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

The Mayor's Gambit

The papers were signed, the town had gotten the bypass, the Americans had gotten their contract. Hands were shaken, shoulders patted, and Imogen scooped the forms from the table to carry them to her desk.

"Leave it to Mrs. Harris, please," the Mayor said nonchalantly, and suddenly looped his arm. "A celebratory drink before the dinner?" he asked the Americans, and then looked at Imogen askance. 

The peering of the blue eyes was pointed, and Imogen gingerly pushed her arm through his.

"Don't mind if we do!" The American Imogen had nicknamed Chatterbox grinned from ear to ear.

Imogen minced after the Mayor, painfully aware of the warmth of his body and the rock hard muscles under the suit sleeve.

"Sir, I don't drink," she whispered, and he looked down at her. "I'm intolerant," she explained.

"It's purely symbolic. Just have a tonic." He smiled at her. "Just in the pub across the street. You need to go get dressed for the dinner, right?"

Imogen nodded, unable to stop gawking. The Mayor was being... odd. She wouldn't know, but in her mind that's how considerate husbands treated their wives. Secretaries, and especially the old and boring Mops Fox, weren't supposed to be courteously escorted down the main staircase of the Town Hall, like Sam Cameron, and led outside, and into a pub - in front of all the King's horses and Mrs. Owens, the pub owner and the worst gossip of Fleckney Woulds.

And then to make matters only worse, the question of the bar stool arose. Imogen and her incomplete 5'3" stared at it pondering where to find a ladder, when a pair of hands lay on her waist. Even without looking she knew it wasn't the Mayor. Why? Because at the moment, with complete certainty Imogen knew that he would have asked first.

The Sulky American gave her a smirk and 'Let me help you, sweetheart' when the large and probably heavy hand of John Thomas Oakby lay on his shoulder. The look on the mayoral noble face was grave.

"Thank you but I'm alright," Imogen said to the American firmly. 

She appreciated the Mayor backing her up - and even more so, she appreciated him giving her a chance to speak up first. The overseas guest jerked his hands back. Imogen grabbed the edge of the counter and clumsily climbed on the cursed perch. Mrs. Owens materialised with a flirty smile, her curves and milky skin framed by a tight bright pink top.

"What can I do you for, me lads?"

The Americans ordered their lagers, the Mayor - his favourite G and T, and with a wink Mrs. Owens put a glass in front of Imogen, identical to the Mayor's - but harmless to Imogen's brain capacity. Imogen's inability to drink was well-known to the drinking community and those concerned, and the joke about the difference between the Fox sisters' lifestyles had been quite popular at the times when the younger Imogen had to come to drag sloshed Rosie back home.

They toasted for the success of the endeavour, and after a few minutes of idle chatter, Imogen fled with the excuse of the mysterious feminine preparations for the evening event.

***

The dinner was held in the best restaurant of Fleckney Woulds, in the hotel the Americans were staying in - thankfully - for one last night.

To say that Imogen felt tense and uncomfortable entering the large hall on the ground floor of the Chambers Hotel would be just as understating as to claim that the Mayor looked somewhat decent in his three piece suit. To illustrate how far from 'decent' the man looked, one would have to look no further that at Imogen's boggled eyes. Again, it had, perhaps, nothing to do with how gorgeous the man was - and he was indeed - but with how strangely attentive he was to her. She shortly wondered if there was something he was planning or hiding that she knew nothing about - but she quickly forgot about her surprise at his smile and polite escorting her inside. The society pillars of Fleckney Woulds were gathering around the table, and Imogen drew a deep breath and took her seat at the Mayor's right.