The Game Changer, стр. 3

Chapter 2

Traffic accidents were a social event in Parkwood, and when they happened, they caused a huge headache. The entire town simply had to get a gander at the accident, no matter how small, so they could relay the story that evening over dinner.

And when it came to fender benders with Wickham Birkland—or anything with Wickham Birkland, from trampled azaleas to missing mail—there was no such thing as small.

Wickham was Parkwood’s most notorious bad mood waiting to happen. He skulked around town with a scowl and a list of grievances as long as his uncut hair (unsurprisingly, his list of grievances began with his ex-barber), and when you were the new kid in town, one of the first things you learned was that you should try your level best to never, ever cross his path in any sort of way, but especially not in any sort of bad way. And that was exactly what had happened to the poor soul who had the misfortune of running through the stop sign at the intersection of Oak and Tutor, just two blocks north of the Hibiscus.

There was a lineup of lookie-loos four blocks long. Betty Ramp—I knew her from a story I’d penned about the new First Methodist Sunday bulletin format (they were shaking things up with Cambria font!)—was toting lawn chairs and a pitcher of lemonade up the sidewalk for the older folks who’d abandoned their cars for a better show. Betty Ramp was thoughtful that way.

An unlucky police officer was having a heck of a time trying to direct traffic. I’d never seen him before. He must have been new to Parkwood, likely filling the opening left by Officer Jamie Martin, who’d retired and moved to the coast just a few weeks earlier. This new officer was closer to my age, and was tall, dark-haired, and had a muscular build that didn’t look half bad—okay, actually looked really good—in a uniform.

Nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention. By the time I drove up to the stop sign, he’d given up on hand signals, as several cars had simply taken up residence right smack in the middle of the intersection, their owners sitting on someone’s open tailgate sharing a bag of cookies. He pleaded me with his eyes to just move on. They were nice eyes, I couldn’t help noticing.

Like a good reporter, I quickly surveyed the accident, even though I knew the Parkwood Chronicle Weekly would never report on such things. People don’t want to read about accidents, Hollis, I could hear Mary Jean saying. They want to read good news. New babies and award-winning cakes and spelling bees.

“Just as long as they’re not spelling g-i-b-l-e-t-s,” I whispered to myself as I tried to assess the situation.

A man had popped into the front of Wickham Birkland’s Mercedes, knocking a big hole into the grill and shattering the headlight. My windows were rolled up, so I couldn’t hear what Wickham was saying, but from the looks of things, he was either throwing an utter fit or dancing the Y-M-C-A. Or maybe practicing to be head cheerleader for tonight’s homecoming game. I tried entertaining myself by making up the cheers and seeing how they aligned with Wickham’s furious body language. “Hey-hi-ho-hoo! We’re the team that’s gonna beat you!” I giggled. “It works! Jump to the left! Jump to the right! Raise your fists up high and—” A knock on my window startled a squeak out of me. The officer was right on the other side of the glass. His nametag read HOPKINS.

Sheepishly, I pushed the button to roll down the window. Now that I could hear, I could definitely tell that Wickham Birkland wasn’t cheering. In fact, the police chief had arrived and was now standing between him and the other guy, and probably for good reason. Wickham was looking a little more than unhinged.

“You think you could keep traffic moving, ma’am?” the officer asked in a very official voice. It was a smooth, baritone voice—I couldn’t help noticing that, too.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just cheering…um…” I squirmed. “Sure, I’ll move. But… Can I ask you a question first?”

“I’m directing traffic, ma’am.” We both looked at where traffic should have been, but obviously wasn’t, moving. He sighed, closed his eyes briefly, refocused on me. “What’s your question?”

“Do you have any thoughts about Esther Igo’s new giblet gravy, by chance?”

The Hibiscus Café—a local institution and hub of activity at any time of day in Parkwood—was abnormally quiet. Everyone was still at Oak and Tutor, watching Wickham Birkland dance circles of anger around the man who’d crashed into his Mercedes.

The scent of gravy and butter rolled out as soon as I pulled open the door and my mouth immediately began watering. Esther’s gravy may not have been something I got excited to report on, but I have to admit there really was something special about the new recipe. Even I wouldn’t have minded getting my hands on it, and I lived on a diet of microwavable macaroni and cheese for one.

“Well, Hollis Bisbee! You’re back again! Welcome, welcome!” Esther, in many ways the matriarch of Parkwood, was a fluffy woman in every possible sense. Her graying hair was a fluffy cloud of