Page 1 of The Fall Back Plan
Chapter One
Lucas
Sometimes,asignfromheaven falls and hits you right on the head. Other times, a sign falls off the roof of the new bar on Maple and almost hitsmeright on the head, except my finely honed instincts from coaching my niece’s softball team kick in, and I jump out of the way just in time.
I stare at the sign on the sidewalk in front of me, then up at the two workmen who are supposed to be installing it, both gaping at me with wide eyes. “Whoa, sorry, man!” one of them calls.
The crash brings the owner of the bookstore next door running out, and she looks from it to me, then up at the workmen.
“You good, Sheriff?” she asks.
“I’m good,” I tell her.
She narrows her eyes at the workmen. “That’s what happens when you don’t hire local.”
This bar—specifically its renovation—has been a bone of contention for the Chamber of Commerce for five months. The businesses here pride themselves on hiring locally and contributing to the economy that way. Whoever bought Sullivan’s—the bar I’m standing in front of—is changing the name to “Tequila Mockingbird.”
Enough people are annoyed about that. Sullivan’s had been open longer than I’ve been alive, and I’m thirty-one.
The new owner is also definitely not planning on keeping the scruffy ambiance acquired from decades of dusty blue-collar workers sitting on its worn barstools. We’ve watched for two weeks as boxes and furniture got unloaded from trucks and carted inside, and no one has been invited to come and check out the progress. It’s not the kind of furniture a blue-collar guy wants to sit on while killing some time before he heads home.
Best I can tell, it’s the kind of furniture ladies who drink fancy wines will like sitting on.
But most people’s hides are more chapped over the buyer’s contracting choices.
Wayne Oakley, current Chamber president, researched the name on the notice of intent to sell liquor posted in the window. It lists a “Karma LLC” as the business owner, and whoever is running Karma has failed to use a single local business or worker in the renovation. It would have made a nice profit for some of our local contractors and interior designers and furniture makers and gallery owners.
“Sorry again about that, officer,” one of the workers calls down.
I shrug. “I’m not hurt, but y’all best be careful when you try again. Barricade the sidewalk first, keep people out of this space.”
“Good idea, sir.”
They’re my age or older, but I get “sir” a lot when I’m in uniform. Or maybe it’s my sidearm that keeps them minding their manners.
The bookstore owner goes back inside, but Ruth Wilson emerges from the gift boutique across the street and crosses over. “How are you doing, Lucas?” Using my first name is old-person privilege. No one who’s known me since I was in diapers ever calls me sheriff, even though I’ve had the job two years.
“I’m good, Miss Ruth. How’s the store?”
“Fine, fine. Busy getting all the shelves filled for the Harvest Festival.”
Harvest Hollow’s big fall festival is still a month off, but the average attendance over that weekend will swell the city’s population by more than fifteen thousand, all visitors ready to eat good food and buy harvest-themed tourist crap.
Er—merchandise.
Don’t know why someone needs an apple-shaped toothpick holder, but Miss Ruth sells out of them every year.
The whole city is getting ready for it. Ribbons the color of fall leaves have been up on the Maple Street lamp posts for a couple of weeks and we’re barely into September.
Miss Ruth nods at the sign, which one of the workers has moved out of the center of the sidewalk. “Did you see the ad today in theHarvest Times?”
“What ad?” I skim the newspaper sometimes in the morning, but generally I already know about anything related to city news before it goes to press.
“Half-page ad announcing an opening date for this place next week,” Miss Ruth says.
This seems to remind the worker of something because he suddenly straightens and disappears into the bar.
“Better have Rolly stick around here that night,” she adds.
