Chapter Nine
“Why, lookee who we got here?” greeted Sheriff Grizzle as Thelonious went trundling up to him. “It’s the feller with the funny l’il car! Ah hope y’all ain’t been makin’ any more of them illegal yew-turns?”
“I’m here to report a crime!” Thelonious crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying to look authoritative.
“A crime? Is that so?”
The sheriff forgot all about Thelonious as a woman sashayed over with a basket of pastries. Smiling brightly, she fluttered her eyelashes at him like some femme fatale. Sheriff Grizzle’s rough-hewn features softened into mush. “Miss Sue-Ann, y’all make the best apple fritters in the South!” he praised, shoving one into his tobacco-stained maw.
Thelonious had been given quite a fright—and he wanted something done about it. But the sheriff
