A Sheriff in Tennessee (17 page)

“Now you finish this script and you learn it this way, because when the director sees what you've done here, if he's any kind of director he'll know the show has to be performed as you've written it.”

She sighed. “Klein, I wish I had your confidence.”

So did he. “Lesson number five.” He held up one hand, fingers spread wide. “Confidence is pretending you know exactly what you're doing, even when you don't.”

“You're saying you don't know how to be a Tennessee sheriff?”

“I didn't when I started.”

“You faked it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is the mayor aware of this?”

“The mayor couldn't tell his butt from a hole in the ground.”

She laughed. “Can I quote you on that?”

“In the script. Not in the newspaper.”

She froze. Her eyes became dark pools of shock in the stark white of her face. “The newspaper,” she murmured. “Oh, no.”

“Relax, Izzy, I was just teasing.”

“No, you don't understand.” She jumped up and began to pace in front of the couch. “We have to keep this a secret.”

“This? You mean the fact that you're rewriting the script?”

“No.” She waved her hand, dismissing that. “You and me. Us. This.”

He frowned, confused and suddenly wary. Not that he'd wanted to announce their liaison to Pleasant Ridge—he wasn't that dumb—but her agitation made him nervous. “Why?”

“Because if the tabloids get a hold of it—” She
broke off and groaned. “It would be so embarrassing.”

Klein stiffened. He always expected the worst. That way he was rarely disappointed or surprised. So why was he both right now?

“I can imagine. How would it look for the beauty to belong to a beast?”

She glared at him. “That's not what I meant. Although I could see them making up something just like that. The public would adore it. You wouldn't believe the things they say, what they dig up, what they twist and turn until it's not even close to the truth. I don't want you to have to go through that, Gabe.”

He was having a hard time following the conversation. “You're worried about me?”

“Of course.” She shrugged almost sheepishly. “And I admit I don't need the attention, the scrutiny, the hassle right now. If I'm going to do this show my way, I'm going to have hassle enough without constant questions about my sex life.”

Sex life,
not love life. Why did her choice of words bother him? He'd been the one to jump at the chance for a purely physical relationship. Even though, deep down, he still didn't believe she wasn't embarrassed to proclaim him as a lover to the world, nevertheless, he didn't want cameras in his face, either.

“It shouldn't be too hard to keep this a secret,” he allowed. “After all, I'm supposed to be teaching you. We're required to be together.”

“Not in bed.”

“No, that's just my requirement.”

A startled laugh erupted from her lips, and he was glad. She appeared so pale, so fragile, so worried, he'd half expected her to need holding up again.

She sat back down on the couch and threaded her fingers through his. He loved it when she did that.

“Well, we
have
been seen holding hands already. If that didn't escalate into a torrid love affair on the Pleasant Ridge grapevine by now, we should be safe,” she said.

“True enough.”

And it obviously
hadn't
escalated, or the mayor would have been whining instead of asking Klein to watch over her. Perhaps she'd been right about their being seen together enough that people began to ignore them.

“Speaking of safe…” She kissed his jaw, then frowned and glanced at the window behind him. “Was that lightning?”

“Mmm.” He pressed his mouth to the warm, scented skin where her shoulder met her neck. “Seems to go off every time I touch you.”

“Then, touch me some more, Sheriff. We could use the rain.”

L
IFE SETTLED
into a pattern. Klein was with Isabelle day and night. They spent time at her apartment and his house. Together they remodeled his avocado bathroom. She painted ivy on his picket fence and planted more flowers.

Isabelle accompanied him on all his calls. She asked questions constantly, took copious notes and rewrote the script for the pilot in a week. It was brilliant, so Klein suggested she write an original script for the second episode. She took to the idea so fast that he could tell she was enjoying her new pastime nearly as much as he was enjoying his.

He'd had to return to an out-of-the-way drugstore twice in order to replenish their safety supply. Both times he'd felt someone watching him. But no one knew him there, and he hadn't worn his uniform.

Klein shook his head. All the sneaking around was making him jumpy. Though necessary, creeping into Isabelle's apartment after dark, or seeing her leave his house before dawn smacked of guilt and he didn't like it. But he did like her, and he wasn't willing to give up what they had.

Isabelle had been right about one thing. No one in Pleasant Ridge seemed to notice or care that the two of them were always together. In a town that
thrived on gossip as its main source of entertainment, he should probably be insulted that nobody suspected anything was going on between the sheriff and the supermodel. But he wasn't.

The only shadow over his yippy-skippy happiness was Isabelle's refusal to share any part of herself other than her body. He tried to talk to her about her family, her past, her childhood. She turned the conversation to other things with the ease of a practiced politician.

But he had not found her weak and dizzy again. They ate meals together and she
ate
them. Once in a while he caught her frowning at her plate, pushing her food around or cutting it into itty-bitty pieces, but everyone had foibles.

She walked with him day in and day out, and she was so busy observing his job and writing her script that he hadn't caught her running since the night they'd first been together. Maybe he'd been wrong about her, but he didn't think so.

Klein turned his attention to the reports that covered incidents of the previous week. Thankfully nothing as serious as the feudal accident had occurred. Their days had been filled with the usual.

Joey Farquardt put a hole in Serafina's garbage can with a slingshot. Slingshot confiscated.

Jesse Wright was late to work one morning and tried to make up time by driving his truck down Longstreet Avenue at fifty miles an hour. He argued that it was still dark out and no one was there to see—except Klein. Speeding ticket issued.

T.B.'s night in the open, and his subsequent rescue, did little to improve his disposition. The new
sailor suit Miss Dubray whipped up on her Singer hadn't helped. T.B. attacked the pants of a tourist from Knoxville who had driven in to see the Shiloh exhibit. Pants paid for by Miss Dubray, disturbing the peace citation issued to the Chihuahua.

Of course, there were other more serious issues. Runaway teen picked up hitchhiking on Highway B. Given lecture on the evils of the world and taken directly back home. A bag of marijuana discovered in a middle school locker.
Sheesh
—middle school! Drugs traced to the kid's pot-head parents. Arrest made; Social Services notified.

Then there was yesterday's domestic disturbance at the Trumpens'. Such disturbances were every cop's worst nightmare, and Klein refused to have Isabelle anywhere near something so volatile. So she hadn't seen him slam Mr. Trumpen against the wall a few times—just until the man promised that the missus would no longer run into any doors. Because if she did there'd be another, less pleasant, visit from the sheriff.

God, Klein loved his job.

He was helping people; he was accomplishing something worthwhile. Pleasant Ridge had begun to feel like home, which was what he'd always dreamed of.

Now Klein glanced at Isabelle, who had commandeered Virgil's desk and was scribbling again. Had he dreamed of her, too? No, he'd never dared to dream of a woman who could make him forget all his insecurities, a woman who could make him feel beautiful whenever she touched him or even looked at him. He wanted to cross the room and
kiss her neck until she melted into his arms. But that was a job for tonight.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She glanced up, eyes unfocused, expression vague. She got like that when she was writing, although today she was more distracted than usual. This morning her phone had rung before the sun was up, and even though he'd been half asleep, he'd heard her whispering to whomever had called. But when he'd asked who it was, she'd shaken her head and refused to answer, which only reminded Klein that she still held parts of her life secret from him. He didn't like it, but he wasn't sure what to do about it.

“I was working on a scene with T.B. and Clint,” she answered. “You think we could use them in the show?”

He snorted. “T.B.
will
hurt someone. You'd better get a stand-in.”

“And Clint?”

He shrugged. “You can try, but he might fall asleep.”

She laughed and returned to her work.

The door of the station opened. Chai stepped in, accompanied by a man near Klein's age, with the same salt-and-pepper hair, although his was pulled into a ponytail and covered by a beret. In Klein's experience hats on men with ponytails usually indicated male pattern baldness.

Klein recognized the thought for what it was—envy. Not that he wanted a ponytail or a beret, but the guy was another pretty face. Was the whole world full of them?

“Sheriff,” Chai began. “This is—”

“Isabelle, my angel!”

The man breezed past Chai. Klein would have enjoyed the expression on the mayor's face if the ponytail man, who was kissing Isabelle on the mouth and sliding his hands around her waist, hadn't distracted him.

He took a step forward, and then he remembered he was her secret lover, not her husband. Hell, he wasn't even her boyfriend. He had no right interfering unless she asked him to. And she wasn't asking; she was kissing the guy back.

“California.” Chai stood next to him. He looked as happy as Klein felt. “They're very friendly there.”

“So I hear. Who is he?”

“Daniel Dimato. The director. He just arrived, along with the rest of his crew and cast.”

“You don't sound happy. I thought this was going to do wonders for Pleasant Ridge.”

Chai straightened and wiped the pout off his face. “It will. When this is over, I'm going to remodel Longstreet Avenue. People will come from all over just to see it.”

“Oh, that should be fun.”

“Do I detect sarcasm, Sheriff?”

“I doubt it.”

As Isabelle was beckoning him to join her, Klein left the mayor stewing over the comment.

“Daniel Dimato,” Isabelle said, “I want you to meet Sheriff Gabe Klein. He's been such a help to me.”

“Sheriff—” Dimato held out his hand.

Klein glanced down and was surprised to discover the insignia of the U.S. Marines tattooed on the man's forearm. His grip was firm and his gaze met Klein's squarely. “
Semper fi,
man.”

“You were a marine?”

“Don't sound so surprised. If we all became cops when we got out, the U.S. of A. would be overrun by the establishment.”

Klein scowled. The guy spoke as if he had lived through the sixties. But unless Klein missed his guess, Dimato had been born too late to do much but goo and ga through the end of the decade.

“Relax, Sheriff. I'm kidding.” He glanced at Isabelle. “He does laugh, right?”

“He laughs a lot, and he's funnier than you, Danny. In fact, you two probably have a lot in common.”

Klein and Dimato looked at each other. “Us?” they said at the same time.

Isabelle chuckled. “Yes, you.”

“I could have been a marine,” Chai interjected.

“What happened?” Dimato asked. “Did Daddy say no?”

Klein blinked. Dimato caught on quick. But then, marines had to.

“I had responsibilities at home,” Chai said; however, his face had gone pink. “And right now, as well. Good luck, Mr. Dimato.”

Chai made a quick exit.

Dimato turned to Klein. “Can you imagine him in the corps?”

“Yeah, I can,” Klein said. When Dimato gave
him an incredulous stare, he quirked a brow. “I can imagine how much fun he would be to watch.”

Dimato grinned and slapped Klein on the back. “Me, too.”

In another world—one where Dimato didn't call Isabelle “my angel”—Klein might have liked the guy.

“Chief? Hey, Chief!” Virgil's voice burst through the walkie-talkie. “The town has run amuck.”

“Amuck?” Dimato murmured. “Who is that guy?”

Klein ignored him. Virgil was often hyper, and even more often an alarmist, but Klein didn't like the panic he heard in the old man's voice.

“Whataya got?”

“You name it—2-88 for certain. Several 4-15s. More 6-47s than I can count. There's a 10-33 on the next street over and a 10-34 next to the museum. We're going to need 11-84 at the corner of Longstreet and Lee. That's a code twenty, Chief.” The walkie-talkie cut out.

“What in hell did he just say?” Dimato asked.

“I'm not sure.” Klein's head was whirling. “Vagrancy? Maybe a stray horse? Littering?”

“No, that's a 4-25,” Isabelle offered.

“How would you know?” Dimato appeared as confused as Klein.

“I got arrested for littering the first day I came to town.”

“What?”

“Forget about it, Danny.” She gave Klein a smile. “I didn't mind.”

Dimato gave Isabelle a sharp, suspicious look that Klein didn't care for. But he didn't have time to put anyone's mind at ease.

“I've got to go,” he said. “Code twenty is assist officer, urgent. I think.”

“I'll come with you.” Isabelle took a single step toward the door.

Dimato held up a hand. “No can do, sweet cakes. You need to get to wardrobe. Then I want you to do a run-through with me on the script.”

Klein hesitated halfway to the door. His eyes met Isabelle's. Hers were wide and uncertain. He made a right-on gesture with his fist and forearm. Her answer was a weak thumbs-up, but she straightened her shoulders and faced Dimato.

“Danny, about the script…”

Unreasonably proud of her, Klein slipped out the door.

 

“W
HAT ABOUT THE SCRIPT
?” Danny asked. “You got your copy, didn't you?”

“I did.”

“And?”

She took a deep breath and plunged in. “It stinks, Danny.”

Belle had met Daniel Dimato in the autumn of her nineteenth year. He'd directed the first music video she'd been in. He'd taken her out to dinner, told her she had talent, then tried to seduce her.

She didn't hold it against him. Just as he obviously didn't hold her refusal against her. At first Belle had been embarrassed whenever she ran into him. But after the first couple of uncomfortable en
counters, he'd taken her aside and said, “Sweet cakes, if everyone in our business stopped talking to everyone they'd tried and failed to nail, no business would get done at all.”

He had a point. In the years since, they'd carried on a mutually satisfactory working arrangement. They had a rapport. Belle hoped that was still true after she finished speaking her mind.

“Stinks, how?” Danny sat at Klein's desk and thumped his snakeskin boots on top of the blotter.

“I was promised a different kind of show than this script indicates.”

“How so?”

He seemed genuinely puzzled, and her unease increased. “The script as written makes me out to be a bumbling bimbo babe.”

“It's funny.”

“Not to me.”

He frowned and sat up. His boots clicked as they met with the floor. “What did you think this show was going to be like with you in the lead, Isabelle?”

“I thought—” She broke off, swallowed and tried again. “I was told by the producers that the show would be the new
Picket Fences.
Serious
and
funny. Intelligent humor. Not adolescent.”

He shook his head. “They must have wanted you pretty bad.” He looked her up and down, then winked. “And I can't say that I blame them. But they lied.”

“Lied,” she echoed, feeling the world slip out of control all around her.

“Like rugs. Does it mention in your contract anything about the show's tone?”

She shook her head, and he shrugged. “You're the jiggle, sweet cakes. Exquisite, classy, top of the line—but jiggle all the same. Why would you think any different?”

“Why?” She sighed. “I have no idea.”

“Right.” He brushed his hands together, dismissing her concerns like dust. “Now, hustle on over to Ruby. She's set up in one of the empty shops on Main Street.”

“Longstreet Avenue,” Belle corrected listlessly.

“Whatever. The one next to that funky Civil War Museum. Is this place as full of rednecks as it looks?”

That snapped Belle out of her apathy quickly enough. “You better watch your mouth around here, Danny boy.” She let her down-home Virginia drawl thicken. “Or you'll find yourself in more trouble than you care to.”

He blinked at her, shock spreading over his features. “That's perfect. How did you do that?”

“Got me. All I know how to do is jiggle.”

She escaped from the station. On the street chaos reigned. A town of just over a thousand did not handle the sudden addition of over a hundred easily. She didn't see Gabe in the crowd anywhere. He was no doubt handling a 10-lord-knows-what in another location.

Besides, she didn't want to see him now. She didn't want to explain that she'd failed. That no one but Gabe Klein saw her as anything more than what she was.