“Wait, what’s his name?”
But she was already engrossed in conversation with Mary Ann.
Monday morning, rain drove against my truck’s windshield, a reminder that harvest had been delayed. But, I didn’t panic since we were done cutting beans. As soon as the fields dried, we’d start shelling corn.
While I drove to the Richard County Sheriff’s Department, located in the county seat of Richardville, I fought the memory of the deputy who’d shown up at our front door that October evening when I’d been home from college for fall break. I’d padded downstairs in my flannel pajamas to see what the commotion was about. Mom had been wearing her hunter green robe.
As soon as I’d seen the man in the brown and tan uniform and processed the mix of pain and sympathy displayed on his face, I’d known.
Daddy wasn’t late getting home. He was gone.
I shook my head to shoo away the recollection and parked. The rain diminished to a thin drizzle that misted my face and dotted my coat with water droplets as I walked toward the limestone building.
I entered a small waiting area that contained a few black plastic chairs pushed against a grimy gray wall, and a receptionist who was twenty-five-ish opened a glass window. “May I help you?” She flipped her bangs out of her eyes.
“I’d like to speak with Detective Perkins, please.”
“Do you have an appointment?” She arched her overly tweezed eyebrows as if she didn’t believe I did.
“Yes. Georgia Winston.”
She pursed her lips. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
As I waited, I studied the pictures of meth users—before and after—which someone had posted on the wall. I cringed at the damage that drug inflicted. Missing teeth and premature aging plagued every person.
“Horrifying, aren’t they?”
I blinked at the receptionist who seemed amused by my revulsion. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed at my use of ma’am, and I fought a smirk. I really should be nicer.
The sound of someone whistling the theme song from Castle filtered into the waiting area. The door swung open, and a dark-haired man who I guessed was in his late thirties smiled—and my heart dinged.
Just a little.
I’d never known it was possible for a man to make me feel petite, but when I looked up into his handsome face, I was immensely thankful that such a possibility actually existed. I’d have to check for a wedding ring when it wouldn’t be obvious. Had I been so distracted that I hadn’t noticed this gorgeous man at the crime scene?
Good grief, Georgia Rae. No wonder you’re single.
“Come on back, Ms. Winston.” He flashed a smile, and a dimple appeared and vanished.
A dimple. “It’s Miss. Not Ms.” How subtle. “Because I’m not a feminist.” Really helpful.
When he stopped and faced me, his blue eyes danced. “Noted.” He led me through a maze of desks to his workspace with a computer, piles of file folders, several mugs, and a crumpled bag from Latte Conspiracies. He pointed to the seat at the side of his desk, and I caught sight of the nameplate as I eased into the chair and faced him. Detective Calvin Perkins.
And no wedding ring.
My glee over that discovery dropped dead. It didn’t matter if he was single or not since I’d blown any chance I might’ve had by sounding like a crazy lady on the phone Saturday night. I busied myself by removing the baggie with Tara’s note from my purse and handing it to Detective Perkins. “I know I sounded nuts when we talked on the phone. I’m quite sane. I just wanted to report the note in case it ended up being important.”
He took a seat, faced me, and studied the note. “Thanks for bagging this. Are you the only one who touched it?”
I lifted my chin. “Yes.” Fine. Don’t meet me halfway. Assume I’m crazy.
He met my gaze. “I talked to Bobbi Sue at Latte Conspiracies this morning to see if she had any idea what Tara needed help with and why she directed her to you.”
Maybe since he’d spoken to Bobbi Sue, he didn’t think I was nuts after all. Either that or he’d been trying to figure out if he had an appointment with a whacko. I leaned forward. “And?”
He tapped the note. “This confirms what Bobbi Sue told me. Tara was a regular who bent Bobbi Sue’s ear on occasion. A couple of weeks ago Tara told Bobbi Sue she didn’t have the money or desire to hire a private investigator, so Bobbi Sue mentioned you because of the work you did on your dad’s case.”
Even though I was thankful the note was legitimate, I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like I’m an amateur sleuth.” Although I’d probably watched enough murder mysteries on TV to qualify.
“I know.”
I searched for any sign of levity in his inscrutable expression. None. I crossed my arms. Had he been making fun of me by whistling Castle’s theme song? “You don’t have to be so quick to agree. I’m aware I’ve failed at finding my dad’s killer—but so has this department.”
He cleared his throat. “I asked Bobbi Sue why she didn’t counsel Tara to come to us, and she didn’t give me a straight answer.”
“That’s easy.” I shrugged. “Everybody in Wildcat Springs knows Bobbi Sue doesn’t trust cops. Her dad did time for a crime he didn’t commit because someone framed him.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I see.” He’d resorted to his skeptical tone.
“Seriously. Her dad was exonerated.” I motioned to his computer. “Look it up sometime.”
“Her coffee shop makes sense now.” He picked up the cup from Latte Conspiracies that had an alien printed on it.
“Right.” I clutched my purse handle. “I don’t suppose Bobbi Sue knew what Tara’s problem was?”
“Nope.”
I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth. It didn’t matter. I’d talk to Bobbi Sue myself.
Detective Perkins leaned back and steepled his fingers. “How often did you see Tara after you stopped giving her piano lessons?”
“Not often because we didn’t keep in touch.” I chewed my lower lip. “She visited my church a few months ago, and we spoke briefly. It was the first time I’d seen her in probably five years.”
“Wildcat Springs Community Church?”
“Yes.” I tilted my head. “How’d you know?”
His dimple made a comeback. “Aunt Beverly said when I visited that church, I should be on the lookout for Georgia Winston.”
Sweet baby Moses in a basket.
My face and neck grew warm. “It’s funny because when Beverly told me about you, we were interrupted, and she never got around to telling me your name.” I let out a nervous chuckle. “What a coincidence.”
“Sure is.” He took a sip of coffee, but his eyes sparkled with amusement and made me squirm. He’d been toying with me the whole time.
Time to get out of here.
I stood. “If you need anything else, please give me a call.” Why had I said anything? Would he misinterpret my statement as flirting? If he did, maybe he’d be flattered instead of repulsed.
“Miss Winston, there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.” He motioned to the chair.
I sat and pulled my purse to my chest.
He leaned forward, folded his hands, and rested them on his desk. “I’m reviewing your dad’s case. I’m hoping to bring a different perspective.”
I blew out a breath. “Thank you.” I shook my head. “I put so much time into investigating that it made my life miserable, and I had to stop.”
“I have a heart for cold cases because families need closure.” Sincerity shone in his eyes.
“You don’t know how much this means to me—and my family.”
“Let me get some answers before you’re too grateful.”
“Fair enough.”
“Georgia Winston!” Bobbi Sue Miller smacked the stainless-steel counter as soon as I walked into Latte Conspiracies with the intent of satisfying my curiosity—and need for more caffeine. “Look at you, girl. You get prettier e
very time I see you. Why aren’t you married yet?”
Never had a snappy comeback for that one. “I like your Star Wars shirt.”
She glanced down at Princess Leia and thrust out her chest. “The hubs got this for my birthday. Can you believe I hit the big 5-0 this year?”
“I thought you were twenty-nine.” I winked.
She snorted. “You’re full of it, like your daddy was. What can I get you?”
I studied the individual clipboards that hung above the counter and displayed the names of the specialty drinks. The Area 51 was my usual, but I was in the mood for something different than a vanilla latte with a dash of cinnamon. “A large Moon Landing Mocha, and the answer to a question.” I glanced around the shop, from the concrete floors to the exposed ductwork, that gave the place its industrial vibe. The early morning rush had subsided, and a few customers with laptops sat at the wood and metal tables scattered around. To my left, an opening led to Miller’s Books, which Bobbi Sue’s husband Hemingway ran—like his mother before him. I never spent time in the bookstore because reading wasn’t my thing.
Bobbi Sue took my money and punched my loyalty card. “You’re here about the Fullerton girl, aren’t you?” She handed me the card. One more purchase until my freebie.
“She sent me a note. I got it on Saturday.” I tucked the card in my wallet for safekeeping.
Bobbi Sue’s eyes widened. “I bet that gave you a jolt, getting a message from the grave.” She began steaming milk.
“Well, she sent it before she died.”
“You sure about that?” Bobbi Sue poured the milk into a cup.
I choked back a laugh. “I didn’t check the postmark.”
She looked triumphant as she popped the lid on my drink.
I’d give her the win if I could learn what Tara wanted. “Do you know what Tara’s problem was?”
She handed me the mocha. “I didn’t tell that handsome detective everything I knew.” She took a rag from her apron pocket and rubbed the counter as if wiping away fingerprints could erase her guilt. “By the way, you ought to go out with him if he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I bet he doesn’t because he’s in here by himself an awful lot.”
“Bobbi Sue, he’s a cop.” I was so bad, baiting her like that.
She waved her hand. “He looks trustworthy.”
“Then why didn’t you tell him everything?”
She blinked as if the answer should be obvious. “Not that kind of trustworthy.”
I choked back a giggle because I didn’t want to offend her. “So, about Tara.”
“Look, I didn’t withhold that much information.” Bobbi Sue flipped the rag up on her shoulder. “All I could get out of Tara was that she was dealing with a situation involving someone she cared about, and she wanted to make sure she had all the facts before she reported anything to law enforcement.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“Did she act like she was afraid for her life?”
“Maybe.” Bobbi Sue squinted. “At the time, I would’ve described her as burdened—not scared.”
“But now?”
“Well, the minute I heard about her accident”—she made air quotes—“I knew in my heart someone had killed her.”
Chapter Five
That night, the day’s emotion weighed on my chest, and with a yawn, I collapsed in Daddy’s recliner. My stomach roared, but I’d already devoured the leftovers from the meals Wanda had brought us when we were in the field. She loved cooking for Grandpa, so I got the benefit of her skills during harvest when she made sure Grandpa, Cory, and I were well fed.
Digging a TV dinner from the depths of my freezer and nuking it had zero appeal.
Maybe after some episodes of Monk.
My phone vibrated on the end table and pulled me out of my stupor. It was my stepdad, Dan. For a second, I debated letting it go to voicemail, but since he never called me, my curiosity won. I prayed nothing was wrong with Mom.
“You surviving harvest?” he asked as soon as I answered.
At least this seemed like a social call. “Something like that.” I didn’t have the energy to spell out the fact that since it had rained, we weren’t in the field. He was a nice guy who always tried to relate to my life, but he was a city boy through and through. Mom must’ve wanted a different experience the second time around.
“Listen, I don’t want to meddle, but I just started working with this really nice guy. Your mom and I think he’d be perfect for you, but she told me since it was my idea, I had to ask you.”
I didn’t feel like unpacking all of the implications in his last statement. Could I trust Dan’s judgment? Had Mom ever met the guy? Still, considering the circumstances with Evan and my wish to meet more men, I really needed to keep an open mind. “Send me this guy’s dossier, and I’ll review it when Grandpa and I are done shelling corn.”
Dan chuckled. “Oh, you slay me. His dossier.”
“Dan, I’m serious. I like to know what I’m dealing with before I agree to a date. At least tell me his name so I can Facebook stalk him.” After my last date, I needed to improve my vetting procedures.
“He doesn’t do social media. Besides, sometimes you have to let love happen.”
“Like you and Mom? Meeting online qualifies as ‘letting love happen’? And who doesn’t do social media?” What was this dude hiding?
“I’m going to give you grace because you’re tired.”
Dan was always “giving grace,” like he was so superior to the rest of us mortals. “Thanks.” I rolled my eyes.
“Tell you what. Since you can’t Facebook stalk him, I’ll put together a dossier and e-mail it. Get some rest.” He paused. “Here’s your mom.”
“Sweetheart, are you okay?”
“Define okay.”
She sighed. “Is something else going on that I need to know about?”
I poured out the story of Tara’s letter. When I finished, there was silence.
“Mom?”
“I’m here. And I’ll be there tomorrow. You need your mom. I should’ve realized how hard it would be on you, finding that body and all, but with Dan’s mother being so sick, we’ve been going back and forth from the hospital. I’m sorry.”
I opened my mouth and snapped it shut before I could ask if Dan would be coming too. It shouldn’t matter either way, and Winstons didn’t chomp the hand offering to feed us. Literally and figuratively. If Mom was coming, she’d bring food, or at least make it while she was here. “Okay.”
“Get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I reached for the remote on my dusty end table and turned on the TV to see what was happening in the world.
“…Tara Fullerton’s cause of death has been ruled asphyxiation, and her death is now being investigated as a homicide.”
Asphyxiation? Not a broken neck or blunt force trauma?
I put down the chair’s footrest, leaned forward, and stared at the handsome anchor who’d already moved onto the next story. My gut had been right all along.
A frisson rolled down my spine. Another killer was roaming around Wildcat Springs. Still, the sick part of me saw the bright side. Detective Perkins most likely had known this information when I’d met with him this morning since he’d already done some investigating.
Maybe he wouldn’t see me as a crazy lady after all.
The aroma of bacon pulled me from a fitful sleep. I rolled over and glanced at the clock on my nightstand. 7:14. Yikes. I must’ve sounded worse than I thought for my mom to be here so early. Well, it was either my mom or the Pork Fairy, but my mom was a safe bet.
I yanked a sweatshirt over my head and closed my bedroom door on my way out so Mom wouldn’t see the pile of clothes in the corner and my unmade bed. I found her flitting around my kitchen. Her honey-colored hair was pulled into a ponytail that, combined with her petite runner’s figure, made her look about ten years younger than her ac
tual age.
With a spatula in hand, she rushed around the island and gathered me in a hug. “I’m making scrambled eggs and bacon.” She reached up and smoothed my hair.
I yawned and poured coffee. “What time did you get up?”
“Five-thirty-ish. I couldn’t sleep anyway.” She pointed the spatula toward a file folder sitting on the table. “Dan sent—”
“A dossier.” I took a sip of coffee, opened the folder, and examined the stapled papers inside. “He knows I was kidding, right?”
Mom raised her eyebrows. “Were you?”
“Sort of. Kind of. Not really.” I skimmed through the bulleted list highlighting Jon Nordmeyer’s positive traits. One of Dan’s most impressive qualities was his attention to detail, which made him the perfect lawyer to spend his days scrutinizing contracts. The last page had a picture of Jon. Blue eyes. Receding hairline. Nice smile—and teeth.
“What do you think?”
“About?”
“Georgia Rae Winston, drink your coffee and stop being stubborn. You know what I mean.”
“Tell Dan this Jon guy looks pretty good—on paper anyway. I’m impressed that he’s into triathlons. Is he going to contact me?”
“Only if you give Dan permission.”
“I give my consent.” I waved the papers around. “Does he need my signature to make it an official contract?”
Mom grinned and turned back toward my stove that—to my surprise—was actually working. “Sweetie, Dan cares about you. It would be nice if you’d be more accepting.”
“Wait. Are we seriously having this conversation right now? You know I’m not caffeinated yet.” I sat down at the table and buried my head in my arms.
Mom sighed. “Sometimes you make him feel like a second-class citizen.”
I raised my head. “If he feels that way, it’s his own fault, and he needs to man up. I’ve been very accepting of him.”
And that was the edited version.
“Never mind. Just do me a favor and try harder to be nice. Your version of accepting is different than other people’s.” She shoved some eggs and bacon onto a plate and slapped it down in front of me. “Eat. Drink your coffee.”
Deadly Harvest Page 4
