Somehow, she’d been the one selected from the Scribes to go and check in with the local police about the weeks-past bake sale mishap.
Why they had chosen to select her was more than a bit beyond her comprehension, but Bridget was never one to turn down a chance to prove her worth to her coworkers. Even though the police department was not her most trusted group of individuals in the town - but they did do well, for the most part. Even if a great number of them were ignorant, and even if some of them thought that the existence of the Scribes was useless.
Gaining more information about the police department was hardly a bad thing - Bridget only knew a bit from what Cece had causally mentioned, and if she remembered correctly, Cece, while part of the police in Ashkent, wasn’t an officer in the typical sense. Bridget had read enough Nancy Drew books in her childhood to have at least a vague interest in some aspects of the job, even though she’d never actually wanted to be a proper officer.
She had to dress extra nice - or at least extra professionally. Had to make a good impression, because this meeting could mean more than it might have seemed on the surface. She might have not been on the best of terms with any number of her coworkers, but that didn’t mean that she wanted to bring any distrust or lack of respect to the Scribe organization.
So she’d decided on a blue dress and faux-leather jacket, pulling on tights and her nicest pair of boots (ones that went up to just below her knees) and a purse, no extra pens or notebooks or anything. Deirdre’s necklace because it had been given to her with the very message of triumphing, and though going to the police station to discuss a pastry mishap was hardly anything when compared with an awful pageant, the comfort that the necklace provided was still incredibly important to her. Veronica’s birthday necklace to her was shorter, and she quickly added that on, letting it hit just on her collar bone.
While driving was still hardly something she enjoyed doing, and was not technically needed to go from the HQ to the station, Deirdre’s car would go to waste if she didn’t use it sometimes, and it would get her there faster than walking would, and it hardly seemed proper etiquette to show up on a bicycle. So she drove over to the station and parked just about a block away, exiting and locking the car. With a final adjustment of her jacket she turned on her heels and made her way into the building, greeting a member of the desk staff.
“I’m Bridget, from the Scribes - I’m here to meet with a member of the department about the bake sale, see if we can offer any extra insights.” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and gave her best smile.
The individual in front of her gave a brief nod, before responding - “You’ll be meeting with our Captain today, he had some free time - just wait right over there and we’ll get him.” Bridget gave another nod, letting her fingers find the necklace and give it a brief twirl before letting go, going to go and sit on one of the chairs, making note of others who seemed to be waiting as well, though she refrained from making too much eye contact beyond a brief connection, followed by a small smile.
She wished that she’d brought a book with her, but that wish quickly disappeared when she heard some footsteps and stood up - perhaps too quickly - and noticed a man approaching. “Are you the Captain? I’m Bridget - Bridget Blythe, if that kinda introduction is important.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake. “I’ve been told we’re going to meet today. I’m from the Scribes.”
Meeting with members of old historical societies was not usually a task that fell onto Captain Maynard’s agenda. However, with the flood of calls and reports following the now infamous bake sale debacle, Neal felt it was important to make time for those who wanted to come forward and help. He wouldn’t admit that taking on more meetings would assure him that the new hire paperwork and budgets would be waiting for him, a promise to himself that he would not be leaving the station until well after midnight. To anyone else, a stack of papers would seem like a dark cloud looming over their entire day, but to Neal, it was almost reassuring.
The Captain looked up from the file currently splayed across his desk to check the time. Ten minutes to two. He began shuffling the papers back into a cohesive pile, organizing each leaf and placing a variety of colored sticky notes on various pages to remind him where he left off. Most of the other officers in Ashkent gave him a fair amount of shit for his organization practices, but they clearly never had to find something in a hurry. Or they didn’t prioritize the prompt rediscovery of pertinent information the same way he did. Neal shrugged at the thought and placed the file back in it’s place before straightening his tie and taking one last look across his office.
Every book, every file, every binder full of budgets, safety manuals, and personnel information was placed in a well manicured system. Neal smiled to himself, proud of his hard work. Sure, Boston had sent him here to get him out of their hair, not that they’d admit as much, but he was making the most of it. Though he didn’t get out into the field as much as he used to, being overwhelmed in administrative tasks wasn’t something he really minded. He was able to make certain that his department was up to snuff, and he even got to train most of their new hires. It was almost like having a family. Almost.
“Cap, we have a woman here for you. Said she’s from the Scribes.”
Neal was shaken out of his thoughts and pressed the speaker button on his phone. “I’ll be right out, thanks Johnson.”
Scribes. He rolled his eyes. There were some officers who said they were a fanatical group who studied all manner of fairy tales. Others said they were the group their old grannies used to meet with when they wanted their family histories recorded, just in case someone needed to know their life secrets. Secrets like their world famous jam, Neal would say. Sometimes he was met with a raised eyebrow and a side eye. That was the usual reaction from the superstitious ones, men and women who would swear up and down that ghosts were real and the Scribes had helped them understand why their Uncle Jerry was always seen wailing through their hallways on the Fourth of July when he’d died 5 years ago. Neal always scoffed at these stories, chalking them up to old family legends and superstitions. It was common in historical areas for people to believe in such things, but it was beyond him that people who dedicated their lives to law and order could possibly be among those that did.
Neal threw on his blazer and walked out through the station, heading towards a bright red haired young woman.
“I’m Bridget - Bridget Blythe, if that kinda introduction is important.”
Neal extended his hand and a warm smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Blythe. Thanks so much for coming in. I’m Captain Maynard. If you’ll just follow me, we’ll be talking in my office today.” Neal gestured toward the back of the station and began leading the woman into his office and closing the door behind them. “Now, you said you may know something about what happened at the Bake Sale? Were you there?”
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