2. Tripp
Chapter 2
Tripp
T here’s a good chance I’ll be battling riots next if we don’t get The Lobster Shack open again. I turn to the inspector as he comes around the side of the red shingle building. The owner of this revered establishment paces behind me, and I can hear the rhythmic steps as he wears down the pavement.
“Sheriff,” the inspector addresses me.
“What’ll it be?” I ask in return.
“It’s good to go. Everything looks fine, no concerns of a leak.”
We shake hands and exchange signatures on paperwork. I’m eager to get in there myself, because from the way Gus is leaning over the fence, I won’t be able to keep him back from his business much longer.
Last week, a vandal hit The Lobster Shack. I’m not just talking spray paint or a damaged sign. This was thousands of dollars worth of damage. And it was precise, planned. Executed by an adult, in my opinion. I just haven’t shared that theory with anyone yet.
Gus had been delayed from fixing things up by the county inspector. He hadn’t been able to fit the stop into his schedule until today. Still declared a crime scene of sorts, I had to be present to give my all clear after the inspector.
“So can we get in there?” Gus asks when it’s only the two of us left out front.
“Just give me one minute, yeah?” I ask out of courtesy.
Knowing he has no choice, Gus nods and resumes his pacing. The Lobster Shack is as casual as the name suggests. There isn’t even a front door. Across the front is a window to serve up the orders to customers, with the only door being around back.
I follow the path from the front, scanning for anything I may have missed the first time I was here. When I reach the back, I note the tire tracks once again. They’re still clear as day, leading right up to the building. And partially inside of it.
Whoever the perpetrator was, they didn’t seem to be worried about damaging their vehicle when they rammed it into the shack. With it on the edge of town, there had been no witnesses. Again.
Of course, I had considered if this was an accident rather than another incident of purposeful property damage. But the driver had to make a series of precise turns to hit the building from this angle. There was nothing accidental about it.
I finish my check and head back out to meet Gus. “All yours,” I call as I make my way around the picnic tables in the front yard.
He rushes forward, frantic to start assessing the situation himself. I take the opportunity to bid him a fast goodbye. I have just enough time to run up the coast and get back to work before overseeing the deputies’ shift change.
You can’t be in law enforcement and be particular about your coffee. Black drip coffee, stale coffee, cold coffee, different strengths of coffee. You take what you can get around this department. My favorite, though, is when Millie’s wife, Vanessa, comes to visit her and brings coffee from her café. She’s always considerate enough to bring some for everyone.
With this being a Friday night, I don’t expect a coffee delivery at the moment. I take a sip from the room temperature mug on my desk and check the clock. I’m supposed to be out of here in half an hour anyway. And it’s probably for the best, my eyes are going blurry rereading these files.
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.
“Sorry, some of us aren’t on vacation,” I shoot back with my own smart-ass smile. “How was it down there?”
“Not much warmer than here, actually. But really cool. The culture was so interesting, and they make our historic landmarks seem brand new.”
I nod, accepting the glass the bartender slides my way. “When do you head back out? Same place?”
“Well… nowhere, maybe. I’m thinking about sticking around instead.”
I freeze with my drink halfway to my lips. “Seriously? I know I’ve given you shit about how much you travel, but are you actually over it?”
“It’s not that I’m over it… I think I’m just ready to establish something for myself. Dad started his firm around our age, Ivy has a whole freaking business already, and you’re the sheriff. What have I done to put down my own roots? Nothing.”
“What would you do here?” I ask, taking a drink.
“I don’t want to be another general practitioner in town, but maybe do something more crisis focused.”
“You should ask Hayden about what he’s got going on,” I suggest.
“I wasn’t thinking crisis like becoming a firefighter?—"
“No, he’s starting a new type of team for the county. Even if you don’t stay long term, it might be interesting.”
“I’ll check it out,” Wes agrees. “Thanks. Oh, and you’re the only person I’ve mentioned this to, so don’t go saying anything at my parents’ party.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“How’s life as the sheriff?”
“It’s a lot more paperwork.”
He chuckles, finishing his drink and motioning for a second. “No, seriously? How are things going?”
“There’s a vandalism situation happening, and I’d like to get a handle on it soon. People are going to get too restless if it keeps on.”
“You’re a hometown hero, I think you’ll be fine.”
What I don’t bring up is the heaping amount of self-doubt that comes with this new job too. That’s not something I would talk about with anyone but my grandfather anyway. And he’s gone.
I take another swig of my beer and set my focus on the game playing out on the TV behind the bar. It’s only been a few months; I’ll find my footing. I just have to find a vandal first.