Blazing Summer (Darling Investigations Book 2)

by Denise Grover Swank

All three men looked at me with stunned expressions.

  “You think Dixie was raped?” Bill asked, his voice tight.

  “I don’t know. I think she may have been dosed for a different reason. April Jean’s trailer burned down last night, and they think it was arson.” I paused. “Dixie remembers getting into an argument with her at the party.”

  “You think Dixie started that fire?” Chuck asked.

  Bill whacked him in the back of the head. “Idiot.”

  “Ow.” Chuck rubbed his scalp. “What?”

  “No,” I said. “I think the opposite. Dixie is innocent. She could barely walk when I found her. How could she purposely start a fire at a trailer and then find her way to the beach? Trent picked her up from our farm. Someone must have driven her.”

  “You think someone is setting her up?” Bill asked.

  “Yes. Especially after Elijah Sterling—in an official capacity—demanded access to my truck for a bogus reason. Not to mention he brought up me being at April Jean’s trailer yesterday morning.”

  Tony’s eyes widened, and he quickly picked up on my train of thought. “You think he was going to plant evidence framing Dixie and you?”

  It was a serious accusation. I hated to outright say it, even if I believed it. “Honestly, I think he’s more interested in Dixie. I was just an excuse. But you have to admit that his behavior seems pretty suspicious.”

  Bill nodded. “Damn suspicious.”

  Dixie remained silent.

  “Our case,” I said, keeping my eye on my cousin, “is to find out what happened to Dixie last night at the party and clear her name.” I scanned the men’s faces. “So who’s with me?”

  “What if we get an answer right away?” Chuck asked. “What will we do then?”

  “We’ll thank the gods, you fool,” Bill said. “We’re a team. We’re doing this to save Dixie. Using it for the show is a bonus.”

  Chuck turned in his seat to face the cameraman. “The show is what funds our paychecks. Summer has a contract for three more seasons. I’d like to stick around for all three of them, and if Connor has better cases, Lauren is going to squeeze Summer out. Our job security depends on a case that entertains the viewers and beats out Connor.”

  Tony hung his head.

  “I could force us to do this,” I said, “but I don’t want that. I want us to be a team. This only works if we all agree.”

  “I’m in,” Bill said without hesitation.

  “And I’m in, obviously,” I said. “Tony? Your thoughts?”

  He looked up at me. “Chuck’s right. If we screw this up, we could all be jobless by the end of the season.” Then he looked at Dixie. “But Summer’s right too. We’re a team, and that means we should support one another. If Dixie’s in trouble, then we need to help her.” He glanced at Chuck. “Summer has good instincts. That’s why we had a kick-ass first season. Hell, she brought down a cop. I have no problem taking down another bad cop to help a friend.” He grinned. “And, of course, to get even higher ratings.”

  “Chuck?” I asked. “If you’d rather work with Connor’s crew, I understand.”

  He made a look of disgust. “And let you all get all the credit for another big case?” He grinned. “I’ll take my chances with you all. Besides, we know that Dixie didn’t do it. That was never my issue. My protest is that we’re counting on this to be a huge case, when there’s every likelihood that we’ll prove her innocence this afternoon.”

  I hoped he was right, but my gut told me it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Bill shifted in his seat, discomfort making him grimace. “I don’t think Dixie should work on the case with us.”

  “What?” Dixie asked, her eyes wide.

  He sighed. “It’s just that people won’t talk to us if you’re there. You have to know that.”

  Pain filled her eyes. “So I’m fired?”

  “No,” I said, realizing Bill was right. Dixie was too close to the situation to be objective. Besides, I could tell she barely believed in her own innocence. “You can do preliminary interviews with the clients in-house. We’ll leave Tony here to film.”

  “You’re leaving me out of this investigation too?” Tony asked.

  “No,” I said. “You and Bill can take turns, but you have to admit that if Dixie’s here interviewing, it will throw Lauren off if she comes by to check on us.”

  No one looked happy with my suggestion, but they didn’t argue.

  “I’m happy you all came up with a plan,” Dixie said in a dry tone, “but right now we have an alligator to catch.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sylvia Rush lived on a small parcel of land outside of Sweet Briar city limits. Dixie and I were quiet the entire drive, but when we pulled in front of Sylvia’s shoddy-looking house, I asked, “What do you know about Sylvia?”

  “She’s got a bunch of kids, I think.”

  The rusted bikes in the yard suggested the same thing.

  I climbed out of the truck and waited for the guys to unload, watching multiple little faces peer through the windows.

  “I think we should try to capture my introduction to Sylvia as realistically as possible.” I glanced back at Bill. “The sky’s overcast, so the lighting should be good to film outside, don’t you think? Especially since we’re talking about chickens.”

  He glanced around as he lifted his camera out of its case. “Yeah. If the sun comes out and causes a glare, we can go under the shade of that oak tree.”

  “Dixie,” I said, “why don’t you go warn Sylvia that we’ll introduce ourselves at the door and then invite her outside.”

  “Okay.”

  Dixie walked up across the gravel driveway and up to the front door as Tony slung his camera strap over his head. “We’ve got two cameras. Which one is A, and which one is B?”

  “Tony, why don’t you take A? I think we should get plenty of shots of the kids’ bikes and toys for the B-roll, Bill.”

  He nodded as Tony headed toward me, Chuck tagging along with his laptop. We walked closer, and Tony pointed to the chicken coop. “Why don’t you meet her at the door, then lead her toward the coop? If you keep your backs to it, I can keep it in the background as you interview her.”

  “Okay.”

  Dixie headed back toward me, trying not to laugh. “I know why Lauren picked this one out special for you.”

  Dread clenched my gut. “What does that mean?”

  A grin lit up her face. “I’d hate to ruin the surprise.”

  Oh, mercy.

  Tony had me walk back over to the truck and mimic getting out and walking up to the door with Dixie by my side. I’d barely rapped on the window of the storm door when the inside door opened and a woman appeared.

  My mouth dropped open in shock. I tried to recover, but my reaction had been captured by Bill, who stood to the side. Obviously, Dixie had told him to be prepared.

  Sylvia pushed the storm door open. “Oh, my God! I can’t believe Isabella Holmes is standing at my front door!” She danced in place in her canvas tennis shoes and squealed.

  I took a backward step down the front porch, nearly falling on my butt. The fortysomething woman I was facing was dressed in a plaid school-uniform skirt, a white blouse, and a plaid tie. Her blonde hair—a very cheap wig—hung halfway down her back, and two skinny braids at her temples were pulled back with barrettes. Fringe bangs brushed the top of her eyebrows.

  My signature hairstyle in season four of Gotcha!

  Facing my unfortunate choice of hairstyle was uncomfortable. Facing it on Sylvia Rush was a nightmare. This was undeniably a score for Lauren.

  My best friend, Marina, would have loved this . . .

  Thankfully, Sylvia seemed clueless to my horror. “I am your biggest fan.”

  I turned to Dixie, shooting her a glare for not warning me, then gave the woman a bright—albeit fake—smile. “That’s so sweet of you, but I’m just Summer Butler. I left Isabella behind a long time ago.”

  She leaned to
one side and then the other as she scanned the yard behind me. “Where’s J.P.?”

  “Who’s that?” Dixie asked in confusion.

  But I knew exactly who she was talking about. “Connor Blake, the actor who portrayed J.P. Stanley, has his own cases,” I said in a patient voice, the one I used with crazy fans.

  “I thought y’all were workin’ together now. That’s what the whole town is sayin’.”

  “Well . . . ,” I drawled, “we’re both private investigators in the same town, but we’re workin’ our own cases. Would you rather work with Connor?” Please say yes.

  Her smile drooped, and for a moment I was sure she would agree, but she shook her head. “I can meet him next time.”

  Good Lord. I hoped there wouldn’t be a next time. I smiled again. “Obviously, you know who I am. You must be Sylvia.” I held out my hand to shake hers.

  She bobbed her head in a nod, and her hair slid forward, the ends of her bangs hitting the tip of her nose. After reaching up to slide the wig back into place, she hastily shook my hand. Her palm was clammy.

  “And I’m Dixie,” my cousin said, offering her hand. “Her cousin.”

  Sylvia shook her head as she took her hand back from mine. “Nope. Isabella doesn’t have any cousins. She said so in Season Two, Episode Twelve, ‘The Case of the Missing Twins.’”

  Holy crap. She knew more about the show than I did. “You’re right, Sylvia,” I said in a cheery voice. “Isabella didn’t have any cousins, but I—Summer Butler—have two. Dixie here, and my cousin Teddy.”

  Confusion clouded her eyes.

  “So, Sylvia,” I said, hoping the repeat of her name would help get her back on track. This ship was sinking, and I needed to steer it toward a deserted island. I started walking toward the chicken coop, and she followed me. “Dixie and I are here because we heard that you have some missing chickens.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did this first happen?” I asked.

  “A few weeks ago. Them worthless boys of mine was supposed to put the chickens up in the coop, but it done turned dark, and I heard the chickens squawking and shriekin’, so I ran out there with my shotgun. That’s when I saw something with a long green tail slink into the cornstalks behind the coop. Sure enough, my hen Mae Whittaker got snatched by a gator.”

  I ignored the fact that Mae Whittaker was the name of Isabella Holmes’s best friend on Gotcha! “There aren’t alligators around these parts,” I said.

  “Actually,” Dixie said, “they’ve made a comeback. They caught a monster alligator in Lake Edna a couple of years ago.”

  “Don’t they need water?” I asked, glancing around. Miller Creek was a good mile to the west.

  “My neighbor behind me has a big stock pond behind his house,” Sylvia said. “I hear he’s got a big gator back there.”

  My eyes bugged out. “And he’s just on the loose?”

  “Yep.”

  “How big is he?” Dixie asked.

  “I’d say about ten feet long. I only saw his tail that time, but the second time he came at my chickens, I saw him in the whole. That was the day he took Derek Matthews.”

  J.P. Stanley’s best friend on the show. This woman was obsessed.

  The wind gusted and blew up Sylvia’s short skirt, revealing her panties, but what was more shocking was the tattoo on her upper thigh—very bad likenesses of Conner and me in our Gotcha! roles. I was looking dead-on with a gaping mouth, and Connor was turned sideways, his tongue hanging out. I could only guess that this was from an episode when J.P. had tried to kiss Isabella and accidentally licked her face instead. Sylvia batted down her skirt with one hand and covered the top of her wig with the other while she looked at me expectantly.

  I blinked, wishing we had bleach in the truck to wash out my eyes. Some things just couldn’t be unseen.

  Dixie covered her mouth with her hand as her shoulders shook with laughter.

  “Are you okay?” Sylvia asked.

  Dixie nodded, her face now turning red with suppressed giggles.

  “Dixie,” I said, “why don’t you go out to the truck and look for a bottle of water?”

  Nodding again, she bolted for the truck, stopping halfway to bend over and try to cover her laughter.

  “Is she really okay?” Sylvia asked.

  “My cousin’s prone to fits sometimes. She’ll be fine.”

  I finished the interview, finding out that other neighbors had complained about the alligator prowling on their property too.

  “Have you tried calling the sheriff?” I asked. “Or animal control?”

  “They won’t help me.”

  I found it hard to believe that animal control didn’t care about a ten-foot chicken-eating alligator on the loose. “I’m not really sure what Dixie and I can do for you. You know who owns the alligator, or at least who shelters it. I can’t haul it off, and if your neighbor doesn’t want to do anything to stop it, I’m not sure I can say anything to convince him.”

  “But you’re Isabella Holmes. He’ll listen to you.”

  “No,” I said, striving for a patient tone. “I’m Summer Butler, and I suspect he’ll tell me to mind my own business when I go over there.”

  “You’ll go over?” she squealed. “I knew you would help.”

  Crap. I pushed out a long sigh. “What’s your neighbor’s name?”

  “Rick Springfield.”

  I narrowed my eyes. This woman had an obsession with celebrities. “What other name does he go by?”

  “Sometimes he calls himself Big D, but usually he just goes by Rick.”

  My mouth parted, but I reconsidered the wisdom of responding to that, and instead asked, “Do you have an address?”

  “He lives on County Road 46. Turn on the gravel road with the mailbox shaped like an alligator.”

  Of course he had an alligator mailbox. “I’ll see what I can do and let you know how it goes.”

  “Thank you, Isabella!” she said, throwing her arms around me.

  I started to correct her, but a chicken squawked loudly, and I jumped back, thinking the alligator had returned for another snack. Sylvia started to laugh, pointing at me like I was a fool. I scanned the yard for the predator, but it was empty but for two chickens, one light brown and the other dark, both covered with extra-fluffy feathers, even on their legs. They sure didn’t look like the farmhouse chickens I’d expected.

  “You’re scared of Isabella and J.P.,” Sylvia said, her laughter dying down.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The light one is Isabella, and the darker one is J.P. because his hair’s a little darker than yours.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bill said “Cut,” and then Tony insisted that we needed to conduct the interview again, which earned him a death stare from me.

  “Come on, Summer. There’s a reason reality shows repeat things. Just to make sure we get what we need.”

  I refused to start back on her front porch—some things just couldn’t be re-created—and insisted we just repeat our discussion about the chickens and alligator in front of the coops. We gathered a few more pieces of additional information that might work on screen, but I knew they wouldn’t help at all when I confronted Big D.

  Oh, mercy. I was not looking forward to talking to a guy who went by Big D and kept an alligator in his backyard.

  I was ready to leave, but Bill suggested we get some shots of Dixie and me holding the chickens. I swore under my breath and vowed revenge, but Bill just grinned. He got some great clips of me screaming when the chicken I was holding—Isabella, of course—flapped its wings, and I tossed it into the air. I knew he was about to suggest I try again, but one look from me made him close his mouth.

  Smart man.

  I thanked Sylvia for talking to us on camera as the guys headed toward the truck. They decided to leave their gear unpacked for the short drive over to the neighbor’s house, especially since we hadn’t gotten Big D’s permission beforehand.

  Sur
e enough, we easily found the alligator mailbox and drove down the gravel road toward a small house that was in better shape than Sylvia’s. I could see a large pond behind the house, but no alligator was in sight.

  “Maybe he’s not home,” I said hopefully as I put the truck into park.

  “Then why’s that big, shiny truck parked in front of that detached garage?” Dixie asked.

  Sure enough, a decked-out truck was parked in the gravel driveway partially behind the house. I scowled, glancing at the pond again. “Do you think that alligator’s out there?”

  “Dunno,” she said, leaning into me as we both looked out the driver’s side window. “Maybe it’s sleepin’.”

  “How fast do alligators run?”

  “How would I know?” she asked, sounding irritated. “Just because I knew there were gators in Lake Edna doesn’t mean I’m a walking alligator encyclopedia.”

  “Look it up,” I said, still watching for the gator.

  “How fast do alligators run?” she said slowly as she typed it into her phone. “Um . . . this says people can sprint at twenty miles per hour—but usually around ten—and while alligators usually walk around seven to eight miles per hour, they have been known to get up to twenty-five.”

  I vigorously shook my head. “Nope. Not gonna do it.”

  She grinned. “Do what?”

  “Get out of this truck.”

  She laughed. “Do you want to drive up to the front porch, honk the horn, and see if the guy will come out?”

  “Can I?” I asked in a hopeful tone. I turned around and looked out the back window, knowing the guys could hear us with the mikes.

  Tony and Chuck were laughing and shaking their heads no, but Bill was nodding and mouthing yes.

  Dammit. “If I get eaten by an alligator, I swear on Maybelline’s country-fried steak I’m coming back to haunt y’all, and it’ll be an ugly haunting, not one of those cute ones that just moves keys and such.”

  My statement was greeted with more laughter, Dixie’s included.

  “I’m happy to see y’all take my safety so seriously,” I grumbled.

  My cell phone rang, and Bill’s number showed up on the screen. I answered it on speakerphone.

  “You know we’d never knowingly put you in harm’s way, don’t you?” Bill asked in a cajoling tone.