by Jana DeLeon
I smiled, still amazed that it had taken traveling across the country under an assumed name and with a price on my head for me to find friends who were worth claiming.
“I hate to break up this Folgers coffee commercial moment,” Ida Belle said, “but Ally needs to get out of the store before someone sees her. I know you might end up testifying, but until that becomes reality, there’s no use for you to put yourself in Celia’s warpath.”
Ally nodded, then threw her arms around me, surprising me with a quick hug. “We’re going to get you out of this,” she whispered, then with a wave to Ida Belle and Gertie, she slipped out of the storeroom and back into the store.
“Such a nice girl,” Gertie said and sniffed. “If I’d had a daughter, I would have wanted her to be just like Ally.”
“Not me,” Ida Belle said. “All that niceness might rub off. Can’t afford for that to happen.”
Gertie rolled her eyes. “Imagine the horror.”
I grinned. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve still got gravel dust in my hair and it itches.”
Ida Belle peered out the door. “Coast is clear.”
We hustled out of the storeroom and into the store. At the same time, Walter came hurrying in from the back door, wiping his hands with a rag.
“Got held up at the dock,” he said.
“Did you see the fire?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that what all the noise is about?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Apparently, a raccoon set fire to the AC unit at the sheriff’s department. I’m surprised you didn’t see a commotion since it’s only a couple buildings down from here.”
He frowned. “Thought I smelled something burning, but sometimes there’s a burning smell when Sammy’s curing hides.”
I cringed. Yuck.
“Thanks for letting us use your room,” I said and stuck my hand out. “I’m sorry to put you in the middle of things.”
Walter hesitated for a moment, then shook my hand. “All I did was unlock a door and make a phone call.”
“Well, I still appreciate it,” I said.
Ida Belle and Gertie gave Walter a wave and we started out of the store. I reached up to push my bangs to the side and a familiar smell wafted by. I lifted my hand back up—the hand that Walter had shaken—and took a big whiff.
Gasoline!
I whipped my head around and stared at Walter, who gave me a wink and went back to stocking. I waited until we were back in Gertie’s car before exclaiming, “Oh my God. Walter set fire to that AC unit.”
Neither Gertie nor Ida Belle seemed even remotely surprised.
I stared. “You already knew?”
“Suspected,” Gertie said, twisting around in the passenger’s seat to look at me.
“But how would he even know Carter was going to arrest us?” I asked.
“He left the storeroom phone on speaker,” Ida Belle said, “so he could hear the conversation. I saw the light as soon as we walked in the room.”
“You asked him to do that?”
Ida Belle shook her head and pulled the Cadillac away from the curb. “I don’t ask Walter to do anything like that. If I knew he was going to listen, then he wouldn’t be able to claim lack of knowledge on the subject matter.”
“She doesn’t want to owe him,” Gertie said, which was an explanation I bought more readily.
“Then why did he did he set the fire if not for Ida Belle?” I asked, completely confused.
Gertie pursed her lips. “That’s the interesting part. I don’t know for certain, but I’m going to guess that he did it because he likes you and was worried.”
“If you like someone, you help them change a flat tire or bring them food,” I said. “There’s a huge gap between those types of things and criminal mischief.”
Gertie nodded. “I think you remind him of someone.” She inclined her head toward Ida Belle.
“Oh.” I slumped back in my seat. In a strange way, it made sense.
Gertie had commented earlier that she would have liked Ally as a daughter, if she’d gone that route. I hadn’t thought of it at the time, but if Ida Belle had a daughter, she’d likely be more like me.
I wished Walter hadn’t gotten involved, but in the pit of my belly was a small warming glow. It was nice to have people care about me—people who tried to help without being asked or offered anything in return.
I smiled and said a silent prayer that Carter never found out his uncle was working for the dark side.
###
I showered until the hot water ran out, then spent another ten minutes under the cold, trying to invigorate my exhausted body and mind. It had been an incredibly long day, but I knew if I fell asleep this early, I’d be awake in the middle of the night, and that was something I hated.
Time seemed to pass so much slower when it was dark outside, and everything seemed starker. It was a slow crawl into depression.
I knew why I felt that way. I wasn’t as out of touch with my emotions as people accused me of being. I just didn’t wear them on the outside like an extra layer of clothing, nor did I dwell on them like well-meaning people sometimes suggested I do. “Sit with the pain.” “Find your center with your memories.” “Take a pill.”
Depending on whom I was talking to—well-meaning coworker, CIA shrink, or New Ager who was part of an undercover operation—everyone seemed to think I needed to do something different with my feelings. I always resisted the advice. The way I’d handled things had worked fine my entire adult life.
At least, I thought it had been working.
Then I’d come to Sinful, and I started wondering if my profession, and all the lifestyle requirements that came along with it, had allowed me to remain stuck in an emotional rut, always pointing to professional success as proof of how well I was doing. But what did I really have to show for my life, except a bunch of completed missions that I could never talk about?
I threw on yoga pants and a T-shirt and trod barefoot downstairs to fix up some dinner. Unless the house caught fire, I was in for the night and determined to get some sleep. As I walked through the living room, I glanced out the front window into the fading sunset, wondering if I would see Sheriff Lee parked across the street on his horse—or even worse, on my own front lawn.
My eyes narrowed. I was definitely under surveillance, but it wasn’t by horse and it wasn’t Sheriff Lee. I flung open the front door and stalked down the driveway to Carter’s truck. He saw me cross the street and lowered the stack of papers he’d been reading, then shoved them into an expandable file on the passenger’s seat.
“Seriously?” I asked. “You couldn’t arrest us, so you’re going to spend the night stalking me?”
“It’s surveillance when the police do it,” he said, looking aggrieved.
“Since I’m innocent of the crime you’re investigating and you know it, that’s debatable.”
He sighed but didn’t respond. I took a good look at him and realized he was even more exhausted than I was, which stood to reason. He’d been on twenty-four/seven duty for days, with a murderer on the loose, half the population of Sinful angry at him for not arresting me, and a good chunk of his time wasted chasing me, Ida Belle, and Gertie around. And none of that included the investigation he was conducting.
I wave of empathy washed over me. I’d been where he was far too many times in the field. Some missions were in and out. Others seemed to drag on endlessly and without decent food or sleep. It took weeks for me to recover every time I returned home.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“What?” He looked confused, but I suppose it was a strange question.
“Have you eaten?”
He held up a coffee and a half-eaten protein bar, and my empathy ticked up another notch.
“I’m about to heat up a chicken casserole from Francine’s. Why don’t you come in and get something decent to eat?”
A wistful look passed over his face before he shook his head. “That would
n’t be appropriate.”
“Why not? You’re here to make sure I don’t go on a killing spree, right? If you’re sitting in my kitchen, I can’t attempt to kill anyone but you. Besides, maybe the great citizens of Sinful will think you’re questioning me or searching my residence and cut you some slack.”
He tilted his head to the side and studied me for several seconds.
“What’s in it for you?” he asked finally.
I threw my hands up in the air. “Maybe I’m just being nice. Contrary to what you and other people might believe, I can be a very nice person. Maybe I feel sorry for you because in a way, you’re in as bad a position as I am, and neither of us has done anything to be there. Maybe I’m afraid if you don’t eat some of the casserole, I’ll consume the entire thing and have to spend the next ten years jogging it off.”
His lips quivered for a second, then finally the smile broke through. “Well, I suppose people might think I’m finally coming down on the Yankee criminal.”
“Hey, it’s a win for everyone.”
He pushed open his truck door and stepped out, clutching the expandable folder under his arm. I figured it must be Pansy’s file if he wasn’t even willing to leave it in his truck. Of course, he might also figure I would get him back into the kitchen, then have Ida Belle and Gertie steal the file out of his truck. I have to admit that for a second, it had crossed my mind, which probably made me a bit less nice than I’d claimed.
He followed me inside and back to the kitchen, where I directed him to the breakfast table. He slid into the corner chair and placed the folder on the table next to him.
“You want a beer?” I asked.
“More than anything in the world, but I can’t have one.”
“Right, you’re working. Soda? Iced tea?”
“I don’t suppose you have root beer, do you?” he asked, looking like a hopeful ten-year-old.
“Actually, it’s my favorite. I took the last four two-liters at the General Store.” I grabbed the root beer out of the refrigerator and poured two tall glasses.
Carter took a huge gulp of the root beer and gazed outside at the muddy bayou, slowly swirling its way to the Gulf of Mexico. I pulled out the casserole, cut off two big hunks, and put them in the toaster oven to reheat.
“You know,” he said, still staring out the window, “when you grow up in a place like Sinful or even just visit one, you don’t think any awful things happen.”
He turned from the window to look at me as I slid into the chair across from him. “I mean, nature is a bitch, so there’s hurricanes and tornados, and a lot of the professions here have dangerous elements, but that’s all part of normal life.”
“But murder isn’t,” I said quietly.
“Not usually.”
I nodded. “I remember thinking when I walked through town the day I arrived that probably the only time something was killed here, it was eaten, then stuffed.”
“Or peeled and fried.” He gave me a small smile. “Yeah, that used to be the case.”
“What do you think happened?”
He shrugged. “The simple answer is time. People are crueler—more desensitized to things that would have shocked them ten years ago—and the dark secrets that people kept years ago seem to be bubbling up.”
“So you’re saying good southern manners prevented people from poking into others’ business in decades past, but now, people are less likely to cover up or even ignore questionable behavior?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“So you think Pansy’s past finally caught up with her?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation, especially with a suspect.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s a yes. Did you check into Dr. Ryan?”
He sighed. “You’re not going to quit asking questions, are you?”
“Hey, my freedom is on the line here. You can’t blame me for asking.”
He frowned and studied me for a couple of seconds. “No, I guess if I were in your position, I’d be asking as well, so I’ll throw you a bone. The New Orleans Police have detained Dr. Ryan on my request. I will take a trip there tomorrow morning to question him, but I don’t expect much to come of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he asked for a lawyer before they ever got him out of the hotel.”
The buzzer sounded on the toaster oven and I got up to retrieve the casseroles. I wasn’t the least bit surprised that Ryan had lawyered up. I would have done the same thing in his position and with his pocketbook. But at least if he was in custody for suspicion of murder, Carter shouldn’t have any trouble getting a look at his phone records.
I sat one of the plates in front of Carter and took my seat across from him again. The first bite made me sigh.
“If I lived here permanently,” I said, “I’d have to be towed around on a flatbed trailer.”
Carter smiled. “Francine has a gift.”
“So does Ally. Wait until you taste the peach cobbler she made a couple days ago.”
“One of my favorites,” he said and took another bite of casserole. “You and Ally have gotten to be friends, huh? I wouldn’t have put the two of you together.”
“Why not?”
“Partly because of the ex-beauty queen thing and Ally’s past with Pansy. Partly because Ally’s a people person and librarians are usually more introverted.”
“And partly because I’m from north of the Mason-Dixon Line?”
He grinned. “Partly.”
“The beauty queen thing was overblown by my mother,” I said, giving him my regular cover story. “It was her dream, not mine. And it’s true, I am an introvert. People tend to annoy me as long as they’re talking, and sometimes when they’re not.”
“But yet, you took up with Ida Belle and Gertie—the two worst influences in Sinful—on the very day you set foot in town.”
“I know, but they needed my help. I figured, ‘Here are these two nice old ladies and their friend being accused of murder’—why shouldn’t I pitch in?”
“You got taken.”
I grinned. “I know that now, but how was I supposed to know it then? They seem so innocuous.”
He nodded. “And then the next minute you’re wearing nothing but a trash bag while fleeing the Swamp Bar.”
“There is that, but still, I don’t regret helping them. Marie is a really nice woman and now, she’s finally free to have a decent life without the shadow of her husband’s disappearance hanging over her head.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “It could be that you’re just a nice, naive woman, but I doubt it. I get the impression you enjoy being in the thick of the action.”
I gulped down some root beer, trying to formulate a good reply. Of course I enjoyed being in the thick of the action. My entire life was centered on being in the middle of things, but the real Sandy-Sue probably wouldn’t have made a single decision I’d made since I arrived in Sinful.
“I guess I’ve been cooped up in the library for too long, and I really like that Law & Order show.”
“So do I, but you know what the difference is? I’m actually a law enforcement officer. You’re a civilian, and when civilians try to handle police business—especially when it involves things like murder—they often become the next victim.”
He wasn’t wrong. I knew firsthand what happened when amateurs attempted dangerous jobs. I’d seen the body bags. But the amateur title didn’t fit me. Granted, I wasn’t law enforcement, but I wasn’t an average civilian, either. Of course, Carter didn’t know any of that, so it was only proper that he bring up such things in an attempt to keep me out of harm’s way.
But on some level, it still rankled me.
A big part of me wanted him to know just how capable I was. Just how close a match we truly were in the “alpha soldier and dangerous human being” department.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I have no intention of becoming a victim.”
A murder victim
or a railroaded suspect victim.
I just didn’t specify all that to Carter.
“So what’s your story?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“You know—why did you come back to Sinful after your military tour, what are your career plans—the usual stuff.”
He raised one eyebrow. “You checking me out, Miss Morrow?”
I felt a light blush creep up my neck and mentally cursed. Of course, I wasn’t interested in Carter in the way he was implying. I was living here under an assumed identity and would be gone like a whisper of wind as soon as things cleared up for me on the professional front. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him.
I imagined most women with a pulse found him attractive. He was probably the hottest guy I’d ever met in person, and he was oozing with the whole alpha male thing. But Carter managed to make it seem more about being a hero and less about his ego, unlike the alpha males I worked with at the agency.
“No. I’m not checking you out. I try not to date men who might arrest me for murder. But I can’t ask about the case, and my life before now was the most predictable thing on earth. I just started watching television recently, so I can’t chat about current events, famous people gossip, or sports.”
“You just started watching television? Were you being held hostage or do you have some religious objection to the device?”
Well, that was a loaded question. I actually had been held hostage on more than one occasion, but I was going to assume the question was tongue-in-cheek and answer accordingly.
“I’m more of a reader,” I said, then prayed that he didn’t ask me what I liked to read.
“I guess that makes sense, you being a librarian. What sort of stuff do you read?”
Crap.
My mind went on autopilot, sifting through a lifetime of knowledge and trying to lock on to something that would answer his question but that I could back up with intelligent answers if he had more questions. Unfortunately, the only thing I really knew was my job.
“I mostly read technical stuff—you know, how things work. And I like historical nonfiction.”
That was mostly true. I read the specs on new weapons on a regular basis, and since I’d been in Sinful, I’d started reading some from Marge’s impressive collection of historical weapons books.
