by Linda Lovely
The décor was almost Cracker Barrel country. Colorful quilts and slipcovers. A needlepoint sampler was mounted on the wall beside an antique rifle.
Paint grinned as I scoped out the place. “I confess. I built the cabin, but Mom decorated. I like it though. It’s homey.”
I nodded. “It’s great. Very comfortable, cozy.”
He smiled. “Sit, and I’ll get us the nightcap I promised.”
The couch proved as comfortable as it looked. Paint handed me another small glass of moonshine. “Remember, now, keep your mouth closed when you sip.”
He sat beside me, slid an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me closer. I took a sip, followed instructions, and didn’t sputter. Nonetheless, I felt the fire. This time it wasn’t an inferno. More like banked, glowing embers. The warmth ambled from my lips to my stomach to my toes, but seemed to concentrate right where Paint’s fingers stroked my arm. Once again my little voice warned, “Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.” My body replied, “Oh, shut up.”
We talked about this and that as we sipped our respective brews. Though I was a virtual stranger in Ardon County, I felt I could trust Mollye, Andy, and Paint. I’d known Mollye forever, and Eva bragged that Andy and Paint were like sons to her. I had no qualms about telling Paint what I’d found researching Burks Holdings’ partnership roster.
His mouth dropped open. “Really? Victor Caldwell’s a no brainer, but Sheriff Robbie Jones and Deputy Aaron West?”
His reaction matched my aunt’s.
“I don’t know where Robbie or Aaron would have found money to invest—unless…” Paint frowned as he paused. “Guess it could be we’ll-look-the-other-way drug money. As often as Aaron hangs at Hog Heaven, he has to know about the vacant lot deals. If he and the sheriff are raking in payoffs, maybe they’re using Burks Holdings to launder the money. They give Burks cash under the table, and he pays them back in eventual profits.”
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “I can only think of one other reason Burks would welcome those two into the fold. Blackmail. Maybe he got caught doing something illegal—bigtime illegal—and Jones and West agreed to cover it up for a piece of the action.”
Something illegal like murder? My brain jumped to Nancy Watson’s death. Unfortunately, the evil quartet—developer, banker, sheriff, and deputy—had formed long before Nancy died. I couldn’t figure any way to tie her murder to a blackmail scheme.
I’d have to give Paint’s theory more thought. Later. Much later. Thinking didn’t seem to be among my top skills at the moment. Mostly I was feeling. Warm and tingly. I almost wished Paint would be more like the wolf I’d imagined. The one that scared me. The one I had fantasies of taming.
He drove me home. The porch light was on, and Billy’s truck sat in the drive. Not a single light on inside the cabin. Paint walked me to the door.
He stuck out his hand. A handshake, really?
He grinned. “First date I always like to prove I can be a gentleman.”
I grasped his hand and pulled him toward me. Then I leaned in, trapping him against the porch railing. True, I was more than a smidgeon tipsy.
“And on first dates I like to prove kissing is one of my talents.”
The kiss took my body from pleasantly tingling to sizzling. The heat of his white lightning sent blazing signals to all parts of my body. Brain excepted. Yowzer. I hadn’t intended for our tongues to become that well acquainted.
Paint was practically panting when the kiss ended. “You proved your point,” he said. “Kissing is one of your exceptional talents. And, if I don’t leave now, my first-date protocol will go down in flames. A man only has so much willpower.” He kissed my forehead and turned. “Goodnight, Brie. I’ll call you. Can’t wait to see what you want to prove on a second date.”
Uh oh. Hadn’t thought that one through.
TWENTY-ONE
Would leaving a warm bed before dawn ever get easier? Doubtful if I kept staying out past midnight. Shuffling toward the bathroom, I noticed Eva’s bedroom door sat open, the bed neatly made. I glanced out the front window. Billy’s truck was gone. At least I didn’t need to cross my legs waiting to pee.
Outside, Eva’s cheerful whistle helped me locate her. She was once again tending to newborns.
“You sound happy,” I observed.
“You betcha,” Eva answered. “Told you. Sex is a great stress reliever. So why aren’t you whistling, Brie?”
I looked heavenward. “Paint was a perfect gentleman. We had a couple drinks, talked, and he brought me home. Period.”
“Oh, no, you’re ruining my image of the boy. Maybe I need to have a chat with him.”
Eva was kidding, right? Just in case, I added, “Don’t you dare.”
My imagination always stalled, imposing a don’t-go-there barrier to any thoughts of my parents engaged in boudoir activities. Yet my brain accepted that my sixty-two-year-old aunt wasn’t a celibate creature. Nonetheless, I had no desire for details.
Eva smiled. “You did miss one call last night. Your folks are coming to breakfast. Getting to be regular freeloaders. Maybe we ought to wean ’em, just give ’em bread and water.”
“What’s up? It’s a long drive for a cup of coffee.”
“Your mom got a heads-up on the toxicology findings and wants to fill you in before the sheriff interrogates you. Iris told Jones you’d voluntarily come to the Sheriff’s office at ten o’clock. Of course, she’ll be with you.”
“Just how I wanted to spend my morning. When are Mom and Dad due?”
“Seven. Both have early morning appointments. After you feed the animals and gather eggs, throw together some breakfast, will ya? There’s enough bacon in the fridge for the three of us. You’re on your own for protein. Black bean mush? A soy sundae?”
“Funny.” I made a face.
By five after seven we were seated at the breakfast table. Even Eva asked for seconds of my whole wheat blueberry pancakes. In deference to our digestion, Mom skipped over the gruesome autopsy slicing and dicing details and skipped straight ahead to toxicology.
“A fatal dose of a designer drug did Nancy in. They analyzed her stomach contents and the crumbs left in the break room. Definitely the tainted brownie.”
“How could the killer be sure Nancy would eat the brownie?” I asked. “Or didn’t he care if someone else died?”
“Working theory is there was a single brownie square, a personal treat. Since the woman wasn’t known to be the sharing type, the killer wasn’t putting other lives at risk. The Hands On receptionist gave the sheriff a complete list of employees and all the clients they saw that day. Jones claims everyone will be brought in for routine questioning.”
“Right. I’m sure his questions for me will be ‘routine.’”
Mom patted my hand. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be there. I won’t let him bully you.”
I debated mentioning my visit to Hog Heaven and the inebriated Eli Watson’s seeming lack of grief. In the end, I zipped my lips. Mom would be upset that I’d gone to a biker bar, but not quite apoplectic. Dad would have a cow. Eva would understand, maybe. I’d tell her later.
Dad looked so depressed I decided to change the subject.
“I weeded your garden, Dad. It’s looking great. The perennials are starting to sprout. Looks like you’ll have a good crop.”
“Thanks, honey. One of the researchers emailed, said she had promising results from last season’s extracts. Wants even more plants this year.”
Dad’s unusual garden supplied a potpourri of poisonous plants to researchers at the Medical University of South Carolina. Dad’s horticultural classes included the study of deadly flora, and he was quick to remind folks the most effective chemotherapy drugs wouldn’t exist without the poisonous caster bean.
“Don’t forget to weed Lilly’s herb garden,” Eva said. “We need her herb
s for our next batch of specialty cheese blends.”
I smiled. “Already took the hoe to that patch. Don’t worry. I won’t mix Dad’s plants with ours.”
At nine thirty sharp, I left the cabin to head to the Sheriff’s Department, which was located beside the county jail on the outskirts of Ardon. I figured the drive would take fifteen minutes max, but I didn’t want to chance being late given that a thick white spring fog had unexpectedly rolled in. If I failed to show on time, Mom might lock me behind bars herself.
Droplets from the mist collected on my hair as I walked to my Prius. The windshield wipers let me see the car hood—sort of. The road appeared as little more than a hint. I played with the headlight settings. The glare of high beams would make it even harder to see. But I wanted other drivers to spot me before they rearranged my bumper. Unable to determine the edges of the gravel drive, I inched forward in the center of the lane.
Once I hit paved road, I bumped my speed up a notch. Not too fast. I knew gullies bracketed the road, even if they were invisible in the cotton-wrapped scene. The fog not only tricked my eyes, it deadened all sound. The eerie quiet took me back to my childhood and our Iowa yard under a four-foot blanket of snow. Dad held my mittened hand as we ventured into a pristine land. The moonlit drifts looked like sparkling snow cones before they poured on the cherry syrup.
Sound. Loud. So much for silence and pleasant memories.
The noise grew louder. An engine, a big one. Oncoming traffic? I squinted, peering into the opposite lane. Nothing. I looked in the rearview mirror. No headlights. Where was the fool?
The engine growled louder. Suddenly a dark, hulking shape broke through the swirling mist. Right on my tail. I hit my emergency flashers, fumbled for my horn.
Wham! My body whipsawed as metal screeched. My teeth snapped together so hard I feared they’d crack. A gunshot? Loud, near. I blinked. I’d gone blind. A different blind than fog. I punched at the inflated airbag, sneezed as white dust flurries swirled like snowflakes.
My car lurched sideways. Oh, no. The ravine. My brain froze. My foot doubled down on the brake pedal. The car tilted another twenty degrees. My chest hurt. A heart attack?
Breathe. You’ll be fine. Take another breath.
Wham! God in heaven, had the idiot backed up to ram me again? My poor little car shimmied like a leaf in a stiff wind. My stomach dropped in sync with the car’s front wheels. My sporty Prius bounced and slid down, down, down. The car shuddered to a stop. Must have reached the base of the ravine. Dad’s jokes about hiding dead bodies in kudzu-choked gullies popped unbidden to mind.
Was someone trying to kill me?
I’d no sooner formed the thought than it took root. Eli had a monster truck, and he’d had murder in his eyes last night.
Mired in off-road mud, I was out of range for more ramming. But a raving maniac wouldn’t need to leave the pavement to shoot me. I realized the exploding airbag made the “gunshot” I’d heard. Didn’t mean the attacker’s truck lacked a gun rack—practically a mandate in Ardon County.
Should I get out of the car? Or was I safer inside?
The snarl of the big engine receded. Or maybe I was losing consciousness. I held my breath. Silence. No sounds of traffic, no birds, no sirens announcing help coming to the rescue.
Thank heaven for cell phones. I fumbled for my purse. Eureka, a signal. No way was I calling 911. That would only bring the sarcastic sheriff or his snaggle-toothed deputy. I fished in my purse for my billfold and pulled out my AAA card. I silently thanked Dad for insisting I keep my membership. I called for a tow.
My second call was the first number on my speed dial. Mom. Should I tell her I’d been attacked? No, she’d take the news better if she could see with her own eyes that I was still in one piece.
“Mom, I had a little car accident. I’m fine, but I can’t drive my car.”
“What? A little accident? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, but there’s no way I can get to the sheriff’s office for our ten o’clock. AAA is en route to tow my car. Can you pick me up? I’m about two miles north of Udderly on the highway.”
“Of course I’ll come get you. You sure you’re all right, honey?”
“I’m sure. Just tell the sheriff we’ll be late so he won’t think of another trumped-up charge to add to my rap sheet.”
The fog was so thick I couldn’t see what waited for me outside my door. I opened it slowly and climbed out. My feet sank into gooey mud. The roadbed sat six feet up a steep embankment. The tow truck would have fun pulling my car out of this ditch.
I grabbed a handful of bramble to haul myself up to the pavement. The damp fog swirled around me. Goose liver. I’d be invisible to anyone driving down the road. One little swerve and I’d be roadkill. Or the jackass who rammed me might return. I shivered.
No. If he’d wanted to finish the job, he wouldn’t have driven away. He knew exactly where to find me, a sitting duck.
I took inventory. My hands were bloody, torn on the thorny “mile-a-minute” vines I’d grabbed to hoist my butt out of the ditch. My head throbbed. My aching body listed to port, and my knees refused to cooperate with the orders I sent. That danged airbag had whacked me but good.
My wardrobe was a disaster, too. Red clay caked my boots. I’d worn my best innocent-preppie, I’m-not-a-killer outfit for the interrogation. My skirt and jacket were torn, muddy, and sported a few blood spatters for good measure. Great.
Would the sheriff believe someone had deliberately hit me, not once, but twice? He’d probably think I’d been taking some of those designer drugs he thought I used. Was it even worth sharing my suspicion that Eli might have been the fiend driving that truck? If the sheriff had a choice of thinking ill of a Watson or a Hooker, I knew where his sympathies would lie.
We arrived at the sheriff’s office almost two hours late for my “interview.” Mom insisted on taking me to an urgent care clinic to be checked out first. The doc pronounced my bones intact. Said I was banged up but fit for interrogation. Mom thought I should be home in bed. At a minimum, she wanted me to change out of my tattered, dirty clothes before presenting myself at the sheriff’s office.
I disagreed. I wanted the “interview” finished, and I figured the sheriff had seen people dressed a lot worse. I did use a few of the wet towelettes Mom kept in her car to wipe mud off visible skin surfaces.
Once the interview began, Mom’s displeasure shifted from daughter to sheriff as he asked the same questions over and over like a stuck record. I snuck a look at my watch to see how long he’d been grilling me. Fifteen minutes? I tapped my watch to make sure it was working. It felt like hours had passed.
No matter how Jones rephrased his questions, my answers never changed. No, I do not do drugs, nor do I know how to buy them. No, I was never in the Hands On breakroom. Other than Nancy, I saw only three people at the salon—the receptionist, an auburn-haired manicurist, and the senior citizen customer she escorted to the front desk.
When the sheriff paused to scribble something on his notepad, Mom sat up a tad straighter and lifted her shoulders. The lady barrister was about to take the floor.
“Sheriff Jones, you’ve been asking all the questions. You seem to have no interest in finding out who ran my daughter off the road. Are you going to investigate? The auto club will confirm the dents on the car’s mangled bumper are new. I hope you plan to take paint samples and try to match them. This Eli Watson person threatened my sister-in-law and my daughter. You should pay him a visit. Ask him a question or two.”
The sheriff slowly raised his eyes. His lips twitched like the proverbial canary-eating cat. “Yes, I plan to pay a condolence visit to Eli today. He just claimed his wife’s body yesterday and arranged delivery to the funeral home. I doubt he had time to lay in wait for your daughter—even though turnabout might have been fair play. Last night Miss Hooker followed the man to a bik
er bar and taunted him, just like she did his dead wife. Only last night your innocent little darling brought her boyfriend along to beat up on Eli Watson.”
“What?” My mother and I yelped in unison.
Unfortunately, I knew how Paint’s and my visit to Hog Heaven and the ensuing altercation could be spun into a story one-hundred-and-eighty degrees opposite from the truth.
As I fumbled through my rebuttal to the lawman’s accusation, I imagined I could see smoke swirling out of Mom’s ears. She’d be furious I hadn’t told her the whole story before Sheriff Jones sprung his trap. Mom said clients who failed to come clean with their attorneys were the bane of her existence. Daughters who kept secrets had to be the bottom of the barrel.
TWENTY-TWO
I could almost feel sparks shooting off the force field crackling around Mom’s rigid body. Maybe I shouldn’t follow this close as she power-walked toward her car. Mom might stand five-two, but her wrath was like a black hole that could suck you in and compact you—mind, body, soul—to the size of a pin. I was in line for her full fury as soon as we reached her BMW. Well, she might wait a second to roll up the windows and crank the engine. Wouldn’t want outsiders to hear. Our family business—and her tirade—would be private.
“Brie, what in Hades were you thinking, going to a biker bar? I’ve shared enough stories from court about what can happen in places like that. And you knew this Eli, a man who’d threatened you, frequented that place. I’m going to give Paint a piece of my mind. He had no business taking you there.”
“Come on, Mom, we went to Hog Heaven to chat up Eli Watson’s friends. We had no idea he’d actually be there. In what universe does a grieving husband go out to drink and shoot pool when his wife is in the morgue?”
“Actually, it happens plenty. People drink to forget. They go where they feel comfortable. You and Paint should never have—”
