“You cracked the engine block.”
“Is that bad?”
“It ain’t good.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Shore.” He straightened and shut the hood with a thump. “I can fix anything.”
Roxanne checked her watch. “How soon?”
Arely checked the sun. “Next week some time.”
“Next week!” She had a convention to cover starting tonight. “You can’t fix it sooner?”
“Well now, I gotta find an engine for it first.”
“An engine?” Roxanne grimaced. That was gonna cost her.
“You see, ol’ Bert—he own the Parts House—well, he’s done gone to Texas for the bass tournament. He won’t be back till Sunday evenin’. Then we’ll have to order you a rebuilt and—”
“Never mind. What about a junk yard?”
“Not one. Unless you count the cars in Earl Johnston’s pasture.” Arely laughed at this own attempt at a joke, but Roxanne could find no humor in the situation. None at all.
“Where can I get an engine for my car?”
Arely mopped his eyes with his grease rag, his mirth coming slowly under control. “Jackson. Or Memphis.”
“You mean there’s not a single place in this town that sells car parts except for Bert’s Parts House.”
“Yep.”
“What about a rental?” At the very least she could get to Memphis, then come back for her car later. Newland was mad enough at her already. He would be livid if she missed the convention.
“Now if’n you want a movie, you go down to the bait shop and—”
Roxanne didn’t even want to know why the bait shop and the video store were one and the same. Never mind that the town still had a video store. “Car,” she corrected. “Where can I rent a car?”
“Jackson. Or Memphis.”
Brother.
“Okay, Arely. I have three hundred dollars in my purse.” As if to prove her point she went around Mabel to the passenger’s side window and hauled out her giant leather tote. After a moment of digging around for her wallet, she retrieved the money and waved it in the air between them. “This is for you. All you have to do is find me a motor for my car and have it in by this afternoon.”
“Earliest I could have it ready would be Monday afternoon. And that’s if I can get my cousin Carl to help.”
“Will he do it?”
“If he ain’t fishin’.”
Roxanne rolled her eyes. “What about Cecil?” She pointed to the sign lining the rusted roof. “Is he fishing, too?”
Arely shook his head. “Nope. He’s dead.”
Fabulous. She wouldn’t have a car till Monday. She would have to call Newland and tell him what was going on. Maybe Newland would come get her and take her to Memphis himself. Little Rock couldn’t be more than two or three hours from here. She’d be late for registration and she would have to face him again after last night, but she could still make the convention.
“All right.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “You get your cousin to help, and I’ll give him three hundred as well. Deal?”
“Deal,” Arely said, reaching for the money.
Roxanne held it over her head and away from the attendant. “And I have my car back by Monday morning.”
“Monday morning,” he repeated, taking the bills then ambling into the Gas and Stop. Roxanne reluctantly followed.
The inside of Cecil’s was cool, or rather cooler than it was outside. The old hound dog must have thought so, too, for he followed behind them and collapsed on the smooth concrete floor.
Roxanne watched impatiently as Arely picked up the rotary dial phone that sat on the worn counter.
The call took only minutes—country minutes, that was. Arely had to ask about the wife and the kids and how that sick cow was doing before he finally got around to inquiring about Carl’s plans for the next five days.
“Yore in luck.” Arely hung up the phone. “Carl said he’d help.”
One down, two to go, she thought, as Arely dialed the next number.
“Maybe you ought to buy a lottery ticket,” Arely said as he disconnected the second time. “Earl just happens to have an engine he thinks will do just fine.”
Roxanne ignored his vague affirmation that her car would soon run again and instead focused on the positive. “Is there a restaurant or something where I could wait for my ride?” Assuming Newland was willing to come get her.
“The Corner Café is on the other side of town, ’bout two miles this side of the highway.” Arely vaguely gestured with one hand.
“Is it close enough that I can walk?” Not that she wanted to. The sun was beating down, and the temperature had to be at least ninety.
“Well, now that’s the thing.”
“What’s the thing?”
“Yore better off going over to Len’s Diner. The Corner Café doesn’t open till noon.”
Roxanne nodded somehow managing not to grind her teeth together. “Len’s Diner. Got it. Can you tell me how to get there?” She asked the question before she really thought the idea through and, true to form, Arely gave her instructions only a local could actually follow.
To avoid the risk of him repeating them, Roxanne nodded as if she understood, then pushed her way out of the Gas and Stop.
Arely shuffled along behind her.
“What about my car?” She nodded pointedly to Mabel’s obstructive position in front of the pumps.
“Go ahead and get yore stuff out, then we’ll push it into the garage.”
Roxanne grabbed her tote bag from the front seat, then pulled her computer case and her overnight bag from the trunk before slamming the lid shut with one hand. It immediately popped back open. As she reached for it again, a land-cruising black and white police car pulled up to the pumps.
“Mornin’, Deputy Dennis.”
“Mornin’, Arely.”
Arely stepped around Roxanne, ignoring her as he proceeded to pump gasoline into the large cruiser.
Roxanne slammed the trunk lid shut. She waited for ten seconds with her fingers crossed hoping it would remain closed. On the count of eleven, it popped back open again.
She needed to have that fixed. Maybe she would do that when she got home. Yeah, right. Who was she trying to kid? She was more likely to win the Pulitzer than repair the latch on the trunk. Some things in life just required too much effort and the trunk latch would be forgotten until the next time she needed to open it. Or rather, close it.
“Haven’t been gettin’ too much rain lately,” the deputy commented, tilting his head back to gaze at the cloudless blue sky. He was fresh-faced and young, as thin as he was tall.
“Nope,” Arely agreed.
The deputy made some comment about the river looking dry and that when the rain did come it would be a “gully washer”—whatever that was—and Roxanne tried hard to block out their small town, known-you-since-you-were-knee-high-to-a-grasshopper exchange.
“Have you heard any more about that Valentine feller?” Arely asked.
“Not a word,” the deputy answered. “Damndest thing though. It’s not every day we find a body like that. Shot in the chest with his own .357. Shame he doesn’t have any family. The funeral’s Saturday. I tell you, it’s a shame.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head. The early morning sunlight flashed off the frames of his aviator glasses.
Dead body. Interesting stuff. But knowing these two even as briefly as she did, the shooting could have been a murder or a weird hunting accident. If she had to guess, she was going with the latter.
Momentarily giving up on the thought of ever again closing the trunk and actually having it remain closed, Roxanne set her bags on the ground and went around to face Arely and the deputy.
“I hate to interrupt the local news,” she said as sweetly as she could, “but would you mind helping me push my car now.” It wasn’t a question.
Both men turned and looked at her as if she had just landed on p
lanet Earth. The young deputy glanced from her to Mabel’s out-of-state plates, then pursed his lips as if that explained it all.
“I heard Miss Betty Lou sent white chrysanthemums to the funeral home so he wouldn’t be without flowers,” Arely said, ignoring Roxanne once again.
“Yep,” the deputy answered, his gaze still on Roxanne. “Whaddo I owe you?”
“Twenty-three fiddy.”
The deputy paid, then with their help, Roxanne pushed her car—trunk still open—into one of the garage stalls. The entire time they pushed, the two men grunted and talked about the upcoming funeral. The young deputy did most of the talking. Arely did most of the grunting.
As Jefferson County’s finest droned on and on, Roxanne slammed down the trunk lid one final time and miraculously it remained closed. Then she walked around the car to the passenger’s side.
She’d just get her stash of chocolate, then she’d find Len’s Diner and settle in for the afternoon with a cup of coffee and a bag of miniature Milky Ways. And maybe with a little luck, she could find out a little more about this shooting. There could be a story in this town after all. Well, if the victim was secretly an alien. Or married to Big Foot.
The plastic bag that she had munched out of on her way south had fallen as she and the men had pushed her car to its current resting place. The contents were scattered across the floorboard, tiny little bars of melting mess in the Tennessee heat. Roxanne gathered up all the candy she could see and placed it back in the bag. Then she stuck her hand under the seat.
It wouldn’t help her disposition at all for a stray piece of chocolate to create an ant haven while she waited for Arely to fix her car. But instead of Hershey Miniatures and Reese’s Cups, her fingers encountered cool, smooth steel. Cautiously, she pulled this new find from under the seat.
Born and raised in Chicago, she had seen a few guns in her life, but this one could moonlight as a cannon. What was it doing in her car? She wrapped her fingers around its wooden butt to hold it steady in her trembling hand. Stunned with disbelief, she turned to face Arely and the deputy, gun in one hand, candy in the other.
Arely’s jaw fell, and he turned to look at the deputy. Clearly, he expected the young lawman to remedy the situation.
Deputy Dennis pulled out his own weapon, and like Roxanne, his hand shook. “Drop it,” he commanded in a wobbly voice.
Roxanne looked from him to the gun.
“I said drop it.” His voice was no more confident than before, but it was louder and echoed off the grease-smeared walls of the garage.
Roxanne’s numb fingers—by some miraculous command from her brain—let go, and the bag of candy fell from her fingers to land with a plop on the stained concrete.
“The gun,” the deputy clarified with a shout. “Drop the gun.” Perspiration beaded on his upper lip as he waited for her to obey his wavering order.
Roxanne released her grip, and the gun fell with a dull metallic clatter against the concrete. A loud shot rang out.
By instincts alone, Roxanne hit the ground and covered her head. She lay there a moment until she realized that the gun she dropped had accidentally fired, and no one was purposefully shooting. She looked up to find the two men had hit the floor as well.
Arely was the first back on his feet. He reached down and helped Roxanne up as the deputy wiped the dirt and grime from the front of his neatly pressed khaki uniform. He flashed Roxanne a menacing look, then snatched up the .357 and checked the chamber. He pushed it back into place with his still trembling thumb as a smile crossed his young face.
“Daddy’s never going to believe this.” He nudged back the brim of his buff colored hat, and his smile widened as he reached into his breast pocket and removed a dog-eared card. “You have the right to remain silent,” he drawled with more confidence than Roxanne supposed he had ever shown in his entire life. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney … ”
Great, Roxanne thought, glancing from the deputy to the service station attendant. A Jefferson County lawyer. That’s just what she needed to make her day a certifiable disaster.
As if in agreement, the lid to her trunk popped open again.
But it was when the deputy reached for his handcuffs that Roxanne started to run.
Chapter Two
“I didn’t kill Jamie Valentine,” Roxanne said for what seemed like the millionth time in the past twenty-four hours. The simple phrase had become her mantra, the only thing anchoring her in the reality she now faced. First-degree murder.
The hefty sheriff adjusted the wad of tobacco in his mouth and spat in a Dixie cup stuffed with a paper towel.
“I’m a reporter, not a murderer.”
His sharp gaze dragged over her. His eyes had a languid, hound-dog quality, but Roxanne knew he hadn’t missed a single detail of her appearance: well-worn combat boots, faded cut-offs, and a Chicago Cubs baseball jersey.
He spat again. “You don’t look like any reporter I ever seen.”
“Check my purse. My press pass is in there.”
He checked his watch instead.
“I didn’t even know that guy.”
The sheriff snorted. “I spent three tours of duty in ’Nam, little lady. You don’t have to know a man before you kill him.” He hoisted his patent leather gun belt and smiled with a lazy superiority that made Roxanne want to scream. In truth, everything about Jefferson County, Tennessee, made her want to scream. Right down to the name of the town. What kind of town had a name with the word “county” in it, anyway?
Roxanne picked up the phone that sat on the conference table and wishfully pressed the receiver to her ear.
“Won’t do you no good. The phone lines are still down. Lester Voyles was trimming up that big post oak in his front yard and took out the telephone pole right along with it.”
Roxanne slammed down the receiver, ignoring the fact there was no one she could call anyway.
Well, maybe Jonas, but the last thing she wanted to do was involve him in another one of her “situations.” It seemed as if he had devoted his entire life to bailing her out of trouble of one kind or another. But never murder.
“Your new lawyer will be here in few minutes.” The sound of the iron door closing behind the sheriff punctuated his casual statement.
Roxanne folded her arms on the table and laid her head down. Great. Another Jefferson County attorney. Just what she needed. She doubted this counselor would be any easier to deal with than the prosecutor had been. The state’s attorney had a major comb-over, an ill-fitting polyester suit, and a sleazy smile. The public defender she had been provided for the arraignment hadn’t been any better.
Roxanne mentally prepared herself to meet her lawyer. According to the sheriff, Malcolm B. Daniels IV was “the best damned attorney the county had to offer.” Like that was saying anything. She hoped he was good, because … well, hope was all she had left.
With the way her luck was running, Daniels most likely conducted business shirtless, wearing stained overalls and manure-caked boots. He probably gave his closing argument with a piece of hay dangling from the corner of his mouth. And he would be so senile it would be a miracle if he could even remember her name, much less why they were in court. She needed to face the facts right now. She was going to jail for a very, very, very long time.
“Roxanne Ackerman?”
She lifted her head and met warm, brown eyes.
The man who had entered the cell was young—relatively speaking—around thirty-six or thirty-seven and totally gorgeous in a clean-cut, conservative sort of way. His thick hair was auburn, his skin tanned a golden brown by the southern sun. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his slightly crooked, though totally Roman nose and seemed to tie together his suspender-wearing, red-paisley-power-tie-and-crisp-white-shirt image of a politician.
“I’m Malcolm Daniels.”
She shook her head. Her hearing must be slipping away, along wi
th what remained of her sanity.
When she didn’t reply, he continued. “Your counsel.”
Her hope gushed like cheap champagne, and it was a chore to keep her mouth from hanging open. Malcolm Daniels the attorney—her attorney—was handsome, young, and well-dressed. She was saved!
He pulled out the wooden chair opposite her, then sat. “Is something wrong, Miss Ackerman?”
“You’re—you’re wearing a suit.”
“I beg your pardon?” He opened his briefcase and pulled out a yellow legal pad.
A nervous laugh escaped Roxanne. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re wearing a suit. If you weren’t, you’d be naked.” She shook her head. “I mean … you’re not what I expected.”
He turned those incredible brown eyes on her again, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned him and naked in the same breath. Stress, she thought. It was making her all wacky.
“And what did you expect?”
She shrugged. “Someone older.”
“About fifty?”
“About two hundred and fifty.”
He smiled, and Roxanne noticed he had dimples. Her savior had dimples. And freckles. Tons of charming freckles. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
She wasn’t disappointed. Not in the least.
Daniels clicked his pen into the “ready” position. “Would you like to tell me why we’re here today?”
“Ohmigod,” she said on the rush of relief. Finally someone to listen to her. And he wore a tie and spoke in complete sentences. “You wouldn’t believe.”
“Try me. How about you start at the beginning?”
“Yesterday morning, when I first pulled in to Jefferson County, my car overheated. So I stopped to let Gomer take a look at it.”
“Gomer? Oh, you mean Arley. At the Gas and Stop.”
Roxanne nodded. “We were discussing my car repairs when Deputy Fife pulled up.”
“Deputy Dennis Harlow?”
“He arrests me for murder—murder—and if that’s not bad enough, Sheriff Dillon took my stash of chocolate as state’s evidence!”
“Marshall Dillon?” Daniels shook his head and frowned. “Did we change television programs?”
“Well, Andy Griffith he’s not.”
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 2
