Page 93 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

I do what he tells me, then jog to the passenger side of his car. I get one leg in before he stops me. “Back seat.”

I laugh.

Ted doesn’t.

So I get in the back and shut the door. That’s when I see there’s no handle, and I realize I’m not getting out until Ted—Officer Tuttle—lets me out.

He flips on the siren, then peels onto the road, tires squealing, pinning me to the backseat. We reach the city offices in just under a minute, pulling in just as Sheryl is backing out.

She inches her Corolla back into the parking spot, then climbs out of the car and strolls to Ted. He rolls down the window, she leans in, and I don’t think it’s an accident that her breasts spill over the top of her blouse.

“What’s shakin’, bacon?” she says in a voice that makes meveryuncomfortable.

Then she sees me in the back seat. She pops up straight almost as fast as Ted pulled his gun on me. “Hello, Zach. I didn’t see you back there. Are you in trouble, dear?”

“I need a copy of that permit application,” I blurt at the same time Ted grumbles, “He’s nothin’ but trouble.”

Sheryl laughs and swats him, like they’re still high school sweethearts flirting at the local malt shop. “Don’t listen to this old crank.” She swats him again, but he catches her hand, and I’m legitimately worried I’m going to be here all day.

But she pulls her hand away and says to me, “Get in here, and let me see what I can do to help you out.”

I slide to the other side of the seat and reach for the handle, which, of course, isn’t there. Ted’s already out of the car, shutting his door on my pleas to let me out. He and Sheryl hold hands and walk halfway to the city office doors before they notice I’m not with them.

Ted jounces back to the car and opens the door. “Sorry about that!”

Another few thousand years pass while Sheryl digs her keys out of her purse, finds which of the hundred opens the door, shuffles behind the counter, and discovers the application copies she made and put in the mailboxes are all illegible.

“Oh dear,” she says, pulling her glasses from the top of her head, where they’d remained this morning too, and examining the page of smeared ink. “I wonder what happened here.”

From behind me, where’s he’s leaning against the wall, Ted cranes his neck to investigate the problem. “Looks like something’s wrong with the copier.”

Continents drift apart in the time it takes Sheryl to figure out the copier is low on ink and that she’s left my original application on the glass instead of filing it.

She holds up the paper, then asks, “What’s this for anyway? That’s more paperwork than I usually see for a permit.”

“The TV crew’s trailer parked in front of the house is too long,” I say in one breath, forcing myself not to snatch the paper and run out the door.

“Too long for what?” she asks, squinting hard through her glasses at the application.

“Little Copenhagen. There’s a rule against parking anything over thirty feet.”

“Who told you that? The resort is closed. Those restrictions don’t apply anymore.” Her orthopedic shoes squeak across the linoleum floor at the same slow pace it takes her to tell me the thing she could have told me this morning if she’d asked me what the application was for then.

I blink. Then blink again. Because, of course, I’m grateful. But I’m also careful. “Are you sure about that, Sheryl?”

“Of course, I am.” She pulls a pencil from her hair and uses the tip to scratch her back. “Article twelve point three in the city covenants. ‘Resort restrictions are only applicable while the resort is in full operation.’ You can look it up.”

I stare at Sheryl with disbelief. “You have the city covenants memorized?”

Ted chuckles. “That’s my lady. Smart as a whip.”

She shrugs and sticks the pencil back in her fluffy, white hair. “What else am I going to do around here? It’s boring as heck.”

In two giant strides, I’m at the counter. I lean over it and peck Sheryl right on the cheek. “Thank you, Sheryl!”

“Hey now!” Ted straightens but doesn’t actually move away from the wall.

I take the application out of her hand. Luckily, she’s remembered to sign and timestamp the application so I can show Georgia and Darlene that I turned it in, even if we don’t technically need it.

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