Page 4 of By the Book

I’ve been the sheriff for about nine months. And I’ve yet to solve the one real case that’s come through Foxport, even Manchester County for that matter, during this time. Vandalism is nothing new in a tourist town like ours. But there’s something off about this one.

Initially, I thought the same as anyone else, teenagers here for the end of summer season. They were more elusive than usual, though. And now that the trees are adorned with warm hues, the vandal remains. As evidenced by The Lobster Shack.

“You heading out soon, kid?” Chuck asks, appearing in my doorway. He’s one of my deputies, and he’s twenty years my senior. Chuck’s always been supportive of my promotion, but the ‘boy sheriff’ comments float around town plenty.

“Yeah, I’ll be right behind you, man.”

“See you later,” he offers with a smile, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe.

With a nod, I turn back to the files before me. A juvenile messing around or not, what I need to decide is if I think this perpetrator is escalating. Will they continue to focus on property damage when no one else is around? Or was the use of a vehicle this time a sign of more to come?

I push the most recent report to the side and open the file for Oak + Harbor Pizzeria. In that case, they had cut the power to the building and blown the generator. It was done in a way that has me convinced they have some real understanding of the damage they’re doing.

But I wasn’t convinced about the why. I loosen a sigh as Millie—another deputy—strolls by my office. She’s tough as nails and was my partner around here during my own deputy days.

“Hey, Millie, do you have a second?” I call.

She circles back and sticks her head through the open doorway. “Sure thing, boss. What’s up?”

I wait for her to step in and take a seat. The station is a modest building, aged but not appearing run down. It’s a bungalow, and the white shingles have turned gray with time. Located on the edge of Foxport, the largest town in Manchester County, it’s close enough to the coast that there’s a saltiness in the air.

She takes the few steps from the doorway to the worn leather chair in front of my desk. The desk that’s buried beneath papers, file folders, carbon transfer sheets, and more. Tomorrow. I’ll tame the mess tomorrow. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself each day before I’m thrown into my duties and don’t find the time.

Plucking the lacrosse ball looking stress toy from the clutter, Millie gives it a squeeze and sits back in the armchair. The ball was courtesy of my best friend Wes, for the promotion. He had included an expensive bottle of vintage dark rum and fuzzy pink handcuffs as well. Typical Wes—half considerate, half clown.

“What do you think of this vandal situation? Give me a profile.”

“Tripp, I already know you have a profile figured out. Not a teen, right? I can see it in the face you make when someone else suggests this being kids,” Millie replies, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it again.

“I’m not that easy to read,” I reply begrudgingly. The thing about growing up in a small town is people really get to know you.

“You nearly snorted at poor Sam when he mentioned those out-of-town teens. I noticed the fake sneeze you covered it up with though. Smooth.”

Sam was the owner of the pizzeria and so hard of hearing at his age, he wouldn’t have even heard my snort. Probably.

“But what do you think?” I ask, snatching the ball out of the air before her and running my thumb along the STX logo.

“I think that you’re right,” she replies with a shrug. Her blunt brown bob sways with the movement. “And you should probably get going, you said you were meeting Wes.”

Glancing at the clock above the door, another sigh escapes me.

“Shit,” I mutter. I’m late.

Standing, I ignore the smug look on Millie’s face and grab the suede jacket from the back of my chair. I wasn’t one for a sheriff’s uniform. And luckily, my own uniform of a flannel button down and jeans were appropriate enough for most anywhere I’d go.

“Tell Wes ‘welcome back’ for me. And pass on my apologies about the roast. Just explain to him that my boss wouldn’t give me the night off to come,” Millie calls after me with a laugh.

I wave goodbye to her over my shoulder, only one finger lifted in the air. “Catch me a vandal, would ya?” I shout back, crossing through the lobby. My leather boots echo on the faded blue linoleum floor as I make my way out.

It’s a dreary night, not quite raining but there’s dampness in the air. Moving through a misty fog, I climb into my 1990 slate gray Land Rover Defender—my first purchase after landing the deputy job a few years back—and head for the brewery in town.

Manchester Brewing Company isn’t far from the station, luckily. I follow the road past the harbor, staying on the water’s edge. It doesn’t take long for the towering white barn to come into view.

The iron wheel chandelier glows in the dusk light as I step though the rustic double doors. I find Wes at the barnwood bar across the brewery and weave my way over through the tables.

“Can I get the Clever Fox IPA?” I ask the bartender, taking a seat. Wes turns to me as I slap him on the back. “Welcome home, man.”

“I came from Guatemala and still beat you here,” he replies with that smug grin.

---