Official Town Business (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book I)

No More Kisses!

"The Americans are coming next week," the Mayor muttered. 

It seemed to Imogen that the papers were fluttering around him as if he were a Potterverse character. In the morning Imogen had jotted down a small to-do list for herself - twenty three points - and she picked up her sonic screwdriver shaped pen, while the Mayor started in his habitual machine gun manner.

The Americans coming, thus, tickets, accommodations, food, welcome packages for the welcome do, papers, reservations for a celebratory reception. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, went Imogen's pen in her daybook. 

The moors, the benches, the arboretum, the fete to celebrate. Four more ticks followed. 

The road constructions in three locations around the town. Tick. 

His sister's birthday. No tick followed, Imogen had taken care of the present the day before. 

Ms. Sanders' pre-sale renovations permit. Tick.

Bits and bobs of the official town nature followed, and Imogen finally looked down at the page, tearing her eyes off the Mayor with difficulty. The Mayor had hit twenty two out of twenty three. Only 'suit fitting' was left unticked. If not for Imogen, the Mayor would generally go around his day quite 'unattired' - and not in a good way. Just this morning she'd caught him by the tie while he was snatching a scone for his morning cuppa, and his Balthus had been put in order. Not to be misunderstood, Imogen could hardly claim she disliked this part of her job. Among other things the Mayor had a habit of sticking his left hand into his mane and ruffling it. He always finished that gesture with a strange twist of his wrist, fingers threaded in the soft curls, which would give him a hoopoe tuft behind his left ear. The Mayor had been sufficiently trained by now and would bend as soon as the brush - specifically kept in her desk for the 'un-hoopoeing' - would pop into Imogen's hand.

Imogen ensured the Mayor that they were on the same page, he nodded still looking into the papers in his hand, and turned around to leave.

Imogen had already stretched her hand to her phone to start on her twenty two tasks - and to reschedule the suit fitting - when the Mayor's voice made her look up at him.

"Where are we with the break-in?"

"The alarm firm is sending someone to look at the tunnel doors today. I've checked the papers and the valuables, including art, again, this morning. Nothing seems to have been touched." 

The Mayor hummed - Imogen swooned - and then he stuck his hand into his hair. He had no meetings planned for the rest of the day, and Imogen decided to pass up the brush. She'd get understandably titillated when brushing the Mayor's dark brown tresses - but on the other hand, the brush grabbing felt strangely similar to her spritzing her cat from a spray bottle. The poor man soon would start expecting a biscuit after 'being such a good boy and standing still.'

"The only place I haven't looked at is the cellar," Imogen added, and the Mayor's blue eyes lost a distant look, and he tilted his head questioningly. 

"You know, the one where we keep the pre-computer era archive?" she added. "I can't imagine anyone taking anything from there, but I'm planning to check it at the end of the day."

"We have quite a poor catalogue system for it," the Mayor grumbled.

"Yeah, but we have this," Imogen said pointedly, and tapped her finger to her temple. "Photographic memory, remember?"

The Mayor stared at her forehead, and Imogen giggled. His multiple times aforementioned silky, heavy strands - and his shoulders, and his waist, and his long strong legs, and his gorgeous hands; and anything and everything about his appearance, and all his adorable habits, and his charming quirks and idiosyncrasies, say, how he picked up his cup with the thumb and the middle finger, as if covering it with his palm, and then drank, turning and tilting his hand; or everything else about the man, for that matter - might have flustered Imogen and made her desperately loved up - but when it came to work, Imogen knew who was, quoting the Eleventh Doctor, 'da man.'