Free Barbecue and Bad News by Nancy Naigle Page A

had jumped to the stereotype of a stodgy guy, like the ones in the old movies who somehow always seemed to have a cute, ditzy blonde working for them. Like that would ever happen in real life. Maybe he was an old fart, but he had good taste in music, and that was all she needed to hit her stride.
    The sound of her nails tapping against the keyboard had a way of lulling her right back to work. By the time the third song finished, she had pretty much the whole story typed out. The facts, anyway. Now to turn it into something entertaining.
    She plucked the laptop from its charger, went over to the couch, and reread the story.
    This won’t work at all.
    She’d spent way too much time describing the handsome sheriff and not nearly enough on the fact that she had been going just seven miles over the speed limit. How had that happened? That was not what she was going for.
    She turned on Track Changes and began electronically redlining the story. Only what she had left when she finished editing was pretty much a pile of red lines, like a tiger had slashed through the whole blessed thing.
    The Guns N’ Roses song “Welcome to the Jungle” started thrumming through the walls, and her neighbor must have kicked up the volume, because the thump-thump-thumping nearly vibrated the pine floors, which was fine by her. In fact, if she’d picked the song for her playlist personally, she couldn’t have paired her story to a song more perfectly.
    Her stomach growled. Maybe it was a good thing she had plans for lunch, because that toast wasn’t doing it this morning.
    But first things first. She put her fingers back on the keyboard and got down to business. A few facts from the police blotter, a couple of sly pokes at the sheriff for good measure, and she was done.
    Rereading it start to finish made her chuckle, and she already knew what had happened. Yeah, this would catch an eye or two.
    “Writers don’t get mad, they get even.”
    So she couldn’t kill him off in a novel, but she sure did just fry his butt in that article . . . even if he’d never know it.
    Payback. Karma. Call it what you like, but that cranky sheriff just got his dose.
    One down, just a few to go. She clapped her hands, relieved to have already cranked out the first piece of her commitment. One quick e-mail to Evelyn asking if she minded Savannah helping out with the police blotter down at the local paper while she was here, with the article attached . . . and off it went.
    “That felt good.” She shut down her computer and tucked it into the drawer of the desk. A quick brush to her hair, a dab of mascara, and she was ready enough for a community cookout.
    She locked the door behind her as she headed downstairs while her neighbor continued to rock on, probably totally unaware that she’d even moved in.
    Maybe he’d be around when she got back. Her creative mind was kicking into gear, and suddenly that stodgy image of an out-of-shape PI was replaced by something more in line with a movie star with muscles, oh, and really nice lips. Maybe she’d start on that novel after all. That last thought had all the makings of a good hero.
    Evelyn was right. She’d been all work and no play for way too long, and maybe, just maybe, there was a small-town love story here.
    Then the cigarette-smelling, pudgy PI came in focus in her mind again. Yeah. That would be her luck. She grabbed her car keys and the directions to the artisan center, taking the stairs two at a time to the beat of the music.
    Savannah loved her little blue Mini Cooper. She’d treated herself to the new wheels last year. It was so easy to park in the city, and it was fun to drive, but even she had to laugh at how tiny it looked sitting next to the big GMC pickup parked next to it behind the apartment. The monster of a 4x4 made her car look like a toy. The truck must belong to the PI, although the fire-engine red was anything but understated. But then neither were his music choices.
    She popped the