Cynthia and her husband exchanged knowing been-there, done-that smiles. Cynthia said, "Fitzgerald didn't even know he was going to run for sheriff until he became irritated at David."
"He must have. You don't print up those signs and take out newspaper ads on that short notice. I'll bet he's planned this all along!" Fred pulled out his notebook and began scribbling.
"On that note, let's have some supper," Dean said, noting his Fat Tire six pack was now filled with empties, thanks to two drinks for each of the threesome.
Dean was glad to see Fred's line of reasoning stray away from the Dawkinses. To give the old man credit, he'd barely mentioned the trial. Better to have him concentrate on Fitzgerald, who was beginning to look more and more like a candidate, not only for sheriff, but for some nefarious activities. While Dean had been at odds with the man since their first confrontation last January, it was Fitzgerald's venomous comments at the debate that led Dean to now believe him capable of almost anything.
Fred said he was too mind-stuffed with all these goings-on to eat a bite of supper, but when Cynthia supplied cold chicken and potato salad, he ate two helpings, just out of politeness.
Dean's day was calming down, mellowed by his minimal consumption of ale and the coziness of Bird Song's kitchen. In spite of the drubbing he'd taken in the debate, he felt pretty good.
A scream-not the blood-curdling variety, more a high-pitched screech-from upstairs broke his reverie. Paulette Dawkins, whom Dean thought was dining with her clan, bounded into the kitchen to report a mouse sighting in her room. They all feigned shock and surprise at this not-uncommon happening as Paulette huffily announced she'd absent herself with a walk around the block while they "took care of the matter." It was early in the season for the little fellows-they usually stayed outside until the cold weather coaxed them indoors.
Fred looked down at the table, pretending it wasn't his turn, as he wrapped a chicken leg in a piece of dark bread.
"Well?" Cynthia said, looking from one to the other.
"Mrs. Lincoln," Dean called over his shoulder. "Time to earn your keep."
His wife continued her stare. "This is a public lodging place, remember? They don't have mice in the Holiday Inn, do they?"
"Mice are a part of the bed and breakfast experience," Dean said, "like cobwebs, old smells and rippled floors."
"None of which Bird Song has," Cynthia stressed as she reached in her pocket and withdrew a quarter. She flipped it. "Call it-then set a trap." Fred lost and muttered something about the unfairness of life as he left to do his duty.