Kenny Savory waited tables when business was slow. He paid special attention to the town constables, never allowing their coffee to cool, especially on the coldest of winter nights. Officer Margaret Stenfield nursed her second steaming cup. Too much caffeine made her jittery, but ordering decaf sounded lame for someone paid to serve and protect.
“Nothing like a jittery cop,” she laughed, waving Kenny off his latest attempt to refill.
The Savory Café was a favorite local spot. It sat at the intersection of two roads that converged in Le Sueur’s small downtown shopping district. One road entered from nearby farmland, then went uphill, across the river and on toward Henderson. The more heavily trafficked cross street was the primary access road up to Route 169 and onward to Minneapolis. Residents joked that the only way into town was downhill. That was a problem in an ice storm.
“How many so far, Marge?” asked Kenny, looking out the window of the café.
“Four,” she said, then looked up with a start past a glittering string of white Christmas lights, wind-whipped almost to the point of breaking against the café window. The sickening thud and crunch of bumper on sheet metal had become far too familiar. She nervously fondled the badge under her coat, as if to engage her police persona in time of need.
“Make that five,” Marge sighed. She stacked her pile of documents and slid out of the booth. The bell on the café door jangled as she stepped out into the bitter January wind and lowered the ear flaps on her hat.
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