman, why you looking away? Haven’t you ever seen anyone shift before?” the sheriff laughed, grabbing his uniform and quickly pulling his clothes back on.
“We don’t generally run around naked in the city,” Ginger said, looking away. “That’s kind of a weekend thing, done out in the suburbs, and only with friends.”
The young man shimmied into his dirty clothes. When Ginger looked at him, she saw he was just a teenager. He was wearing an old army jacket, despite the heat, and a grimy white tank top and jeans that were too big for him.
“Ginger, meet Cletus Arbuckle. Cletus, put back all the coins that you stole before I kick your ass.”
Glowering, Cletus trudged over to the wishing well, emptied out his pockets, and threw all the coins back in.
“Poor bastard,” Sheriff Armstrong said to her in a low voice. “His father died in a hunting accident, and his mama took it real hard. She used to work as a cleaning lady; now she’s just a certified drunk. Doesn’t do a lick of work. I may have to call in county services soon to take his younger brothers and sisters away.”
Ginger winced. “Ouch. I hope that doesn’t happen.”
“Me too, but I don’t have a lot of options. “
Cletus trudged over to Ginger and Loch, his head hanging down.
“God damn it, Cletus, you got to cut this shit out. Pardon my French,” the sheriff said apologetically to Ginger, and she couldn’t help but smile, there was something so country-chivalrous about the way he said it.
The sheriff turned back to Cletus. “You’re lucky you’re still a juvenile. When you turn 18, you’re looking at doing some real time. Then who’ll take care of your family?”
Cletus shrugged angrily.
“I told you before, if you need money, I can give you money.” Sheriff Armstrong’s voice softened.
“My daddy didn’t raise me to take no charity,” Cletus muttered, his eyes glittered with tears. Then he muttered something else in a barely audible voice, something that sounded suspiciously like “Fuck you.”
“What did you just say?” The sheriff’s shoulders raised up and his eyes blazed with anger.
Ginger cringed. He was about to cuff Cletus to the ground, and humiliate him further, or haul him in to jail, or…
“Hey!” she said brightly. “You didn’t tell Cletus about the plan you were telling me about just a minute ago. Sir,” she added hastily.
“Plan?” Sheriff Armstrong stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“You know! The plan you came up with! It was such a great plan! You said, if you caught Cletus stealing one more time, you were going to sentence him to work for the community center for six bucks an hour.”
She’d pulled that from her memory; Imogen had been filling Marigold in on the town’s latest news, and she’d told her that they were building a new community center. Her handy man had quit because they’d hired him to help put in a garden.