"No, you're not," Tessa muttered under her breath.
"We're here," the shorter one continued, "to investigate allegations of systemic harassment, refusal of service to HOA residents, and potential violations of community economic fairness."
Tessa leaned on the counter, blinking slowly. "Economic fairness?"
"It's very serious," the tall one said. "We need to see your service policies, cashier training documents, and community compliance forms."
I folded my arms. "Let me guess, Beverly sent you."
Their eyes darted away, which was answer enough.
That was when Tessa struck. With the same calm authority one might use while reading sacred scripture, she reached under the register and produced a wrinkled sheet of paper. "According to corporate policy," she said, handing the paper over. "All official complaints must be accompanied by a ceremonial duck dance."
Both men froze. "A what?"
"A duck dance," she repeated seriously. "You know, quacking, flapping arms, waddling in a circle. Otherwise, the complaint can't be processed."
I bit my cheek so hard not to laugh that I nearly tasted blood. Tessa demonstrated enthusiastically, arms flapping, feet stomping, quacking like she was auditioning for a cartoon. Mrs. Butler, observing from the lottery counter, laughed so hard she dropped her soda.
The two investigators stared at each other, mortified. Then they muttered something about checking with their supervisor and scrambled out the door like raccoons fleeing a flashlight.
For one glorious moment, the store was quiet again. But peace never lasts around Ridge View Meadows.
At 11:00 a.m., Bradley Knox, district manager, my boss's boss, stormed in like a thundercloud wearing khaki pants. His face was as red as the gas pumps outside. He slapped a stack of printed emails onto the counter.
"What the hell is going on, Mark?" he barked. "The Chamber of Commerce called me. My insurance agent called me. And now I've got HOA board members demanding a meeting. This station is trending on the town Facebook page, Mark. Trending!"
I took a breath and explained everything calmly: how Beverly had demanded free gas, how she'd called the cops, how she'd staged a protest, how she unleashed fake investigators like we were living in some dystopian HOA dictatorship.
Bradley didn't care about details. He cared about numbers, reputation, revenue. "You fix this," he snapped, "or I suspend you until it blows over."
His words hit me like a punch to the ribs. Suspend me? Over Beverly's tantrum?