Page 5 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
This is coming from a lady who has a rotating cast of feline friends and enough catnip that she started her own garden. Forget Whiskering Heights, we should call her the Mayor of Crazy Cat Alley.
Snickers from the locals pepper through the silence, sparking low laughter.
It’s packed tonight, and I’m not thrilled about taking the floor with all these eyes on me. Not that I have a choice.
Like the Sheriff right now.
Heads swivel from Mrs. Graves to him and back again, eyes sharp, ready to spill the tea all over town.
The sheriff hides his reaction behind reflective aviator shades perched on his nose, despite the evening darkness filtering through the high windows.
Nash is good at letting insults slide. He observes, he calculates, and he arrests when shit gets out of control.
Hence, the reason he’s attending tonight’s town meeting. They always get out of control.
“We don’t fingerprint either.” The mayor adjusts his hay hat and wipes the red paisley bandana across his forehead, mopping the sweat beading there.
The room isn’t hot. He just brings his own weather system of frustration.
“I bet Hart would enjoy fingerprint, lock me up officer, role play.” My sister’s elbow digs into my side.
“Can you not?” I hiss.
“The town council should fingerprint.” Mrs. Graves rises shakily to her feet, clutching her cane.
A few balls of yarn roll from her lap, and the people nearby instinctively gather them like it’s part of the routine.
I don’t doubt it is.
“All in favor of town council fingerprinting criminals, raise your hand.” The older woman jabs her knitting needle toward the air, punctuating her point.
I slink down in my seat. “Can’t we have one town meetin’ where Mrs. Graves isn’t bitchin’ about somethin’ useless?”
Josie smiles at me in that way that makes me feel like the punchline to a joke she hasn’t told yet.
“Well, it wouldn’t really be a town meetin’ then, would it?” Her hand shoots up. “I second that motion.”
Of course, she does.
I’m still debating why I even chose to sit with her. I knew she’d whip out the popcorn, and second motion on things she has no business seconding.
I could’ve snagged a nice seat up front, with nothing but the council in view. Instead, thanks to my sister, I’m back here watching half the town pretend they’re running Congress.
I hate town meetings.
“There is no motion and no voting on the subject of fingerprints.” Mayor Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose, his face turning a darker shade of red.
“Might we suggest security cameras, Mrs. Graves?” The town’s deputy mayor, Rita Rowe, sips from her water bottle, but we all know it’s not H2O in there.
She’s the town lush, armed with a bag of wine inside her purse and a hidden tap on the side, for crises, celebrations, and anything in between—like Tuesday town meetings.
“Apparently, hand-knitted cat cushions are a hot commodity these days.” Rita casually fluffs one side of her big red curls, looking every bit like an ‘80s Reba McEntire, and ready to steal the show.
“Why is this topic being further discussed?” I say it loud enough that only my sister hears, but I’m not really talking to anyone. “There is an agenda for a reason.”
And I guarantee fingerprints and Mrs. Graves’ cats are not on it. I could recite the order of this week’s business in my sleep.
Still, the waiting is what grinds me down. I know how it goes—dragged-out debates, a dozen voices too many, and the constant buzz of who did what with whom.
