Felicia Mason - Sweet Devotion

“You’re arresting me?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Hot diggity!” The little man stepped quickly to don the cuffs, showing pretty amazing dexterity for someone his age. Paul put him at close to eighty.

“Take these two out to my squad car,” he said to the young officer. “I’ll go round up some more of them.” He wiped his brow, shook potato goo from his hand and glared at the old man who was still grinning at him.

“Assaulting an officer could earn you some jail time, sir.”

“As long as you have cable, that’s fine by me. I like to watch wrestling.”

“I’ll just bet you do,” Paul muttered, walking away and stepping around a huge puddle of beets. The whole place was a wreck.

In the police car, Amber stared out the window, her face an expressionless mask.

“Isn’t this fun?” the little man asked.

It took a moment for the question to sink in and for Amber to comprehend that the pain hadn’t kicked in yet. She turned toward the voice, expecting to see her tormentor. Instead, she came eye-to-eye with an elf. Her eyes widened and her mouth, a thin line, began to tremble.

The man looked alarmed. “Aw, please don’t be mad. It was just a little pastry. It didn’t hurt, did it?”

Amber opened her mouth but no words came forth. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. She blinked once. Then again. And then the tears she’d hoped to hold back started to fall.

The man moved as if to comfort her, then, too late, remembered his hands were cuffed. He almost toppled into her lap. Amber squealed and pressed her back to the door. The little man righted himself.

“Oh, honey. It’s not that bad. Really. They’ll just take us down, do some fingerprints and then give us a good lecture. I missed last year’s dinner-dance, but that’s what I’m told happened.”

Amber just moaned.

To the casual observer, the Main Street district of Wayside, Oregon, might look a whole lot like Mayberry, R.F.D., but the police bureau was a reminder that crime happened in the town just like it did in every other American locality.

Once inside the large oak and cherry doors of the police bureau, it was apparent to any visitor that despite Wayside’s size, it had a state-of-the-art police department, fully equipped to handle any twenty-first century criminal activity and to protect the town’s citizens from such.

A long line of Revelers was herded past the intake desk and into lockup.

Amber stood in the midst of about thirty-five food-stained wretches, most of them incredibly self-satisfied over this bonus extension of their night’s festivities.

“My name’s Silas,” someone said.

Amber looked beside her. There stood her pie thrower, the little man from the police car. Having recovered enough to speak, Amber opened her mouth to give him what-for. But a voice boomed out over the general hubbub, drowning out her first words.

“Listen up, people.”

Amber’s skin prickled at the voice. She turned toward the voice and got another jolt when she looked at the man who’d cuffed and arrested her.

“My name’s Paul Evans and I’m the police chief here.”

“Hi, Chief Evans.” A couple of the Revelers called out the cheery greeting.

“Welcome to Wayside,” the little man at Amber’s side hollered.

Amber watched the big cop shake his head in bemusement. She rubbed her wrists. Though the handcuffs had been removed she still felt the weight of the shackles on her spirit. Taking a much-needed deep breath, Amber fought for the calm she knew she could find if she just took it slow. Keep it light, she coached herself. One breath at a time.

“We’ll be processing each one of you. After that, you’re free to go until your court date.”

“What about the lecture about being responsible citizens?” one of the Revelers asked.

The cop folded his arms across his chest. Amber watched muscles bunch and constrict, the blue fabric of his uniform pulled taut. Her study of the man missed no detail. From the black hiking boots at his feet, to the gleaming hardware on his gun belt.

His face matched the rest of him. Clean-shaven, angular. She paused at his eyes. Something wasn’t right about his eyes. A deep, almost piercing blue, they fit his face, but… Amber tilted her head a fraction, getting another view. At just that second, his gaze connected with hers.

She caught her breath.

He watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to the group. “You want a lecture about acting like six-year-olds? The community center is completely trashed thanks to your food fight. Who’s in charge of you people?”

The crowd in lockup parted. Amber edged forward so she was near the front.

“I don’t belong in here,” she said. “You’ve made a mistake.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed in on her.

“About you, lady, there was no mistake.”

“I’m the grand marshal,” a man said, stepping forward and poking his chest out.

If it hadn’t been for the meringue in his hair, the potatoes on his tie and a missing shoe, he might have passed for “grand.”

Chuckling at the assembly, a couple of cops walked up behind the police chief, surveying the mass in lockup.

“What are you doing here, Amber?” Sergeant Caleb Jenkins asked.

“Caleb. Thank God.” Relief poured through Amber. “That’s the same thing I’ve been trying to find out. That lug head you call a police chief hauled me in here.”

People behind her snickered.

A muscle flickered angrily in Paul’s jaw. Though locked bars separated them, Amber stepped back.

“Lug head?”

“Uh,” Caleb started. “I, uh… He’s not a…” The sergeant didn’t meet her gaze, focusing instead on something on his boots.

“There’s been some kind of mix-up, Chief,” the sergeant said, marshaling his vocabulary and coming to her defense. “This is Amber Montgomery. She’s not a Reveler. She’s a caterer.”

Paul didn’t look convinced of her innocence. “You threatened me with a knife.”

Amber glared up at him, not letting the physical disparity of their heights dissuade her. “I am a caterer. If you’d done any kind of police work, you’d know that that was a carving knife. But how could you do any real police work—you were too busy shoving me around.”

Amber thrust her wrists in front of him. “Look.” Two bruises marred her pale skin.

Paul looked horrified. “What happened to you? Did somebody in the cage do that to you?”

“No, Chief Evans. You did. And you better believe that I’m filing a formal complaint.”

She whirled back toward Caleb. “Who hires the police chief?”

“Uh.” He looked from Amber to Paul. “Uh…”

“The mayor,” Paul supplied.

Just then a commotion in the hallway interrupted them. The main doors burst open. Wayside’s mayor strode in, followed by a reporter and a photographer from the Wayside Gazette and a frantic-looking Haley Brandon-Dumaine.

“Amber!”

“Paul,” the mayor bellowed. “What is going on in here?”

It took a good ten minutes to sort through what had happened.

“I’m pretty disappointed with you, Randall,” the mayor told the Revelers’ grand marshal. “I thought you all learned your lesson the last time.”

The Revelers’ last dinner-dance had resulted in a lifetime ban from the VFW hall.

“Some of us weren’t there then,” Silas called out.

It took a while, but on the mayor’s word and that of several longtime police officers, Amber was released from lockup. Haley stood with Amber as she signed the requisite forms.

“Ms. Montgomery, I’m truly sorry. It was an honest mistake,” Paul said, approaching them.

Amber’s derisive snort clearly said she wasn’t buying it.