by Molly Harper
“Who’s this?” Frankie asked.
“Hercules. He just came into the shelter. He used to work at the Atlanta airport as a bomb-sniffing dog, but his handler passed away.”
“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, Hercules,” Frankie told him.
“Service animals are all about routine,” Tootie said. “And poor Herc is having some transition issues.”
“You’ll get used to us,” Frankie promised, reaching out to let Hercules sniff her hand. He declined and sidled behind Tootie’s legs, which spoke volumes about her appeal to males lately.
“What are you doin’ here in the first place?” Frankie asked, carefully standing up. “I didn’t know any of the services today requested live organ music.”
“Margot has some more paperwork for me to sign for this shelter thing. That girl. I swear, I wouldn’t have agreed to this silly idea.”
“You love it,” Frankie told her. “You’re going to be able to help lots more animals without Dougie Hazard breathin’ down your neck. You’ll be downright respectable.”
“Well, whoever said I wanted to be respectable?” Tootie grinned her too-white-to-possibly-be-her-original-teeth grin. “Now get on to work. You’re not paid to be lollygaggin’ around the hallway, pettin’ puppies.”
She patted Frankie on the shoulder and exited out the back door, her dog pack yapping around her ankles.
“And just as mysteriously as she arrived, she disappeared in a flurry of dog fur and town crazy lady,” Frankie muttered. “Ouch.”
7
THE MCCREADY COUSINS were gathering for their traditional celebration of possum eggs and moonshine-based cocktails. Pestilence and chaos would surely follow.
With Uncle Stan keeping watch on the docks and new security cameras installed on the loading bay doors, the “anonymous” campaign of pranks against McCready’s had dwindled to nothing. Although, Uncle Stan had claimed he saw a small figure dressed all in black row an obnoxiously orange kayak close to the dock in the middle of the night. When Stan shucked his shotgun and yelled, “This can either end in you rowin’ away or you getting an ass cheek full of rock, your choice!” the figure guided the kayak back out onto open water.
It seemed that Jared Lewis had gotten the message, for now.
The clients of McCready’s were happy and un-hot-sauced once more, meaning bigger tips and healthy traffic through the marina. Between that and Frankie’s recent forensic victory, she insisted that their generation gather at the Dirty Deer for a celebration.
The Dirty Deer was the night spot in Lake Sackett, as in it was the only night spot in Lake Sackett. The smoky wood-paneled bar was decorated mostly with neon beer signs and featured old scarred oak booths. The McCreadys held their usual table in the corner, near the pool tables. The waitress, Sierra, took their orders and delivered possum eggs, an appetizer involving potato skins and bacon, but no possum. And because Frankie was the designated driver, she got a glass of extremely sweet tea instead of a Georgia Peach, a cocktail involving moonshine and peach schnapps.
“Kyle couldn’t join us this evening?” Marianne teased as Margot slid into the booth while shoving a possum egg into her mouth.
“School board meeting,” Margot said, grimacing. “I don’t know what’s on the agenda, but he acted like he was facing a firing squad.”
“That’s normal,” Marianne assured her. “We’ve got the Trunk-R-Treat coming up. Even though it’s not an official school event, Kyle ends up getting blamed when the kids get all sugared up and cause chaos. The school board always reminds him that if his staff was teaching the kids better manners, maybe the event would go smoother.”
Margot scrunched up her nose. “Isn’t that the parents’ job? To teach the kids manners?”
Marianne clutched at imaginary pearls at her throat. “But if I try to teach the kids manners, they won’t want to be my friends!”
“That’s why Marianne can’t go to school board meetings anymore,” Frankie told Margot.
“So, I hear that Lana and her latest beau crashed and burned,” Frankie told Duffy as he poured himself a beer. “Big ugly meltdown in the parking lot of the Dirty Deer.”
Duffy looked toward the ceiling, because he couldn’t make eye contact in conversations about his sneaky, adulterous ex-wife who he occasionally slept with, to satisfy some urge for danger and exposure to Designer Imposters perfume. “You don’t say.”
“So she might come sniffin’ around, hopin’ for a rebound hookup.”
Duffy scratched the back of his neck. “Uh . . . huh.”
“But you’re not gonna do that again, right? Because we’ve talked about what an awful, toxic person she is, and how unhealthy your on-again-off-again relationship is, and how one day she’s probably gonna . . . Oh, Jesus Herbert Christ, you already slept with her, didn’t ya?”
“No comment,” Duffy said as Carl approached the table with a pitcher of water. Because he got antsy around drunk people and tried to get them to space out their drinks in the name of hydration. “Hey, Carl, you wanna play some pool? Awesome, let’s go.”
Carl frowned. “What?”
Marianne sighed. “Duffy, we’ve talked about this.”
“Come on.” Duffy yanked on the back of Carl’s shirt, pulling him toward the pool table.
“I don’t get a vote here?” Carl asked.
“He already slept with her,” Frankie said, shaking her head.
Margot wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Yep.”
“Let’s move on to more cheerful topics, like that incredibly lickable new law enforcement professional who just moved into town,” Marianne said.
“Okay, you used the word ‘lickable,’ that means I get to take your drink,” Frankie said, snagging Marianne’s glass. “You promised after last time.”
“I should have never made that agreement.” Marianne sighed. “I blame the liquor. Still, you gotta admit he’s good-lookin’.”
“Oh, he’s good-lookin’, but he clearly has some sort of deal and I do not understand it.”
“You could try to understand it, which would be a rare gesture from you,” Marianne said. “Or, you know, try to understand him more than twice in a row, which would make it your longest relationship ever.”
“Not all of us meet our future spouse in kindergarten,” Frankie sassed her cousin.
“High school sweethearts aren’t that uncommon,” Marianne insisted.
“No, but magical unicorn husbands are.” Frankie sighed, staring at Carl’s arms, his short sleeves displaying his hard-earned muscles. “Just look at him. He’s like the poster boy for biceps fetishists.”
“That’s a thing?” Margot asked, but when Frankie opened her mouth to answer, she quickly added, “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
Marianne snorted. “My point is that maybe someone who challenges you, instead of shrinking away from that considerable willful streak of yours, would be harder for you to just toss aside.”
“I will take your drink, Marianne. All of it.”
“Do I need to remind you that you once kidnapped me to try to help patch things up with Carl? You can stand a little well-intentioned lecturing.”
“It wasn’t a kidnapping!”
“You put a bag over my head, tossed me on a boat, and took me to a party where you knew Carl would be hangin’ out. You’re lucky I don’t gift wrap you with a big bow and leave you in one of the sheriff’s holdin’ cells. With a sign that says, ‘Cuff me, please!’ ”
“Well, there’s an upsetting visual of your life at home,” Frankie drawled.
Marianne was too busy staring speculatively across the room. “Do you think he has professional handcuffs that he only uses at work and then ‘fun’ handcuffs—ow!”
Frankie rubbed her hand from the sting of smacking Marianne’s leg. “No more speculatin’ on his handcuffs.”
“You’re right, we should stop,” Marianne said as Frankie sipped her tea. “Because he’s walking over here right now.”
Frankie spat her tea back into her glass, glaring as she wiped her sleeve across her mouth.
“You did that on purpose!”
Marianne grinned. “Yep.”
Frankie glanced across the room to see Eric in his “civvies,” a pair of tight jeans and a worn gray V-neck T-shirt.
“I swear, if he asks to see our ID, I’m gonna punch him in the . . . badge.” Frankie took a long draw from her drink.
“You’ll find a way to work with him, Frankie. You always do,” Marianne assured her, still rubbing her leg. “I know we tease you, but I’m always impressed with how you do your job. I know my daddy would be proud of you.”
“Thanks, Marianne,” Frankie said, squeezing her hand. “That means a lot.”
Frankie ignored the way her knees went all gooey at the sight of Eric. She’d seen Landry Mitchell in his uniform and his civvies plenty of times and felt nary a twinge. Stupid, unreliable knees with bad taste in civic aesthetics. Maybe no uniform or civvies would be even better.
Bad knees. Bad.
In the end, she was so caught up in debating between uniform or no uniform, she didn’t move and Eric walked right up to her.
“Ms. McCready,” he said.
“Sheriff,” she said, trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible.
“This is, uh, something,” Eric said, his face twisted into an uncomfortable expression as he glanced around the room.
“We like it,” Frankie said. “Have you met my cousins? Margot Cary and Marianne Dawson?”
Eric cleared his throat and reached out to shake their hands. “Nice to meet you both.”
“Charmed,” Marianne drawled.
“Ignore her. She’s two Peaches in,” Margot told him, bemused.
“Not true. I’m one Peach in, but after kids, your alcohol tolerance drops to undergrad levels. It’s really sad,” Marianne said. “But no worries, Sheriff. Frankie here is our designated driver.”
Eric frowned. Frankie doubted very much that made him feel better.
“Would you mind if I spoke to your cousin privately for a second?” Eric asked. “It’s business related.”
“Sure,” Marianne said with a grin. “You two go find a quiet corner. Real private.”
Margot snickered into her second possum egg.
“My revenge will be swift and terrible!” Frankie whispered harshly at her as she rose from the booth.
“You’ll have to catch me!” Marianne shot back.
Eric led Frankie out of the bar to the bench near the front door.
“Why couldn’t we stay in the nice, warm bar . . . where there are witnesses?” she asked.
“I don’t think it’s professional or appropriate for us to discuss an official case in a bar.”
“Shows what you know. Sheriff Rainey did half of his paperwork here,” she said, rubbing her arms against the relative chill.
“And where is he now?” Eric asked. He cleared his throat. “So I got an envelope on my desk this morning, despite the fact that my office was locked.”
“I can’t help it that Janey also likes my mama’s divinity candy,” Frankie said, all innocent anime eyes.
“And that envelope happened to contain several documents, including a statement from the Corps of Engineers about the conditions at the dam on the day of Len Huffman’s drowning, a report from the manufacturer of Len Huffman’s boat about proper care of the engine and the consequences of operating the boat without appropriate maintenance, and a statement from a mechanic in Atlanta who somehow managed to inspect the Huffmans’ engine without my knowledge.”
“It was stored at my cousin’s husband’s tow yard,” she supplied helpfully.
“Of course it was.” He chuckled, scrubbing his hand across his face. “And that mechanic stated that the condition of the engine was consistent with failure due to poor maintenance. And there were notarized statements from Len Huffman’s sons about his general reluctance to wear a life jacket despite not being a strong swimmer.”
“And?” she prompted him.
“And a toxicology report from the state police lab showing that there were no drugs or alcohol or any suspicious substances, organic or otherwise, in Len Huffman’s system on the day he died.”
“That’s right,” she said. “And each of those outside expert sources concluded?”
He took a deep breath and said, “That the boat’s capsizing and subsequent drowning of one Len Huffman was most likely accidental and not the result of foul play.”
Frankie resisted the urge to do a little flourish and bow, but it was a near thing.
“Did you bribe your friend at the state police lab to expedite the toxicology report just to prove me wrong?” he asked, his expression amused.
“No, I bribed my friend at the state police lab to expedite the toxicology report because it was the right thing to do,” she retorted.
He raised his eyebrows at her and she added, “It was a slightly less than ethical thing to do to accomplish the right thing. Melody Huffman deserves to be able to take her husband’s body home for burial.”
He rolled his eyes toward the cloudless sky. “Okay, okay. Fine. I concede that this is most likely an accidental drowning. Thank you for devoting your due diligence to this investigation.”
“So, Melody can take Len home?”
He sighed. “She can take him home.”
“Thank you,” she said, pulling her iPhone out of her pocket. She pulled up the cloud folder containing the digital release forms for Len Huffman’s body. He leaned closer to get a look at the screen, his chest touching her shoulder. “I’ve already filled out the paperwork. All you have to do is sign here with your fingertip and the funeral home in Ohio will send a van tomorrow.”
“There’s no reason to gloat,” he grumbled into her ear, scrawling his finger across the screen.
“I’m not gloatin’,” she said, turning toward him. He was bent over her now, his body framed around hers. And it reminded her of that night when he had been much more enthusiastic about being that close to her. She raised an eyebrow as she peered up at him. “I’m just enjoyin’ being right. A lot.”
The barest hint of a smile quirked his lips, lips that were so close to hers now. She could just crane her neck the slightest bit and kiss him. “Is there a difference?”
She nodded and her nose nearly brushed his as he lowered his head. “It’s negligible, but it’s there.”
He laughed and she could feel his breath against her cheeks. “You are enjoying this just a little too much.”
Finally, some sort of normal human interaction with this guy, proof that he had a sense of humor and could engage with her in some civil manner. It was wildly unprofessional, but at least they were both sober this time. “Not nearly as much as I could.”
His expression softened and . . . there he was, the man she’d spent the night with. His lips were a whisper away from hers. She could feel his breath against her mouth. His hands slid up her arms, pulling her just a bit closer.
His upper lip ghosted across her lower lip and she’d reached the point of tension, where she was just about to melt against him. And then he pulled away from her, shutters closing behind his eyes and bleeding the emotion from his face.
“I’m not doing this again,” he told her, that stern quality returning to his voice. “And don’t pull any more tricks with cases. Your habit of taking the easy way out could come back and bite us on the ass. There’s a reason testing is backed up at the state police lab. There are a lot of cases out there that deserve attention just as much as Len Huffman. If you misuse friendships to push to the front of the line again, I’m gonna call the lab supervisor and file a complaint against your friend.”
With that, he stepped away from her and walked toward his truck. Her mouth was still hanging open as he drove out of the parking lot.
“What just happened?”
8
FRANKIE PARKED HER van on the recently repaved drive of the Lewis residence. Marn
ette had convinced Vern to bulldoze his family’s beautiful eighty-year-old brick home in favor of this beige vinyl-sided McMansion.
This is just one more reason to dislike Marnette, Frankie thought, stepping out of the van. She’d intentionally dressed in one of her more “conventional” outfits: jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and her green utility jacket. She actually needed a light jacket, which was a sign that autumn was setting its teeth in and they were heading toward Georgian winter . . . which was a lot like Georgian autumn.
Trying to be a little more understanding of Eric had been . . . sort of . . . effective, in that he hadn’t arrested her for attempted kissing of a law enforcement officer. So she’d decided to take her father’s advice and try a more logical approach to the Jared problem. Jared’s parents weren’t entirely rational, but they did share a common goal with Frankie: keeping Jared out of trouble and away from McCready’s. She had to try to use that to her advantage.
She was relieved that Jared’s SUV was not parked in the driveway, because if he was home, she wasn’t sure she could get through the conversation she had planned civilly. Taking several deep breaths to steel her nerves, she rang the doorbell, which was a two-bar bell-chime rendition of “Jesus, Take the Wheel.”
Marnette’s eyes were the size of saucers when she answered the door. Her face fell from the pleasant “company” expression to a deadpan frown. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me. I’d like to speak to you and Vern, if you have time.”
“You couldn’t have called ahead? Your mama has my phone number.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d pick up,” Frankie said.
Marnette pursed her lips as if Frankie had just dropped something gross on her doorstep. “I guess you can come in.”
“Thank you.”
Marnette had clearly used a Pinterest board labeled “French Provincial Designs Rejected by Reality Show Housewives” as her decorating guidebook. Everything from ceiling to floor was painted stone-effect gray. Every single surface was covered in some rendition of an overblown flower. Frankie had never seen so many unnecessary carved pillars in her life. And cherubs, so many cherubs. No wonder Jared was lashing out. She’d been inside the house for two minutes, and she was overcome with the urge to punch someone.
