The Thanksgiving Cookoff War by Earl Staggs

Description:

While many sheriffs in small towns deal with fairly simple crimes, Molly finds herself dealing with a deputy who wants to be a SWAT member, stolen tractors and the biggest criminals of all: those who would do anything to have her declare their food the winner at The Thanksgiving Cookoff. This short story appears in the Thanksgiving mystery anthology THE KILLER WORE CRANBERRY.

Excerpt:

“I’m telling you, Molly, a crack SWAT team will make all the difference in the world if we have a hostage situation.”

Tim was one of those good-looking kids who knew karate and thought six-pack abs were a necessity. If I ever had abs, I lost them after giving birth to my daughter twenty years and thirty pounds ago.

“I’m sure it would, Tim, but we don’t have many hostage situations here. As a matter of fact, I’ve lived here all my life, and we’ve never had one.”

“But you never know when it might happen. Or, say there’s a high speed chase on the Interstate. Sure, you can set up a road block or put down spike strips if you can get in front of the fugitive, but a good sniper can take out his tires from a hundred yards away.”

“I have no doubt, Tim.” I fought back a yawn. I’d eaten lunch an hour ago, and the afternoon drowsies were sneaking up on me.

“And did I tell you I’m a trained sniper?”

“Yes, Tim, you mentioned that.” A few hundred times.

“I’d be the perfect one to head up the team, what with my sniper training in the Army and my SWAT experience in Baltimore. Did I show you my sniper medals?”

“You mean the ones hanging on the wall by your desk? Yes, I’ve seen them.”

My subtle sarcasm went right past him. He kept right on rolling, full of enthusiasm and energy. Oh, to be twenty-seven again instead of staring at fifty in a couple months.

“And it wouldn’t cost that much to set it up, Molly. I figure we’d need four men in the unit and to outfit them would only cost two thousand dollars each. I have my own sniper rifle and everything else I need, so that would hold the cost down. I carry it in my patrol car, just in case. All you have to do is sell the idea to the County Council.”

“Tim, this county has a population of only three thousand people and the Council gives me enough grief over my budget already. I have to fight them every year to keep you and my other four deputies as it is.”

“Maybe I could talk to them. It might make a difference coming from a man.”

That did it. Being a female sheriff had always been an uphill struggle with the old-timers in the county. I didn’t have to take it from a newcomer, too.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Tim, but Dallas has a SWAT team, and they’re only forty miles away. We can call on them if we need to. Right now, though, we have to change the subject. The reason I called you in is because you and I need to drive out to the Thompson farm. Their tractor was stolen last night. It’s the first one we’ve had here, but I’ve gotten warnings about it from other counties. Seems there’s a rash of tractor thefts going on all over north Texas.”

“Oh, yeah. I read about it on the Internet. Tractors are a hot ticket now. Snatch one here, say a sixty thousand dollar John Deere, haul it up to Oklahoma or Arkansas, and sell it for twenty-five, thirty thousand easy. Piece of cake.”

I looked up and saw Hildie Snodgrass come in the front door and blow right past my receptionist, Grace. Grace looked up, shook her head, and went back to her crossword puzzle, not about to cross horns with a charging Hildie Snodgrass.

Hildie was my age and dressed like a field hand. She wore men’s work jeans, a flannel shirt that’d been washed a few thousand times and a floppy old straw hat, feathered around the edge like it’d been chewed on by a raccoon. Hildie was only a hair over five feet tall, but somewhere around two hundred pounds. I swear the whole building shook as she stomped toward my office.

“Tim,” I said, “pull your patrol car around in front, and I’ll be out in a couple minutes.”

Hildie brushed past him in the doorway and plopped in the chair he’d just vacated.

“Hey, Molly,” she said with a dimpled smile. “I’m glad I caught you in.”

"Actually, Hildie, I was just on my way out. I have a robbery to check out.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll only take a minute.”

She always said that, and she always tied me up for at least an hour with the latest gossip. She knew everybody in the county, all their secrets, and loved to share them with anyone who’d listen.

“Good, because I’m really in a rush.” I looked at my watch to emphasize the point.

She placed her hands on her broad, rounded lap with the fingers linked together so they wouldn’t slide off.

“So, Molly, I hear you’re one of the judges for the Annual Thanksgiving Cookoff next week.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid I got caught this year. I’m one of the few people in the county not related to someone who’s entering the contest.”

“Well, I think that’s wonderful because I’m entering again this year, and we’re just best friends, not family.”

Best friends? When did that happen? We’d known each other since third grade, but we were never even close friends, let alone best.

“Good luck in the contest, Hildie.” I made a show of rising from my chair to give her the hint. “But I have to run now.”

She ignored my performance and remained seated. “I intend to win this year, Molly. My sauerkraut and cranberry casserole is the best recipe I’ve ever come up with. The trophy would be nice to have, but I sure could use that five hundred dollar cash prize.”

Sauerkraut and cranberries together? Eeeuuw! My insides shuddered at the thought. I struggled to keep my nose from wrinkling. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my keys, a universal sign that someone is leaving. She didn’t seem to notice.