Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [80]
“What’s the problem?” the male officer said. He was short and bull-necked and had that glossy, grooming-brush haircut that seemed to be popular among male patrol officers. His partner was a young, snub-nosed woman with a neat, blond braid and serious gray eyes. Both walked in holding on to the top of their unsnapped holsters in the same way the guard had his phone. The female officer’s expression flickered with recognition when she saw me.
“Better call the watch commander,” she started to say to her partner. “That’s the—”
“We can handle this,” he interrupted her irritably. “Who called 911?”
She shrugged and fell silent, obviously the junior partner in this duo. At that particular moment, I blessed his arrogance. I’d prefer to tell Gabe about this myself.
“I did.” The guard’s voice quivered.
“So what’s the problem?” His face held a slight sneer, telegraphing his feelings about security guards with a turn of a lip.
I jumped in, suddenly tired of all the fuss. “Someone vandalized the co-op,” I said, holding out the rock. “I was in here working on a quilt, and someone threw this through the window. It caught me by surprise, and I screamed. Whoever it was apparently hopped the fence and took off toward the feed store.”
The male officer nodded and pulled out a notebook. “Did you get a look at him?”
“No, when I heard the window shatter, I hit the floor. Then I crawled over and turned off the light so I wasn’t an obvious target. Then the guard knocked on the door and identified himself. I recognized his voice and let him in. He’d already phoned the incident in to his dispatcher.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Quick thinking ... for a woman.”
Behind him, his partner blurted out, “Lowry, don’t be such an ass.”
Ignoring her, he turned to the fidgety guard. “What did you see?”
As the guard told his version I went over to the maintenance closet and pulled out a broom and dustpan and started sweeping up the glass.
“Need any help?” the female officer asked. Her name badge said B. Girard. I idly wondered what the B stood for—Beatrice, Barbara, Bertha?
“No, thanks, Officer Girard.” I dumped the glass into the trash can.
She watched me silently for a moment, then asked, “You’re the chief’s wife, aren’t you?”
I looked up at her and smiled slightly. “Guilty as charged.”
“This is kinda awkward,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other. In the quiet, the leather of her black gun belt squeaked like a new saddle.
“Not really,” I said. “Just treat me like you would anyone else. Make your report and go on with your watch. No one was hurt. It was probably just a kid screwing around.”
She looked at me doubtfully.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m going home right after this and I’ll tell the chief myself. Don’t treat me different, Officer. Really, this is no big deal.”
“Want us to stick around while you lock up?” she asked, still not convinced that something special shouldn’t be done.
“That would be great,” I said. “I’m all right, but I think the security guard might be a bit skittish.” We glanced over at him talking rapidly to the male officer, his face flushed in agitation as he pointed and explained. The macho police officer looked as if he were listening to a mosquito buzz.
“Men,” she said, shaking her head.
“Enough said,” I agreed, and laughed.
She gave me a curious look. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Absolutely,” I said. She followed me into the wood shop, where I found a square piece of plywood, a hammer, and some nails, and fashioned a serviceable covering for the broken window.
The male officer came over when I’d pounded the last nail in place and inspected my work. “Looks like we got all we need for our report here.” He turned and asked me, “Why didn’t you tell me you were the chief’s wife?” He made an unsuccessful attempt to keep the irritation off his face.
I put on my most innocent expression. “Is that relevant? Would you have come quicker if you’d known my identity? I’m assuming that all the citizens of San Celina get the same high-quality police protection. At least, that’s what my husband assures the city council