Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs Book 5)

by Lucy Score

  That shut everyone up.

  “Did they identify her?” Scarlett asked.

  Gibson’s hands were fisted on the table, his knuckles white.

  “Well, it’s not gonna be that easy,” Cassidy said, slipping into official mode. “The skeletal remains were found during excavation for a new housing development. As of right now, they still haven’t found the skull.”

  I pushed my eggs around on my plate, not so hungry anymore.

  “What in the hell happened to her head?” Scarlett asked.

  “Jesus, did someone decapitate her?” Jameson asked looking a little green around the gills.

  Cassidy shrugged. “It’s unlikely. It was a shallow grave, so things like predators are a factor. It could be there. Investigators are goin’ through the site with fine-tooth combs. But basically, without dental records, it’s gonna be damn hard to identify the body.”

  “What about DNA?” I asked.

  “With remains that have been exposed to the elements that long? It’s unlikely at best,” she predicted.

  “But they think it’s her,” Gibson said flatly. “They think that body is Callie Kendall.”

  “According to the reports the locals are sharing with us, the approximate age of the remains and size are a potential match for Callie,” Cassidy admitted. “They can tell she was somewhere between fifteen and eighteen years old at the time of death and died somewhere between twelve to fourteen years ago. So it’s a possibility. Given the fact that the remains were found less than twenty miles from where your father got the speeding ticket, it takes it from possible and nudges it on up to the edge of probable.”

  Scarlett crossed her arms but remained silent. She’d staunchly believed in and loudly defended our father’s innocence. Gibson, however, was equally stubborn in his belief that Jonah Sr. was a murderer. The rest of us fell somewhere in the middle.

  “I’m sorry, Scar,” Cassidy said, squeezing her shoulder.

  Bowie leaned over and patted his sister’s knee. “It’s gonna be all right. No matter what,” he promised.

  “Anyway, I know this isn’t great news. And I know y’all are damn tired of the whole thing. But until investigators find the skull, we won’t know anything. So just hang in there. Stick together. We’ll get through this together.”

  Scarlett shoved her half-eaten pancakes away. “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m sick and tired of bein’ sick and tired.”

  “I hate waiting for the other boot to drop,” Bowie agreed. “We find the sweater in Dad’s stuff. The blood is Callie’s. Then she’s alive and all ‘Oh, hey, I was just living with a weird boyfriend and his cult family for the last decade.’ And Dad was just a guy trying to help a girl out. Then Mom’s accident might not have been an accident. Now there’s a dead body. How much not knowing can we all take?”

  I only shared some blood with them. I was free to leave at any time. But my brothers and sister had planted their roots deep here. They didn’t have the option to go and start over. To escape.

  “What do you suggest?” Jameson asked wearily.

  “You know what we’re gonna do?” Scarlett said, rising out of her chair. “We’re throwin’ the biggest shindig Bootleg Springs has ever seen, and we’re going to eat, drink, and dance ourselves stupid.”

  “You’re damn right, we are,” Bowie said, throwing his napkin on the table. He stood and pressed a kiss to Cassidy’s mouth. “Deputy Tucker, will you do the honor of being my date?”

  “How is any of this going to help figure out what Dad had to do with Callie or what happened to Mom?” Gibson asked, more wearily than angry.

  Scarlett circled the table and put her arms around his neck. “It isn’t gonna do a damn thing other than remind us that we’re still here. We all survived.”

  Gibson reached up and squeezed Scarlett’s hand tight, and I saw something that looked like grief flicker over his face.

  “If you think you’re gonna talk me into taking Shelby to this party you’ve got another thing coming, sister dear,” I said, pointing my fork at Scarlett.

  She snorted smugly, and I realized I’d just stupidly thrown down the gauntlet.

  * * *

  Q. How have your neighbors shown their support for you?

  Gibson Bodine: By leaving me the hell alone. Not everyone needs a hand to hold or a shoulder to whine all over. Solitude is the best medicine.

  8

  Shelby

  Moonshine Diner was my absolute favorite place in Bootleg proper. It served up good food, new rumors, and an opportunity to chat up half of the town on their way through the front door.

  I waved at GT in the back booth. My brother, the football hero, was a head and shoulders taller than just about everyone else in here. He was also beaming like a man in love, I noted, sliding in across from him.

  “Hey there, Shelby sweetheart,” Clarabell—the waitress, owner, and flesh and blood of the institution—called from behind the counter. “I’ll be right over with your ice water.”

  “Thanks, Clarabell!” I turned my attention back to my brother. “Can you believe we have a place where the waitress knows our names and our drink orders?”

  GT smirked. He’d spent the last several years living in Philadelphia, playing football and the field. At least until a career-ending injury brought him here. The healing powers of the hot springs and one June Tucker had lifted him from his forced retirement funk. “It’s a far cry from the big city,” he agreed.

  He studied my face. “You look tired.”

  I bit back a sigh. We weren’t biological brother and sister. I’d been adopted as a toddler by James and Darlene Thompson. Young GT and I had instantly bonded, or so the story the eight thousand pictures of our childhood told. Family didn’t require blood. We were living proof of that.

  Even now, we were close despite the fact that we’d lived in different cities for the past several years. That distance hadn’t dulled my brother’s intuition when it came to me.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him.

  It was a fib. I’d been keeping a secret. GT had been a little distracted the past few months, what with his career ending, his assistant embezzling from him, and then falling in love with the quirky actuary, June. Now that he was happy and healthy, I should have known he’d zero right in on my problem.

  “I just moved into the cutest little cottage,” I said, sidestepping his comment.

  He held up a hand. “Shel, we live in Bootleg. I already got the low-down from Jimmy Bob Prosser and Sallie Mae Brickman yesterday. June filled me in on the rest and drew me a floorplan to scale. You and Jonah Bodine are roommates.”

  I laughed. “Don’t even think about going big brother on me. I’m thirty freaking years old.”

  “I didn’t say a word,” he said, feigning innocence. “But I have to wonder why you haven’t told the guy you’re not a journalist. Don’t you think he’d be a little nicer if he knew the truth?”

  I rolled my eyes heavenward. The truth often had unintended consequences. I wasn’t a liar by any means. But sometimes it was better, or in this case, more fun to withhold information. “I’m just giving him line and letting him swim himself tired.”

  “A fishing analogy already?” he teased. “We need to make a pact to urban heritage or we’ll be hoe-downing all over the place.”

  Clarabell arrived with my water. She had two pencils stuck in her impressive coppery beehive. They were there as accessories since she never seemed to write down any orders.

  “The usual, sweetie?” she asked me.

  “Yes, please,” I said, sliding the menu toward her.

  “And, George, your order will be right out. Threw me for a loop today changing it up like that.” She winked and disappeared back into the late breakfast crowd.

  Watching my brother eat with his football player appetite was one of my favorite forms of entertainment. The man could easily eat half a turkey by himself on Thanksgiving. And since his career had ended, I’d noticed he’d put on a f
ew comfortable pounds. It looked good on him.

  “She probably had to go buy more chickens just to get enough eggs for your breakfast, George,” I teased. His whole life he’d been GT, but come to Bootleg and fall in love and the whole town weighed in on what they should call him. The last poll in the Bootleg Springs newsletter showed it split down the middle.

  “Back to you looking tired,” he said.

  I groaned. “It’s nothing. I’m sleeping in a new place and getting used to it.”

  “You’re not having nightmares again, are you?”

  At least that was one lie I didn’t have to tell. “That was years ago, and I haven’t had a nightmare in ages.”

  He nodded, accepting. “You know you could stay with me and June,” he reminded me.

  “I know, and I appreciate it. But I really prefer our relationship to not require me to put a pillow over my head and sing Alanis Morrissette for an hour or two every night.”

  “The walls are thin,” he agreed with a smug grin.

  I was happy my brother was happy. “Okay. I’m getting grossed out. Can we talk about something other than your sex life?”

  Clarabell returned looking like the cat that ate the canary, and I knew she’d heard every word. “Chocolate chip pancakes for Shelby. And an egg white, pepper, and mushroom omelet for George.”

  I tried not to gag looking at his plate. “What the heck happened to your usual tower of waffles with a side of six plates of bacon?”

  It was GT’s turn to wince. “Stepped on the scale a few days ago.”

  “And?”

  “And it broke.”

  I snorted out a laugh and reached for my water.

  “I’m working with your roomie on some weight loss goals.”

  “You look great, and you’re happy,” I reminded him. “There’s no need for you to stay in playing shape.”

  He leaned in. “I know you don’t want to hear about my sex life. But if I gain another ten pounds, June will be in danger of being suffocated.”

  I choked on my pancake, turning bright red until Millie Waggle jumped up and smacked me between the shoulder blades. The pancake went down, but the pain in my back exploded. “Thanks, Millie,” I rasped. She was a few years younger than me, but she dressed like she was going to a church bazaar every day. I didn’t know what her religious beliefs were, but the woman could bake absolutely sinful desserts.

  “Anytime, Shelby,” she said cheerfully before tottering back to her table.

  “Well, speaking of being physically fit,” I told him, “I did it. I signed up.”

  GT reached across the table for a high-five, his hand engulfing mine. “Seriously? That’s awesome! Is Jonah going to help you train? He’s a smart guy. Knows his shit. A triathlon’s a big deal. You can’t just half-ass it.”

  “I’ve already started my research.”

  He snorted. “Shelby, there’s a hell of a lot more work than just research that goes into an event like that. Speaking of research, how’s your survey going?”

  “First of all, the survey is great. As of this morning, I’ve had almost eighty responses, thanks to the Breakfast Club badgering everyone to fill it out. Secondly, it’s not an Ironman. It’s a normal person triathlon. They call it a sprint triathlon. It’s going to be great.” Exercise therapy was supposed to become an important part of my life now. While the idea of regular PT appointments bored me to death, the challenge of an event that I had to study up on, train for? That was my kind of jam.

  “What are we high-fiving?” Leah Mae, pretty as always in a cute pink button-down and those fashionable high-waisted jeans, slid in next to me.

  “Hello.” June, my brother’s girlfriend and the woman he was worried about squishing, appeared at his elbow. GT lit up like a Christmas tree, and it made my heart sing. This was better than any victory he’d had on the field. That kind of bone-deep happiness I felt radiating off him every time he looked in June’s serious green eyes. I adored her for making my brother so happy.

  He pulled June down next to him and laid a PG-13 kiss on her. “This is a nice surprise,” he said, sliding back.

  “Yes. It is. Leah Mae is pleased with the progress on the renovations at the shop, and we were both hungry,” June explained.

  “JuneBug, Leah Mae, y’all want your usuals?” Clarabell called.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Leah Mae said.

  “That’s a silly question,” June said with a small frown. Deviations from routine were baffling to her.

  “Back to what we’re high-fiving,” Leah Mae said, scooting in closer to me.

  “My little sister here just signed up for her first triathlon,” GT said proudly.

  I hadn’t been an athletic kid. I’d spent more time falling out of trees than climbing them. There had been entire semesters of gym class when I’d prayed the volleyball would never come near me. It was out of character for me to throw myself into an athletic endeavor. Especially one this competitive. But it was just the kind of project I needed to turn the focus away from the limitations of a diagnosis and onto the possibilities of a life.

  Well, that’s what I told myself every time I started to get anxious about it.

  “That’s so exciting,” Leah Mae approved.

  “Why would you do that?” June asked, legitimately confused.

  June’s bluntness was one of my favorite things about her. She wasn’t tethered to social norms like the rest of us. And there was something refreshing about her reactions.

  “I know. I’m not the athletic type. But I need to do something besides sit on my butt and write a dissertation. I want to work toward something with measurable goals that will keep me focused on the prize.” I had no visions of grandeur of an age group medal. But I did want to finish. Even if I crawled across the finish line. I wanted to do it under my own power. If I could tackle something as big as a triathlon, the other challenge I faced would be manageable.

  “Is Jonah going to help train you?” Leah Mae asked. “It’s so convenient that y’all are living under one roof.”

  “I don’t think Jonah is looking for any new clients,” I said diplomatically.

  “He still thinks she’s a reporter,” GT explained.

  “Why don’t you simply cease your falsehood?” June asked.

  “It’s kind of more fun watching him be all puffed up and mad over nothing.” It sounded just a little stupid when I explained it.

  “That sounds manipulative,” June pointed out. “I can see why it would be entertaining.”

  “Maybe we should feed him a few more little fibs,” Leah Mae mused. “Let it slip that you shoplifted from the Pop In?”

  “Or how about you stabbed someone with a knitting needle at Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee?” GT suggested.

  “Perhaps it would be more believable if we told Jonah we saw Shelby interrogating Mrs. Varney regarding the Callie Kendall case,” June suggested.

  I laughed. “Isn’t Jonah your friend?”

  They all shared a baffled look. “He’s practically family,” Leah Mae said.

  “Then why would you go to all the trouble to mess with him like this?”

  “Because he’s practically family,” GT said, as if that explained everything. “Also, the guy threw me in the lake.”

  “How did Jonah Bodine throw you in the lake?” Jonah was strong. But it would take more than one man to lift my brother.

  “He used a trebuchet,” June said.

  “What a weird, wonderful town you have here,” I marveled.

  9

  Shelby

  “My research suggests that Southerners in small communities are more likely to volunteer, even in unofficial capacities,” I said. “Can you ladies confirm that?”

  My unofficial adoption by The Breakfast Club included the members taking a personal interest in me and my little survey. A few of them had invited themselves over for tea and to “sit a spell.” Meaning, they were pumping me for information on what their neighbors were saying under the guise of bei
ng helpful.

  Mrs. Varney, Carolina Rae Carwell, Maribel Schilling, and Myrt Crabapple were rocking away in the pretty little rocking chairs Scarlett had on the front porch of the Little Yellow House. I’d bribed Leah Mae to make the sweet tea for me, and I’d bought cookies and cupcakes in town.

  “Where do you get your information, girl?” Maribel giggled. “We don’t call helping neighbors volunteering.”

  “What do you call it?” I asked, scribbling notes with one hand while licking pink icing from the other.

  “Bein’ neighborly,” Mrs. Varney cackled. “You big city folk try to make being nice a big deal. Like it’s some kind of disease. If I give Myrt here a call on my way to the grocery store when I know she’s feelin’ poorly, it’s in my DNA to pick up whatever she may need. I’m not calculating favors or keeping track of whether or not she owes me.”

  “It’s the neighborly thing to do,” Carolina Rae said, sipping her sweet tea and rocking.

  “’Less of course it’s someone who’s constantly riled about somethin’ acting all ornery,” Mrs. Varney put in. “Then there’s some score keepin’ or maybe we don’t bring her the name brand butter. Or we give her the frozen batch of okra rather than makin’ it fresh.”

  “So you’re even nice to people you don’t like?” It wasn’t really the questions that mattered. It was the information dump that occurred whenever more than two good Southern ladies got together.

  It was warming into summer temperatures today, and I was sprawled out on the porch with my laptop, my notebook, and a glass of—don’t tell anyone—unsweetened tea. Asking questions, getting answers, organizing the information in my mind. This was my happy place.

  “Now let’s take a little break from the work and talk about how you’re doin’, Shelby,” Mrs. Varney suggested sweetly.

  “You seen that young Jonah naked yet?” Myrt cackled, leaning forward in her rocker.

  “Um. No. Jonah and I are just roommates.” Though I’d seen him sweaty and breathless several times as the man was constantly coming and going from workouts and training sessions. That was almost as good as naked. Probably.