She was a challenge to a man who didn’t want any more challenges in his life. He liked easy, he liked safe. Sadie was neither.
When a man put his hand under a woman’s skirt he didn’t expect to find a loaded weapon, but with Sadie Harlow anything was possible. Not an easygoing woman, she would fight him at every turn, and Truman didn’t fight anymore.
The knock on his door brought his head out of the freezer. Some small hopeful part of him wondered if it was Sadie, come to finish what they’d started that afternoon, but a quick glimpse out his window proved him wrong. His mother’s Caddy was parked in the front driveway.
He opened the door, and his mother lifted her head and smiled. “I brought you a casserole,” she said, raising the dish high. “You never eat enough, and the recipe I tried out was just huge, and I know how you like anything spicy.”
Too much explanation, too wide a smile. “Come on in,” he said, opening the door and stepping back. His mother, who knew this little cabin well, walked through the great room and headed straight for the kitchen.
“Besides,” she called as she walked away, “we haven’t talked in ages.”
“We talked yesterday,” he said as he followed her into the kitchen.
“On the phone,” she said, as if that explained away everything. “We haven’t had a nice face-to-face talk in weeks.”
She placed the covered dish on the counter and turned to grin at him.
Truman leaned against the doorway. “Okay,” he said softly. “What did you hear?”
Abigail McCain, Abby to her close friends, was nearing sixty, but her short hair had been dyed a cinnamon brown. This week. He never knew what color hair his mother might have. He had accused her more than once of choosing her color blindfolded, just buying whatever box her hand happened to fall upon as she browsed through the drug store.
He didn’t give her much grief, though, because changing her hair color frequently was her only real quirk. She was involved in every ladies’ club in Garth, including her beloved church group. She volunteered wherever she was needed, she was always willing to lend a hand. Abby McCain missed her husband—Wilson, who’d been gone seven and a half years—but she didn’t sit around and cry about the widowhood that had come to her too soon.
And her primary goal in life was to see Truman married and reproducing. He hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to tell her that was never going to happen.
“Well,” she said in answer to his question. “I’ve actually heard quite a few interesting things today.”
Great. “About what?”
“About you,” she said. “And that Sadie Harlow.”
Uh-oh. That Sadie Harlow? This couldn’t be good. “What did you hear?”
She pursed her lips. “I imagine you know quite well what I heard. Truman, you’re a deputy. One day you’ll be sheriff. You can’t behave like a…a…”
“Mom…” He allowed a hit of warning to creep into his voice. He was too old for this conversation, and they both knew it.
“You don’t need your name sullied by some hussy.”
“Hussy?” he almost laughed.
“Truman,” Abby said, lowering her voice. “She’s not the right kind of girl for you. She will certainly not help with a political career.”
Running for sheriff one day had been his mother’s idea, and while he wasn’t entirely opposed he hadn’t yet embraced the concept, either.
“Sadie’s not a girl, she’s a woman.”
Abby shook her head. “Just…behave yourself,” she said primly. “You know, that nice Caroline Summers has become active in my church group. She’s a teacher, you know. Elementary school. All those children just love her. One day she’ll make some man a fine wife, and don’t you just know she’ll be a wonderful mother?” Her smile bloomed. “We’re having a get-together at the house Friday night to finalize the plans for our booth at the Big Bass Festival. You should stop by.” She actually managed to sound as if it were a spur-of-the-moment idea.
“I have plans for Friday night.”
Her smile died quickly. “With that Sadie Harlow?”
“Yes, with that Sadie Harlow.”
She shook a finger in his direction. “You’ve forgotten, but when she was a teenager she was in all kinds of trouble.”
“Sadie?”
“She smoked. And many was the night I got a phone call from her aunt, wondering where she was.” She nodded her head knowingly. “I believe they caught her drinking once.”
He loved his mother, he truly did, but she did not know when to quit.
“I don’t think she smokes anymore,” he said. “I haven’t seen her light up, anyway.” And she didn’t smell or taste like cigarette smoke. He didn’t point this out to his mother. “She still stays out late, though,” he added with a smile.
“So I hear.”
“Don’t know if she drinks or not, but thanks for the suggestion.” He winked at his mother, who turned a little pink in the face. “Next time we go out to Miranda Lake I’ll take along a bottle and get Sadie good and liquored up.”
She shook that finger again. “You’re too much like your father.”
“Did he drive you out to Miranda Lake and get you liquored up?”
She turned around and grabbed her casserole dish. “No. Of course not! But he never took anything seriously either, especially when I had a legitimate concern.”
Chin high, mouth pursed, she headed for Truman and the door, casserole in hand.
“Sorry,” he said, stepping aside so she could pass. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He followed her into the great room.
“Of course you did,” she said. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You always do.” She turned and sighed. “Caroline Summers is so sweet.”
Caroline Summers was sleeping with George Baker, the school principal. They tried to be discreet, so only half the town knew about the affair. George was almost twenty years older than Caroline, and was in the midst of a nasty divorce.
Besides, Caroline Summers didn’t turn his crank the way Sadie did.
“Yes, she’s very sweet,” he agreed. “If it makes you feel any better, Sadie doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“That’s not the way I heard it.” Abby stopped and turned slowly. “You said the two of you had a date Friday night.”
“We do. Sadie just hasn’t agreed yet.”
Her eyes softened. Maybe her chin trembled, just a little. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Again. She didn’t say that, but then, she didn’t have to. That again lurked in her worried eyes.
“I’ll be fine.”
She handed over the casserole dish, and Truman took it. “There’s not any gelatin in here, is there?” he asked suspiciously.
“Of course not!”
“Good.”
Chapter 5
Sadie did not wear pink for her late afternoon visit to the bank, and in the name of sheer good sense she left her pistol locked in the glove box of her Toyota. She wore a black skirt, short but not too short, and a black blouse that was cut low enough to advertise her figure but not low enough to be called slutty. Neither was two sizes too large. Her heels were high, but not too high. Her makeup was tasteful, though the lipstick was a little bit too red to be considered boring. She wanted to look professional when she interviewed Rhea whatever. It would be tricky, getting information out of Aidan Hearn’s secretary without pushing or allowing the woman to figure out that Sadie had no business investigating her deceased boss’s murder.
Garth’s First National Bank was a small but stately building, one of those old edifices the historical societies always loved so much. Brick, square and massive, it was a testament to wealth and power and the Old South.
Sadie walked into the building, doing her best to act as if she belonged. On her first visit she’d had to ask directions. Today she knew just where she was going.
Rhea sat at her desk as she had on Monday afternoon, displaying her gr
ief by lazily shaping her nails with an emery board. There was a name plate on her desk. Rhea Powell.
Rhea was blond, her boobs were surely not natural and she wore too much makeup for a woman of her age. She was not much older than Sadie and might even be a couple of years younger, but the way she had the makeup caked on she appeared to be an older woman who looked good for her age.
She was definitely proud of the boobs. The white blouse she wore plunged deeply into cleavage territory.
Rhea dropped her emery board and pointed at Sadie. “You’re a day early, and besides, Mr. Hearn is dead.”
“I know.”
“I know you know,” Rhea said sharply. “You found him, and after that scene you made in the office Monday afternoon, I’m afraid I just had to tell the cops that you might’ve killed him in a rage or something.”
It would be so easy to argue with the woman. There would be no contest, not in a battle of the wits or a physical confrontation. But shouting Rhea down wouldn’t get Sadie anywhere.
Sadie let her lower lip tremble slightly, as if she were upset. “I’m sorry. Has someone else taken over Mr. Hearn’s accounts? I really must talk to a bank officer about my problem.”
“Mr. Elliot has taken over, but he’s really not up to speed and this is a very busy day, so an appointment today is simply out of the question.”
Busy my ass. Sadie contained her impulsive response, and bit her lower lip. “I understand.”
Rhea lifted her eyebrows slightly, surprised by Sadie’s calm reaction.
“I really should apologize for my behavior Monday afternoon,” Sadie stepped closer to the desk, her eyes scanning as quickly and meekly as possible. Emery board, nail polish, small mirror, one thin file—name not readable from this vantage point. Sadie leaned slightly over the desk and whispered, “PMS.”
Rhea waved a limp-wristed hand. “I totally understand.”
“The murder must be a real shocker for you. I mean, you worked with Mr. Hearn, so it must be hard to imagine him…you know, dead like that.”
“Yeah,” Rhea answered. “I haven’t gotten a whole lot of sleep this week, you know.”
The secretary looked perfectly well-rested, but Sadie didn’t think it would be wise to point that out. “What kind of a boss was he?”
Rhea shrugged. “Pretty good, I guess. He didn’t mind when I took a long lunch, and he always gave me a really good Christmas bonus.”
“How long did you work for him?”
“Almost five years.”
Sadie nodded as if she were very interested. “Are you going to stay on with Mr. Elliot?”
“I don’t know yet,” Rhea said. “He hasn’t really decided. But I can make an appointment for you.” She grabbed an appointment book from her drawer and flipped through to Monday morning. “How about ten?”
“There’s nothing tomorrow, or maybe Friday?”
“No. Mr. Elliot is really slammed for tomorrow, and he works a half day on Friday. And he’s still trying to acquaint himself with the new job and all.”
“I can imagine.” Sadie propped her hip on the desk. “Did Mr. Hearn work any half days?”
Rhea laughed as she wrote Sadie’s name on the line that read 10:00 a.m. “Lots. That’s another reason he was such a good boss.” She glanced up. “He wasn’t here all that much. He said he got more business done playing eighteen holes of golf than he could in his office.”
“Wow,” Sadie said softly. “That does make for a good job, I guess, when the boss is gone half the time.”
Rhea’s smile turned smug. “Better than slinging grits, that’s for sure.”
Sadie didn’t lash out as she wanted to. Her smile actually widened. “Sounds like you had it made here. Short hours, not much actual work to do. So, were you sleeping with Mr. Hearn?”
A hand that was in the process of being manicured reacted with a jerk that sent a bottle of nail polish spinning, and the pupils of Rhea’s eyes darkened. “I think you’d better leave now.” Her voice trembled as she retrieved the nail polish.
Damn. It had been a shot in the dark, a potshot to counter the comment about slinging grits. But Rhea’s reaction had been more than one of outrage. She hadn’t been insulted, she was scared.
Sadie had her other woman. One of them, at least.
Sadie had managed to weasel out of breakfast duty today, thank goodness. Truman had eaten his breakfast at the café. From her bedroom window, she’d seen his patrol car drive up. She’d watched him walk to the door, watched as the heavy glass door slowly closed behind him.
No, she couldn’t stand there and pour coffee and smile at Truman as if nothing had changed. Everyone had surely heard what had happened yesterday—the early morning arrival after spending the night in his truck and/or the incident in the café.
Sadie spent the late-morning hours helping her aunt pay bills and balance the books. Jimmy Harlow had always handled the finances, and even now, four years after his death, his widow had to be guided through the process. It wasn’t that Lillian wasn’t capable of doing the books; she simply didn’t want to. It was something Sadie could do, besides cleaning nasty rooms and slinging grits, and she found making the numbers add up oddly soothing. Right now she needed a little order in a world gone wacko.
While she was here, she really needed to get Aunt Lillian a program so they could do the financial work on the computer. These paper records were archaic.
She went over the numbers there at the front desk, ready to take any calls that came in, glad it had been a slow morning. It was almost noon. Jennifer was still in bed, and with the books mostly done, Lillian had returned to her station at the café, where the lunch crowd needed her.
Her aunt wouldn’t admit that anything was wrong, but Sadie could tell Lillian had been shaken by the discovery of a body in one of her motel rooms. True, Aidan Hearn had not been one of her favorite people, but still…she’d known him. At least she hadn’t been forced to see the body. Sadie had never met Hearn, and finding the body was an unpleasant experience she had no desire to repeat. Yeah, it was definitely better that she’d been the one to find the body. It would have been tough on Lillian, and if Jennifer had been the one to stumble into that bathroom she’d probably still be screaming.
The quiet was nice. Sadie was able to calmly plan her revenge uninterrupted. Her cousin would pay, one way or another. For calling the sheriff because Sadie had been out late, for leaving Sadie and Truman locked in the café, for always foisting off the more unpleasant chores to her cousin…
When the lobby door swung open, Sadie lifted her head from the books, hoping 104 was checking out today. If she had to empty one more trash can full of dirty diapers, scrape up one more scattered fast-food dinner…
But it wasn’t 104. It was Truman, wearing his uniform since today was obviously a work day. She took a moment to admire the way he looked, tall and well-built in that uniform that looked as if it had been made to fit him, before taking a deep breath and preparing herself to send him on his way. As quickly as possible.
“Lost?” she asked briskly.
“Nope,” he answered as he walked toward the desk.
“Are you here to arrest me?”
He shook his head. “Lunch break.”
She lifted a hand and pointed out the window. “Wrong building, Einstein. The café’s on the other side of the parking lot.”
“It’s pretty full right now. Thursday is Chicken Fried Steak. I thought I’d wait until the crowd died down.” He leaned against the desk. “So, why aren’t you working today?”
“I am working.”
“In the café,” he clarified.
“Mary Beth’s working an extra shift today, and Aunt Lillian and Bowie are there. They don’t need me, thank goodness.” She lifted one hand to shoo him silently away, turning her attention to the books before her.
He did turn and walk away, to the coffeepot near the end of the desk. He poured a cup—what was left in the carafe. It had been sitting there a wh
ile.
Truman took a sip and then turned to her. “Sadie, did you make this coffee?”
“Yes, I did,” she said with a smile.
“It’s awful.”
“Maybe you should get your caffeine needs met elsewhere.”
He took another sip. “Nah. It’s already growing on me.” He sat in the padded chair near the window, foam coffee cup in hand. “This coffee has character.”
He was flirting with her. Smiling, flooding the room with testosterone. Making her feel, with his very presence, on edge and itchy and quivery.
Sadie slapped down her pencil. “Truman McCain, what’s it going to take to get rid of you?”
He smiled. “More than bad coffee and that sad attempt at a steely glare.”
Sad attempt? Sadie knew without doubt that her steely glare worked wonders when it came to scaring off men. She was still giving Truman that look when the phone rang. Thank God.
“Yellow Rose Motel,” she answered crisply.
“Sadie?” She couldn’t quite place the voice. It was deep, sexy, very warm and nicely Southern.
“Yes?”
“Jason Davenport.”
She looked at Truman and grinned. “Jason Davenport!” she said. “Why, what a nice surprise.”
“I heard you were back in town, and I just had to call and say hello.”
She pictured him in her mind. Tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired and green-eyed. Jason had been pretty as all get out, especially as he’d tried to sweet-talk her out of her virginity. He’d disappeared quickly once she’d said no, so she really should hang up on him and be done with it.
But Truman was listening. “Well, it’s really great to hear your voice.”
Jason cleared his throat, hummed and hawed a little. “I had been thinking maybe I’d ask you out for dinner or something, but I heard you were seeing Truman McCain.”
“Where did you hear that?” She leaned against the counter, catching just a glimpse of Truman out of the corner of her eye. He looked the other way, but he listened intently. “I’m not seeing anyone,” she added.
“Oh, yeah?” Jason said brightly. “That’s great. I thought I was a day late and a dollar short. You know, I used to like Truman, but not today. The bastard gave me a speeding ticket this morning. I wasn’t going more than five miles an hour over the speed limit, and he pulled me over and wrote me up right there. Wouldn’t just give me a warning.”
Truly, Madly, Dangerously Page 8
