LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  She had just taken another step forward when Sheryl poked her in the back. “Ouch!”

  “Quiet,” Sheryl hissed, leaning closer. “That’s the son.”

  Allie glanced back at the man standing by himself. Maybe that’s why he’d looked familiar. He had the look of the sheriff about him, except this version was a few inches taller, and he had dark hair. Even from a distance, Allie could make out the rigid set of his mouth. “Why’s he standing over there alone?”

  Sheryl grimaced. “Because no one wants to get near him. He’s been making a lot of noise around town.”

  Allie looked again. The closer they got, the more she could see his resemblance to Cord Arbutten—deep-set eyes, determined jaw. She saw him scowl at the sheriff. “What’s the story with him and his father?” She couldn’t imagine a child hating a parent that much. Maybe disliking, she corrected, thinking of her mother.

  “I don’t know all of it,” Sheryl said softly in Allie’s ear, “but I heard Cord sent him off to boarding school when he was just a kid. The mother had a shit fit, but there was nothing she could do about it.”

  Allie looked at the sheriff. She could believe it. The man fairly vibrated with authority.

  They moved another foot. Great progress. At this rate, they’d reach the casket some time next Tuesday.

  “Anyway, word is he ran away a bunch of times. Finally settled down, I guess. Sheriff should have sent Sidney Finch instead, as far as I’m concerned,” she said, her eyes still on the son. “To reform school.”

  Allie hadn’t seen Sidney Finch in years. “Which one is Sidney?”

  Sheryl snorted. “The ferret-faced one standing behind the sheriff. You can tell him by his brown nose.”

  The description was apt, but Allie didn’t laugh. He was the officer from outside the sheriff’s house, the one who’d spooked Allie with just a look. And no wonder. In their younger days, Allie thought Sidney would spend his adulthood behind bars instead of putting other people there. He was a sneak and a worm whose mother was convinced her son could do no wrong and whose father seemed willing to go along with the fiction as long as he didn’t have to put down the remote and get out of his recliner.

  “I thought you said Sidney changed when the sheriff took an interest in him. You never did tell me about that.”

  “Happened a long time ago. Sidney got busted for petty theft. The sheriff took him on a weeklong camping trip in the Everglades without any of those little niceties that might have made the trip easier—like food and water. They had the clothes on their backs and a knife each.”

  “Oh, my God.” Allie could imagine it. She’d traveled down that way once—on the roads, not in the cypress swamps—and that had been intimidating enough.

  “I know. Freaky. Rumor is Sidney came back a changed boy with a serious case of hero worship. Sheriff gave him a silver ID bracelet like some kind of badge of honor for making it through the trip. He still wears it. Who the hell wears an ID bracelet these days?”

  Sheryl was right. She could see Sidney touch his right wrist from time to time.

  “What’s so bad about him now?”

  “Other than him being a total suck-up?” She shrugged. “I’m told he’s a pretty good cop, but I get a little nauseous when I see him licking the sheriff’s boots. He worships him like he’s a god or something. It’s weird.” She shrugged. “I just get bad vibes around him. You know what I mean?”

  Allie nodded, watching Sidney as his eyes flicked around the room—from the sheriff to the son to the crowd—back to the sheriff. It made Allie antsy, even though Sidney never looked her way.

  Cord didn’t seem to notice Sidney, although Allie could tell he was aware of his son. Several times, she saw Cord’s gaze drift over. She could see the pain in his face, but whether it was because of the circumstances or his son’s accusations, she wasn’t sure.

  “Look at him,” Sheryl said, grabbing Allie’s arm.

  Allie shook off her grip. “Let go of me, you brute.”

  “Sorry. Watch him,” she hissed. “He’s whispering to the sheriff. Probably asking his permission to go pee,” Sheryl said, making a face. “He’s like a four-wheeler riding on a semi’s bumper trying to get sucked along in its slipstream.”

  Allie watched Sidney cross the room, smiling and shaking hands as if he were at a political convention rather than a wake. Maybe Sheryl wasn’t so far off the mark. Sidney was a sheriff’s deputy. If he was ambitious, it wouldn’t surprise Allie if he tried to take his hero’s place when the day came for Cord to retire. It was a chilling thought.

  They inched closer. They were within shouting distance now. Allie saw the sheriff cast another furtive glance at his son. The son saw him this time. His jaw worked for a moment. Then, he turned and walked away. It seemed like a lot of resentment to carry beyond childhood.

  They were near enough now for Allie to see a table set up in front of the casket. Draped with a damask cloth in a subtle rose color, it was lined with photos of Jean Arbutten at different stages of her life. She’d seen this kind of thing before, and she thought it was infinitely superior to gazing in a casket at the shell of someone who used to be.

  Allie studied the photos with interest. As a child, Jean Arbutten appeared gawky, but so do most preadolescent girls. The next was of her in her wedding gown. She looked pretty and happy, smiling as if she’d just picked the biggest plum. Another full-length shot showed the sheriff standing beside her as she held a baby—the son, no doubt. Jean looked proud, and she had definitely gotten her figure back. Tiny waist, Betty Davis legs, and breasts that only a nursing mother could boast. The sheriff, other than looking stiff, appeared much as he did today. Darker hair back then. Fewer lines in his face. A whole lot like his son. The last photo must have been taken recently. Her hair was lighter, highlighted to hide the gray maybe, but she was still an attractive, well-built woman.

  “Allie.”

  She looked up and into the sheriff’s eyes. He seemed to have aged since Allie last saw him, or maybe it was just strain dragging down his features. She could see a blackening to the side of one eye. From the “run-in” with the son?

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she said.

  He took her hand and held it. “I am too. More than I can say.” Then, he released her hand, and the line moved her along. Was there a double meaning somewhere in there?

  “Back in a few,” Sheryl said into her ear before slipping off to join a cluster of deputies on the other side of the room.

  Allie felt a moment of panic. How would she ever find Sheryl again in this crowd? Then, she remembered Sheryl had her cell phone with her. Allie would call her when she’d had enough, which, in her estimation, wouldn’t be long.

  She moved out into the hallway with the others. Many were making for the front door now, their duty done. As she passed the flower room, she saw the sheriff’s son standing in the center of the floor alone. He wasn’t looking at the flowers. More looking inside himself, if Allie had to guess. She almost kept walking. After all, she didn’t know him, but there was something so forlorn about his stance. At the last minute, she veered into the room.

  The sickly smell from the floral arrangements nearly gagged her. She resisted the urge to hold her breath as she picked her way among bouquets toward the son. She’d only seen him from a distance, and even then, his resemblance to the sheriff was noticeable; up close, it was striking. He had Cord’s piercing blue eyes set under heavy brows. His hair looked like his father’s, only dark where Cord’s was now gray. It was even cut the same way.

  He took a step back, as if she’d startled him. She held out her hand, and he took it automatically. “I’m Allie Grainger,” she said. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  He blinked his eyes against tears he was trying to hide, if Allie wasn’t mistaken. “No, of course, you aren’t. Randall Arbutten. Rand.”

  “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your loss.”

  “Thank you.” He released her hand. “Did yo
u know my mother?”

  Allie wished she could tell him yes. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

  He took a step backward, dropping her hand and turning away.

  “I know your father,” Allie said to his back. “My aunt used to work for him.”

  When he faced her, the change in his features was frightening. Color suffused his face, and his thick brows drew together. “My father? He’s no father of mine.”

  “But―I—”

  “You have no idea what kind of man he is,” he hissed. Without another word, he turned sharply and left the room.

  Allie stood frozen for a moment. What had just happened? She started out the door, a little afraid of what he might do if she ran into him again. She ducked into the refreshment room after peeking in to make sure that wasn’t where he’d gone. It was crowded with people, but she didn’t see anyone with piercing blue eyes and a homicidal expression. With a sigh of relief, she stepped inside.

  The buffet tables were heaped with food nearly spilling off crystal platters. There was indeed a carving station in the corner, and it was doing a great business. She’d had no dinner, so she fixed herself a small plate and nibbled while walking around the room. Back when she was married, she never would have eaten like this. Fried oysters. Mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat. Tiny tarts filled with indescribably good mystery combinations. She bit into a confection and licked her lips. Heaven in a pastry shell.

  During the years she was married, Allie had tried hard to please her diplomat husband. She starved herself when Garrison made remarks about her getting heavy. She highlighted her already blonde hair that―he said―lacked luster. She even briefly considered the colored contacts he suggested to make her eyes look greener. None of it seemed to matter. She never measured up. Even after being divorced for a year, she couldn’t look in a mirror without finding fault. She was too thin or too this or too that. Garrison had a lot to answer for.

  More people entered the room. Everyone seemed to have four elbows and be aiming for Allie’s feet, which were already killing her. Why had she chosen 3-inch spikes? Then, she remembered she hadn’t chosen at all; she’d grabbed what was there.

  Taking her plate, she headed out to the reception area. As she rounded a corner, she saw Rand Arbutten standing in the center of a group she recognized as reporters. The spiral notepads and pens in their hands would have been a dead giveaway even if she hadn’t recognized Alf Reed among them. At least no one had mikes. Maybe the funeral home had some standards after all. She sidled closer so she could hear what the son was telling them.

  “Someone has to investigate this. I’m telling you, she was terrified of him.”

  “Why?” one of the reporters asked. “Was your father abusive?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Rand Arbutten asked, his voice hoarse with bitterness. “I haven’t lived with them since I was twelve.”

  “Did she ever say—?”

  “She was afraid, I’m telling you. Someone needs to look into it.”

  “Mr. Arbutten, are you claiming that your mother’s death wasn’t a suicide?”

  Rand rounded on him. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” almost spitting with anger. “My mother never would have killed herself. I’m saying she was murdered.”

  The reporters began to mill more closely around him, sensing blood.

  “Mr. Arbutten, you said your mother wrote a letter—”

  “Mr. Arbutten, I’m with the Florida Times—”

  “Did you see her body?”

  “Mr. Arbutten, can you tell us—”

  Allie turned away, sickened by their eagerness. Suddenly, the food held no appeal. As she put her plate down on a corner table and headed back into the hallway, she saw Sidney Finch standing near the door, near enough to hear every word Rand Arbutten said. His expression was bland, but his eyes burned into Rand Arbutten’s back like twin lasers. When he saw Allie watching him, he glared at her before turning and walking away. Again, unease washed over her. Maybe Sidney hadn’t changed so much after all.

  The crowd had thinned, but there were still too many people sharing the same air. She spotted a set of French doors halfway along the passage and headed toward them, slipping outside.

  She found herself in a walled courtyard. The ground here was covered with flagstones. Three sides of the courtyard were lined with lush ferns, palms, and stone benches, wet now from the earlier rain. Subtle landscape lighting suffused the area with a dim glow, and more light came from the windows on the building side. Like the rest of the funeral home, it was designed to be elegant and soothing. She stood there for a moment, breathing deeply. It was easily ten degrees cooler here than inside, the air fresh and clean, unsullied by the smell of too many flowers and too much food, by too many hot bodies and reporters’ insistent questions.

  Allie closed her eyes and shook her head. She had only worked for the newspaper for a few weeks, and she was already questioning her decision. In college, she had switched her major from English to journalism, mostly out of adolescent rebellion against her professor father. That and a brief history of working with the Atlanta Journal Constitution before her marriage were her only qualifications. She took the job after Myrna, the receptionist, who looked on Allie as some kind of kindred spirit, begged her, hoping it would infuse some purpose in her life. Instead, the job was driving her crazy. Every day seemed a week long. She felt more tired from eight hours of sitting at a desk than from a five-mile walk on the beach with Spook.

  If what she’d seen tonight was what was expected of her, she was in no hurry to head into the field. She detested the sensationalized coverage in the newspapers. Every headline screamed of some human misery on which the public seemed to feed. Man rapes twelve children. Son kills parents. Woman stabs spouse. Sniper kills twenty in shooting spree. You couldn’t even turn on the weather station these days without being entertained with the bloodiest and goriest stories of the day—stories only remotely connected to weather, if at all. Sure, these things happened to people, but what would invading their privacy in the most heinous way accomplish?

  “Now, you’re asking the right questions, Allie.”

  “That’s nice, but I still don’t have any answers.”

  “You will in time. Do you remember why you majored in journalism in college?”

  “Sure, I remember. I was angry with Dad for pushing me to get my master’s in English.”

  “That wasn’t the real reason.”

  “And I was going to set the world on fire with my brilliant stories.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You still don’t get it, sweetheart, but you will. Trust me. You will in time.”

  “I’ll get what?” Allie demanded.

  “Allie? Are you okay?”

  She spun around. Sheriff Cord Arbutten stood behind her. She felt the heat as color flooded her face. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’m fine. I was just talking to myself.”

  “I thought the crowd might have gotten to you. I saw you come outside.”

  “No.” Then, “Yes.” She laughed. “It’s awful in there.”

  “I know.” Cord shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d hoped to get a minute with you before you left. I—uh—I wanted to thank you for coming. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.”

  His discomfort was palpable. He took one hand out of his pocket and ran it through his hair. He glanced around and then back at Allie, his brow creased. “I imagine you’ve heard what my son is saying about me.” He examined her face and apparently got his answer. He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t kill my wife, Allie. We had our differences, but I never would have harmed her.”

  Allie looked into his eyes, eyes that seemed to be pleading with her for understanding, or maybe forgiveness, or—what? Silence? She remembered what Sheryl had said about him getting a divorce, but how did you ask about something like that? Alf Reed wouldn’t have any problem with it, but vultures never hesitated to pick at their c
arrion.

  She jumped when the side door burst open. Sheryl froze on the threshold, looking from Allie to the sheriff and back again. She took a step back. “Uh, sorry.” She nodded in Cord’s direction. “Sheriff.” Then, she looked back at Allie, sheepish. “I couldn’t find you. I got worried.”

  Allie couldn’t help it. She had to smile. “Don’t you ever come into a room like a normal person, Sheryl? You know, just knock or open the door and walk in?”

  Sheryl looked around them. “This isn’t a room.”

  Allie shook her head. “Ready to go?”

  “Yeah.” Sheryl turned back to Cord. If possible, she looked even more uncomfortable than he did. “Sheriff, I was talking to some of the guys in there, and we want you to know—well—that we’re all with you on this.”

  Cord nodded. “I appreciate that, Levine,” he said, his voice gruff. “I have to trust it will blow over.” Then, to both of them, “Thank you for coming. Your support means more to me than I can tell you.” With one more searching glance at Allie, he turned and went back into the building.

  Chapter 4

  “So, what was that about?” Sheryl asked, sliding into the Jeep.

  Allie busied herself with fastening her seatbelt. “What was what about?”

  “Your powwow with the sheriff. What’s up?”

  Allie knew that someday she’d tell Sheryl about her aunt and the sheriff. Sheryl had loved Lou almost as much—and almost as long—as Allie had, and she was crazy about the sheriff. She wouldn’t judge or condemn either of them, but now wasn’t the time. She turned the key in the ignition. “He saw me come outside. He thought the crowd might have gotten to me, and he was right. I was about to faint.”

  Sheryl was watching her. Allie suspected she knew there was more to it, but let it go. “Yeah, me too. Well, not faint. More like barf.”

  Apparently, it was okay for a macho cop to barf, but not faint. “Can you believe how many people were there?” Allie asked.

  “Vultures, and those fucking reporters—” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oops. Excuse me.”