at Paul. “We must remember that when the Pottstown meatpacking plant had a strike last year, the picket line tensions overflowed into violence. They weren’t prepared. Arson fires damaged two buildings and spread to the plant roof. A fireman suffered second degree burns. Others hospitalized after breathing toxic fumes released by the fires.”
“Remember that from last year,” Elmer said. “A trooper friend said town neighbors and plant worker relatives still don’t speak to each other.”
Jonas nodded. “This second sheet I’m handing out details the rights of strikers and the rights of the company. It’s our role to see that they’re obeyed.” Paul folded in-hand sheet without reading. “There’ll be jeers and vicious slurs. As long as its only talk, keep a low profile. Don’t side with anyone. Play it cool.”
“Anything else?” Paul asked.
“No. Be alert and don’t enflame any rumor now floating through town. Between us, expect that we’ll be given advance warning.” Jonas rolled up the bird’s eye layout of Jove Foods printed off the Internet. If notice of a strike came, he’d strategically deploy himself and officers as marked on the map. He left before the others.
* * *
Paul rotated head to door and gazed at Elmer when it closed. “If you ask me, Jonas is blowing this all out of proportion. You did right to challenge underhanded accusation you’re too old.”
“Sixty-five ain’t old. And ... I’ve told Jonas that before.”
“You’re right,” Bonnie said and squashed comment Elmer led in office sick call-ins.
“Maybe I limp after that bullet. But last year’s market crash left me not being able to afford to retire. No offense, Bonnie, but my strength to stand between picketers is as great as yours.”
“Let’s not get into that,” Bonnie replied.
“He’s only worried about getting elected, if you ask me,” Paul interjected.
“Let’s not get into that either,” Bonnie said. She suggested they breakup for she didn’t want to drift into discussion about the number of times Jonas claimed her performance justified firing. She realized the unspoken truth that any Jove Foods strike foul-up would torpedo Jonas’s re-election, and the new sheriff would clean house. That happened in Pottstown.
* * *
Jonas expected minor grumbling with twelve-hour shifts. The three officers would be happier to vent without him. When the desk phone rang, Jonas arose to close his office door. He promised neighbor Mrs. Longstreet top priority for her barking dog complaint and he or an officer would drive by after dark. At breakfast sister Luann had clued him in on their across-the-street neighbor’s dog complaints. He knew it wasn’t Webster.
With the earlier call from Melanie Stark, Luann’s words shoved into a mind recess. While petty complaints often irritated him, the tension of an upcoming strike made him appreciate everyday commonplace diversions. He didn’t require voter polls to tell him to be accessible and visible. Rising from desk, he informed the dispatcher he’d be on Main Street, back in minutes.
Jonas unlocked cruiser to retrieve a jacket. It’s warmth radiated across shoulders as he began long, easy strides. When anxiety gripped him, he fantasized the badge pinned to chest said FBI. While private college grades averaged a B+, six law schools denied admission applications. The state police academy didn’t. He graduated in top ten percent, which salved not earning FBI agent glory.
“Aye, Sheriff.”
The shout captured Jonas’s attention. “Reggie, what’s happening?” He greeted Kanosh’s sole grocer and dad’s longtime friend. The Scots and Irish historically on and off friends. The two nationalities probably immigrated to America from Queenstown in the same steerage hold.
“I’d be thinkin’ you could tell me.” Reggie appeared jittery every time he left store.
“Looks peaceful. That’s how I like it.” Jonas stopped arms-length from Reggie.
“I not be a Jove Food store, but they supply me because I’m here. They send me notice to be prepared for delivery disruption. Does that mean strike?”
“You should ask them. Not me.” Jonas unzipped jacket.
Reggie pointed into large store windows. “Ye see those three women?”
Jonas glanced in the direction Reggie’s crooked extended right hand finger pointed.
“Menfolk work in the warehouse. Never stock up like today.”
“What? You complaining about good business?” Jonas peered again to see half a dozen customers in the two aisles visible. One appeared to be Ms. Stark from Jove Foods.
“Nay. But I want verra badly to have business after this week.”
Jonas shrugged. “Let’s wait and see. Reasonable heads no doubt will prevail.”
“Let’s ye all hope so. Gotta be inside. Will ye be bringing a lassie to the St. Patrick’s Day dance this weekend at the Legion?”
“Hadn’t planned to.” Jonas felt cheeks dial up heat. “Catch you later.” He strode to the office with neck and left calf muscles tightening. He opened bottom office desk drawer; pulled out tattered collection of Pottstown strike news clippings. The funeral possession picture catapulted imagination into the future and retightened neck muscles. At ten minutes past four, Jonas leaned back in office chair. Through interior window he noticed Melanie Stark stand in front of Bonnie’s desk. He wondered what brought her in as he stowed visible papers. He rose, and at the office door, waved Ms. Stark to enter. “Have a seat. If you like, please close the door.”
“Your dog here?” Inquisitive eyes darted into office corners.
“Locked up in my sister’s backyard.” He wouldn’t risk glance at gray pantsuit to verify if it had been the one Webster nipped that morning at Jove Foods. Ms. Stark probably owned more than one gray suit. The pink-collared blouse different; same brunette hair curl framed soft facial features.
“Pretty secretary.”
He caught Bonnie’s frown before Ms. Stark closed office door. “She’s not my secretary. Deputy Bonnie Walsh is a full-fledged officer.”
Melanie unbuttoned two jacket buttons before balancing herself on the Windsor chair’s front edge. Dusty-blue eyes, clearer indoors, intrigued him as her fingers smoothed the thigh-covering pant material. “You’re not planning to assign her to any picket line?”
“Absolutely. She’ll do an excellent job.” He didn’t want to discuss a strike that hadn’t yet occurred. Nor did he wish to revisit the morning events. If he again said he was sorry, he’d most likely only antagonize her further. He’d wait a couple of days to repeat the damage compensation offer, if she hadn’t responded. “Saw you earlier inside Reggie’s Grocery. What brings you here?”
“St. Patrick’s Day fest at church. Bonnie’s on a committee with me.”
“Strange that First Lutheran is holding a St. Patrick’s Day bash.”
“Why?” Her eyes scanned office. “We know our congregation will be supportive. And, this way, we’ll attract the Catholics to our fund-raiser.”
“Guess so.” His words clipped, voice unenthusiastic. Not productive to talk about events he wouldn’t attend. At least Reggie hadn’t been too inquisitive about Jonas not going to the Legion. A Lutheran by baptism, he presented himself with mother every Sunday at ten a.m. First Lutheran services. Like clockwork, dad would claim an ailment to prevent riding along. Mother often joked: if dad had all the ailments he claimed, the bathroom medicine cabinet, loaded with all the necessary prescription bottles, would’ve fallen off the wall years ago.
“You’re coming to the fund-raiser, aren’t you?” Feminine eyes pleaded.
“Hadn’t planned on