Free Sheriff in Her Stocking by Cheryl Gorman

for
writing bad checks. This wasn’t the first time he’d been called to the Verner’s
house because of a domestic disturbance. But today would be different. No
matter how much Lester begged him, the county would take Betty to lock-up.
    Rick turned to
Delaney, grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger to make sure he had
her attention. “Remember to stay in the car. Domestic disturbances can
sometimes take an unexpected and dangerous turn. Understand?”
    Delaney nodded.
“Yes.”
    Rick climbed out
of the car and started across the narrow, snow-packed street. A frigid wind
curled around him with icy fingers. He looked at Betty and Lester Verner
standing on opposite sides of their car like two mortal enemies rather than
husband and wife. He shivered and zipped up his jacket. He wasn’t sure if he
was cold because of the weather or the domestic disaster before him.
    He glanced down
the block. Most of the houses on the street were decked out in holiday cheer
with lights strung over bare tree branches, evergreens and eaves. Wreaths graced
a few front doors. A Santa and reindeer with chipped brown and white paint
leaned at an awkward angle in the Verner’s front yard. Only five more days
until Christmas.
    Usually people
were wishing one another happy holidays only there was nothing happy about
Betty and Lester Verner.
    Betty Verner was
taller than her husband, Lester by at least eight inches. Her bleached blonde
hair twisted over her skull in tight, sausage shaped curls. She wore baggy
white sweats, black rubber fishing boots and a red hooded pullover with a
large, white snowflake emblazoned on the front. She stood like a linebacker on
one side of their car, an old, blue Cadillac.
    Lester, a thin,
painfully short man dressed in slacks and a white shirt watched his wife warily
from the opposite side. When Rick reached the end of the Verner’s short
driveway, he stopped. From his vantage point, he saw blood dripping from
Lester’s nose and an angry red welt marring his left cheek. Every so often he
wiped his nose with the back of his hand and a few more drops of blood dribbled
into the snow at Lester’s feet.
     Rick
noticed a trail of footprints scattered all around the car. Obviously, Betty
had tried to run Lester to ground and got in some good licks before he put some
distance between them. She yelled at poor Lester, her face scrunched in fury,
her hands bunched in fists at her sides. “Lester, you know it makes me madder
than hell when you run from me. Git over here. Now!”
    Rick stepped up
to the rear of the car. “Evening, Betty. . .Lester.”
    Betty turned her
large head with florid, puffy cheeks. She curved her small mouth in a brief
smile. “Evening, Sheriff.”  She said the words in a friendly, casual tone
before turning her beady, black eyes back to Lester.
    Lester shifted
nervously, pulled the tail of his shirt from his pants and wiped at his oozing
nose.
    Rick propped his
hands on his hips. “Want to tell me how the fight started thistime?”
    Suddenly, Betty
turned her big body, lumbered toward the front of the car, her movements slow
and encumbered by the heavy rubber boots on her feet. “I have to kill him
first. Then we’ll talk.”
    The only
advantage poor Lester had against his wife was that he could move faster.
 He darted like a frightened rabbit away from her toward the rear of the
car.
    At that moment,
Betty slipped and nearly went down before the long fingers of her left hand
grabbed the hood ornament on the car for balance. She straightened, her breath
heaving, her lips curled in a sneer. “Lester went for lunch at McCrary’s over
on Lincoln with two women from his office.”  Her voice was rough and
grating with an undertone of hurt.
    “Now,
Sugarlump,” Lester whined from his position by the back, right tire, “There was
another man in the group and we went as friends. You know I never look twice at
other women.”
    Betty glared at
Lester. “I wouldn’t have even known