by Jo Goodman
Ramsey Rules
Jo Goodman
Copyright © 2020 by Joanne Dobrzanski.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For my sister Yvonne and my readers.
You’ve always had my back.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
Also by Jo Goodman
1
Tripping the Light Flamingo. My Rodeo Rose. Burning Blush. Ramsey Masters picked up a fourth bottle of fingernail polish and turned it over to examine the label. Peachy Keen. Really? Couldn’t anyone just call it pink and be done with it? Whose job was it anyway to come up with these names? And how did you get that job? What sort of title came with a position like that? Nomenclature Designer. Executive in Charge of the Naming All Things. Hmm. Maybe she would look into it, but first…
She glanced sideways at the pair of girls giggling over a selection of lipsticks a few feet away. They were oblivious to her presence, which was the way she liked it. She chose two bottles—Tripping the Light Flamingo and something called Perky Pimen-toes— then made a quarter turn toward them.
“Hey, girls,” she said. Ramsey held up the bottles, dangling each by its black cap between her thumb and forefinger. To further draw the girls’ attention, she gave the bottles a hand bell shake. “What do you think? The Flamingo here?” She lifted her left hand. “Or the Pimen-toes?” She waggled the bottle in her right hand.
The girls stared at her. Ramsey thought she detected horror in their eyes. Or was it pity? “What?” she asked. “Not right for me? I’m too old for pink, is that it? Yeah. Probably am. Thirty next birthday.” She returned both bottles to the rack and looked at her nails. They were cut short, buffed, and covered in a clear lacquer to give them shine. She showed them to the girls who were starting to turn away. “I should keep it simple, huh? No fuss.”
The girls gave her identical shrugs. The taller of the pair was a blonde with blue-green streaks that might have looked like peacock feathers if peacock feathers faded. She had a pale oval face, a rather pointed chin, and blue eyes that rested narrowly above high cheekbones. Her friend (it was difficult to imagine they were sisters or even related) sported neon blue streaks in hair so black it could only have come out of a bottle. She had an abundance of curves and, given the taut tee and booty shorts that hugged her hips like a sprayed-on tan, was either confident or clueless about showing them off.
Ramsey estimated their ages in the thirteen-fourteen range. They stood in each other’s space, but their stance was more protective than militant. She knew now that her first impression had been incorrect. They hadn’t stared at her with either horror or pity. She had made it about her when it was actually about them. What she had seen in their eyes were fear and shame. Yes, they were young. Probably here on an internet dare, called out by someone on takeit.com or stickyfingers.bus where you could post snaps of your latest haul.
The girls likely thought they were up to the challenge. Miss Ample Curves could hide a couple of tubes of lipstick between her boobs, maybe a mascara wand or an eyebrow pencil as well, but Miss Faded Feathers had no cleavage and she hadn’t thought to wear a bra. Body-type was immaterial as they each carried a designer bag the size of a mini-van.
Amateurs. Ramsey considered what she wanted to do.
“I saw you looking at the polishes earlier.” She lifted her chin to indicate Miss Ample Curves. “What color did you choose?”
Miss Ample’s lips parted a fraction as she sucked in a breath before her mouth snapped shut. She shook her head.
Ramsey thought the girl did a credible job of feigning confusion. She shifted her gaze to Miss Faded Feathers. “You had a preference for the blues, I thought. Sky’s the Limit. Velvet Night. Tough call. Probably why you lifted both of them.”
Miss Faded Feathers pulled the strap of her bag so it hugged her body. Her eyes widened but she wisely said nothing.
Ramsey sighed. “Here’s what we can do, girls. My supervisor’s on a lunch break. I figure that gives us fifteen minutes for you to follow me to the office where you’ll empty those bags. You’ll return what belongs to the store and keep what’s yours. I’ll take down your names, addresses, and phone numbers—your parents’ phone numbers—and then I’ll escort you outside. You find your way home and do not return for six months. If I see you again before then, you won’t like what happens.”
Miss Faded Feathers frowned deeply. “But my mom shops here. She makes me come with her even when I don’t want to. What about that?”
“Your problem, not mine.”
“But—”
“Is your mom here now? I can page her, explain the situation.”
“No!”
“That’s what I thought.” Ramsey’s gaze swiveled to Miss Ample Curves. “Are you here with family?”
A long pause, then, “My dad brought us. He’s helping my little brother pick out a bike.”
Ramsey looked pointedly at the girl’s oversized bag. “Did you offer to put it in there?” When the girl’s cheeks flushed a spectacular shade of pink, Ramsey knew she’d driven the point home. “All right. Let’s go. Office is at the front of the store.”
It took less than fifteen minutes to inventory the theft: six bottles of polish, two mascaras, two compacts, a box of cleansing wipes, Satin Midnight hair dye, a three pack of neon bright no-show socks, a pack of elastic hair bands, one pair of sunglasses, and a roll of zebra print duct tape. Ramsey had catalogued most of their booty in her head since she had been observing them for a while, but the duct tape was a surprise. Always good to have a surprise, she thought, and could barely keep from smiling when she watched it fall out of Miss Faded Feathers’ bag and roll across the table. She caught it before it dropped to the floor and set it down hard enough to make the girls flinch.
After using her phone to take a photo of the friends with their confiscated haul, Ramsey walked them outside. They made straight for the bright yellow metal bench in the shadow of the big box store and sat down. They hung their heads and didn’t speak. Ramsey figured they’d stay that way as long as they thought she was watching them. It was overkill. She knew they were more embarrassed than sorry. Whether that was enough to keep them from stealing again, Ramsey could not predict. She hoped that it was at least enough to keep them from trying it at a Ridge store, especially this Southridge store.
Ramsey was leaving the office used by the s
tore’s loss prevention specialists for holding a shoplifter just as Paul Shippensmith was returning from his lunch break. He purposely blocked her exit when he saw she was carrying a plastic yellow shopper’s basket and swinging it a tad too nonchalantly. He held out a hand, palm up, and gave her a look that was a little amused but mostly exasperated. She set the basket handle in his palm. He pawed through the contents and then returned it to her.
“How old was she?” he asked.
Ramsey held up two fingers.
“Two? She was two?” Where most men had eyebrows, Paul had black wooly caterpillars. Now these most distinguishing features wiggled as they climbed his forehead in disbelief. “What is she? A shoplifting savant?”
Now it was Ramsey’s turn to be a little amused but mostly exasperated. “No. There were two girls. They were both thirteen. Don’t worry, I read them from the riot act script. Well, mostly from the script. They’re sitting outside waiting for their ride. You probably passed them on your way in. Where did you go for lunch anyway?”
“The Sports Grill. And don’t change the subject.” Paul stood eye to eye with Ramsey but in contrast to her slender sylph-like figure, he was a tank, broad and solid and immovable. He gave her no ground to pass. “What do you mean you mostly read them the riot act?”
Ramsey shrugged. “You know. I told them what’s what and to never darken our doors again…for six months. But I was tough when I said it, plus, I gave them the eye.”
“Show me the eye.”
Ramsey did.
“You’re squinting.”
“I’m working on the eye.”
Paul gave her the eye. One caterpillar eyebrow curved slightly higher than the other. Frosty blue eyes turned glacial but only one narrowed. This was accompanied by an almost imperceptible tightening of his plump lips.
“Hold that,” said Ramsey. She dug in her back pocket for her phone and took a picture. She could hardly believe he stood still for it, but then he was funny that way. “Got it. It will inspire me.”
“Uh-huh. I better not see it blown up to poster size and hanging in the lunch room.”
“Damn, but you’re good, Paul. How’d you know?”
“I know you.” He stepped out of the doorway and waved her to pass. “Next time, Ramsey, at least call in the parents. And calling the cops isn’t out of line, especially when you haven’t mastered the eye.”
“I was on my way to find the dad of one of the girls when you stopped me. He’s in bikes with his son if I haven’t missed him. Besides, the police were here two times this morning. Camping equipment and a 55-in 4HD television. Do I need to remind you who caught the guy walking out of the Ridge with a tent, camp stove, two lanterns, six weenie forks, and a bag of marshmallows? Uh-huh.” She batted her long sable eyelashes. “That was moi. We can let cosmetics and duct tape slide for now, can’t we?”
Paul sighed heavily and indicated the open doorway again. “Go. Just go.”
2
Sullivan Day was having a hard time staying awake, and he was wishing he hadn’t volunteered to pull the double. Randy Facemire had offered to do it, but then he got a call from his wife saying one of the kids was sick and she really needed him at home. Randy could have probably used the overtime pay, Sullivan thought, but Randy was a family man. Money always took a backseat to his wife and kids. Dave Stubbins had also volunteered for the extra shift. Apparently Dave’s wife didn’t care if he ever came home, at least until he made enough to buy her the new car she wanted. The chief sent him home anyway and told him to get a loan. “Looks like you’re up, Sully,” the chief said, and that was that.
It was not the time for him to remind Chief Bailey that he did not like to be called Sully. The chief was getting a little of his own back after last night’s poker game when he was the big loser and Sullivan was the beneficiary of his losses. Sullivan figured the chief would have found a way to double his rotation even if he hadn’t volunteered, which was precisely why he had. There was some satisfaction in taking a little bit of wind out of Bailey’s sails. The man pulled rank, which could be forgiven since he’d earned it, but he was also a lousy poker player, which could never be excused.
So here Sullivan was, shifting uncomfortably in his patrol car, working the taut muscles in his neck and back, stretching as much as he was able, yawning widely enough to crack his jaw, and blinking furiously to keep from drifting off. No problem staying awake when he patrolled, but nabbing speeders and writing tickets? He yawned again. He had never clocked anyone at ninety on this stretch of highway, no matter what Mrs. Burnside and her coffee club cronies claimed at city council.
This five mile section of West Virginia four lanes between Pennsylvania and Ohio was a short stretch on the heroin highway, and the drivers transporting smack, oxy, and fentanyl tended to be careful and stay well within the speed limit. Broken taillights, expired inspection stickers, and mud-covered license plates got them pulled over; suspicious behavior got them searched.
Sullivan checked his rearview mirror, adjusted his Oakley sunglasses, then shifted his attention to the radar gun when a car passed him. The driver slowed immediately upon catching a glimpse of the Clifton patrol car.
Seventy-two. Not worth the gas or the hassle. He settled back into his seat and stretched his long legs, careful to avoid the pedals. He checked his watch. Seven on the dot. He’d be off in a few more hours, making way for his replacement on the midnight shift. He took off his sunglasses to clean them and had to drop the visor as the lowering orange ball of a sun nearly blinded him. He almost missed the equally bright cardinal red Mercedes SL550 roadster streaking by him in the passing lane. The gun said eighty-seven. He put on his sunglasses, turned on his lights, and pulled out.
The Benz didn’t slow until it approached the next exit. Sullivan wasn’t sure if the driver saw him in the rearview yet. The convertible’s hardtop top was up; there was no way to tell if the driver was male or female, but Sullivan bet she was female. He hit the siren once, twice, and saw the roadster’s brake lights come on in earnest. The driver extended an arm out the window, a long, lean arm that Sullivan decided could only be feminine, to indicate she was aware of his presence.
There was not enough room on the off-ramp’s shoulder to safely pull over. She pointed ahead to a gas station-convenience store, turned right at the end of the ramp, and right again into the station’s parking lot. He pulled up behind her. When she turned off the engine, he got out of the car and approached on the passenger side. The roadster’s hardtop began to retract and he waited beside the trunk until it finished folding into place.
Yes, definitely female. There was a certain satisfaction in winning that bet with himself. Her hair, and from what he could tell she had a considerable lot of it, was piled and pinned rather lopsidedly on her head. Loose tendrils brushed the back of her long neck. The lowering sun highlighted copper streaks in the thick sweep of sable. She was looking for him on the driver’s side so when he knuckle-rapped the passenger side door, she started in surprise then swiveled her head on that long neck to stare up at him.
Behind his Oakleys, Sullivan blinked twice. “Oh, Jeez, it’s you.”
“You just stepped on my line.” Ramsey kept her hands on the steering wheel. “License is in my wallet, which is in the glove box along with my registration and my gun. You can get them yourself.”
“You own a gun?”
“Uh-huh.”
He looked at the empty passenger seat. “And you don’t own a purse?”
“I own plenty of purses. I don’t carry one when I work.” She turned her head and regarded him suspiciously. “I thought the fashion police were a myth. Guess not. Are you undercover?”
“You’re pissing me off, Ramsey.”
“And just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better.”
“Yeah, well, you were doing eighty-seven.”
“Test driving this baby. Sweet, isn’t it? It must have gotten away from me.”
“More like you were trying
to go flat out.”
“Give me a break,” she said dryly. “It’ll do a hundred without breaking a sweat.”
“Does the dealer who let you test drive this know you work at Southridge?”
“Sure. But I told him I had a sugar daddy and I batted my eyelashes. Wanna see?”
The sunglasses hid Sullivan’s eye roll. “You have a permit for the gun?”
“Do you really believe I don’t?” When silence was his answer, she said, “In the glove box.”
“Lower the window.”
“I have to take at least one hand off the wheel.”
“Still pissing me off, Ramsey.”
She pressed the starter button once to give battery power to the accessories and then lowered the window. When it was down, she folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead while Sullivan leaned over to open the glove box.
He took out her pistol first—a Walther 9mm Concealed Carry Pistol—because there was no sense taking chances. He thought he saw one corner of her splendid mouth curl in something that might have been amusement. More likely derision. He opted to ignore it.
“I’ll be back,” he told her once he also had her license and registration, and headed to his car. If she made a sarcastic reply—and really, what other kind would suit her or this particular situation?—he was out of range to hear it.
