Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  Daniels scribbled on his legal pad. “I’ll see what I can do about getting your personal effects back. Now the sheriff’s report states that the murder weapon, a .357 Magnum, was found on the floorboard of your car. Is this correct?”

  His question took her off guard. She blinked twice. “Well, yeah. But—”

  “And you’ve been fingerprinted, and your prints match those on the gun?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Do you understand the charges that have been filed against you?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “‘Yeah, but’ what?”

  Roxanne sighed. “I understand there are a lot of them.”

  He pulled the police report from his briefcase and read the charges aloud as if he were reciting a Mafia grocery list. “Resisting arrest. Illegal possession of a firearm. Illegal use of a hand gun. Carrying a concealed weapon. Assault with attempt to commit a felony. Assault with a deadly weapon. Attempt to kill a peace officer. And first degree murder.” His eyes met hers over the top of the paper. “Did I leave out anything?”

  “Yes,” she replied in an artificially sweetened tone. “I’ve worn white shoes after Labor Day.”

  Daniels didn’t answer. Instead, he made notes on his legal pad.

  “Uhum, you didn’t write that down, did you?” She hoped not. This far south, wearing white after Labor Day was probably a capital offense. “Because I was just kidding. I don’t usually wear anything but these.” She extended one leg and pointed to her chunky black boot. “Bad ankles, you know.”

  He looked at said ankle, her leg, and then up, and for a moment their eyes held. Roxanne felt the unwelcome, unplanned, and totally unexpected sizzle of awareness.

  “As your attorney, I must advise you of the merits of taking a plea bargain.”

  Now that ruined the moment. Her foot hit the concrete floor with a thud. “Are you kidding me?”

  He shot her a look that said he never kidded about anything. “It could mean the difference between the death penalty and twenty years without parole.”

  This was not going well. She had thought she was saved, but it seemed as if an orange jumpsuit was still in her future. “Are you trying to make me feel better? Because if you are, it’s not working.”

  “You have to understand your legal position, Miss Ackerman. The gun that shot and killed James Valentine was found in your car—”

  “At the very least, I expected my lawyer to be on my side, but I can see that I expected too much.”

  “—covered with your fingerprints.”

  “Of course my fingerprints were on it! I found the friggin’ thing!”

  “Miss Ackerman.” Daniels removed his glasses, then calmly wiped them clean with his handkerchief. God, the man actually carried a handkerchief. “Yelling at me is not going to get you out of jail any quicker than cooperating.”

  “Yeah? Well, yelling at you feels better than cooperating. I thought you were supposed to help me.”

  He took his time re-adjusting his glasses before he met her gaze. “I will.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Do you want to talk about the charges?”

  Roxanne leaned back in the hard, wooden chair and sighed. “Okay, the resisting arrest is true, but the gun was not concealed; I was holding it. And I didn’t shoot at the deputy; I dropped the gun—after he told me to—and it went off.”

  “Deputy Harlow thought you were threatening him.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I hope he doesn’t get paid to think.”

  “Miss Ackerman.” Her attorney’s tone held a beat of warning. “Sarcasm is not the answer.”

  “Listen, counselor, I take a wrong turn off the interstate and the next thing I know, I’m arrested for murder. Now you tell me I’m on my way to the big house for twenty years. Pardon me if I find it difficult to adhere to inmate etiquette. I’m a little stressed right now.”

  A moment of tense silence stretched between them.

  “What brought you to Jefferson County, Miss Ackerman?” Daniels’s tone was quiet, near solemn.

  “I got lost.”

  He quirked one rusty brow.

  “Surely you don’t think I’d come here on purpose.”

  “It’s happened before.”

  “Not this time. I was on my way to Memphis for the anniversary of Elvis’s death. Somewhere around the state line, I spilled orange soda on my map. My car started smoking and now here I am, lost in the Twilight Zone.”

  “Miss Ackerman—”

  “Listen carefully, Daniels,” she said before he could finish. “I. Did. Not. Kill. Jamie. Valentine.”

  “I want to believe you.”

  “I don’t care what you want to believe. I didn’t kill anyone. I came to Tennessee to cover a story about a bunch of fat men who enjoy dressing up like a dead rock star—not to kill anybody.”

  “If you didn’t kill Valentine, how did the murder weapon get in your car?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Roxanne … May I call you Roxanne?” He waited for her nod before he continued. “Roxanne, a jury will not accept that.”

  There was something about the way he said her name, like it had three syllables, that sent a tingling feeling skimmering down her spine. Or was it just a touch of scoliosis from sleeping on the lumpy jail mattress?

  “You’re the attorney. Make them.”

  Daniels dropped his gaze and shifted through the file labeled Ackerman, Roxanne L. “Tell me everything that has happened since you entered Jefferson County.”

  Roxanne took a deep breath and propped her elbows on the table in front of her. “Mabel started to smoke just this side of the county line, so I pulled into the Gas and Stop to let her cool down.”

  “Mabel?”

  “My car.”

  Daniels looked confused, but Roxanne didn’t take the time to explain. Besides, her car wasn’t going to be on trial; she was.

  “Since I hadn’t had a break all night, I went to the restroom.”

  “Did you lock … Mabel?”

  Roxanne shook her head. “Smoke was pouring out from underneath the hood. I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to steal her. Besides, she’s a rag top. If someone wants in, it takes one swipe of a switchblade.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in Tennessee, not Chicago. Things like that don’t happen around here.”

  “Sure,” Roxanne said. “A man can be murdered with his own handgun, but no one would dare cut a rag top to steal a car.”

  He ignored that. “Did you leave your car alone any time other than when you went to the restroom?”

  “I went inside when the attendant called about the part to fix my car.”

  “Was there any one else at the Gas and Stop while you were there?”

  “No.”

  “We need witnesses.” He paused. “Someone could have planted that gun in your car. You’re positive there was no one else at the Gas and Stop?”

  “Just the deputy, but he was never alone with Mabel. Wait. Yes, there was someone else. When I pulled into the station, there was a blue Caddy next to the pumps. It sped away as I came out of the bathroom.” Roxanne sat back in her chair, a satisfied smile stretching across her lips. “The case is solved. All we have to do is find the owner of the Caddy, and we’ll find the murderer.”

  • • •

  Malcolm leaned back, away from his all too alluring client. “Thank you, Nancy Drew. However, the identity of Jamie Valentine’s murderer is not my problem. As you’ve so thoughtfully pointed out, clearing you of the charge is.”

  The sheriff had warned him that Roxanne Ackerman was a Yankee, smart‑mouthed and angry. Gus just forgot to tell Malcolm she was beautiful. Dark hair, crystal blue eyes, porcelain skin. Nor had Gus mentioned she was intelligent, headstrong, and impetuous. However, her theory on who’d planted the gun in her car and consequently who murdered Jamie Valentine had one major downfall: Truman Silverstone owned the Cadillac. No matter h
ow strangely his adoptive father had been acting lately, Malcolm could no more believe the man guilty of murder than he could believe either of them could swim to Mars.

  “Let’s back up a little bit,” Malcolm suggested. “When did you first get into town?”

  “Yesterday morning. About eight a.m.”

  “Perfect. The coroner speculates that Valentine was shot late Wednesday night, before you arrived in Jefferson County. Where were you Wednesday?”

  She sighed, and he had to consciously concentrate on the words she said rather than the rise and fall of the Cubbies logo on her shirt. “I was covering a dinner party at the mayor’s mansion.”

  “Great. A party means plenty of witnesses to establish your alibi. What time did you leave the party?”

  “Around ten o’clock.”

  “Then where did you go?”

  She shrugged. “I left for Memphis.”

  Malcolm studied her over the rim of his glasses. “You didn’t go back by your apartment to get some things? Stop and get a bite to eat? Anything like that?”

  “I talked to my editor just before I pulled out.”

  “And you spent the night driving.”

  She nodded.

  “Where can I reach your editor?”

  “I can give you his cell number, but it may be hard to reach him. He’s in Little Rock with a velvet portrait of Elvis that cries when ‘Love Me Tender’ is played.”

  Malcolm dropped his pen. “Just what kind of publication do you work for?”

  She beamed him a bright smile. “I write for I Spy magazine. Ever hear of it?”

  Malcolm nodded and recaptured his pen. I Spy was a disreputable rag that people like him—people with a future in the public eye—avoided at all costs.

  “I thought you said you had been invited to the mayor’s dinner party.”

  She smiled again, that same extra-wattage flash of teeth that had probably opened backdoors all over Chicago. “I said I was at the party. I never said I had been invited.”

  “Right. Now about your editor…”

  She shook her head. “You can’t call him unless you have a cell phone, which for some reason no one in this godforsaken town seems to have.”

  “Why is that?”

  “How should I know? Everyone in the free world has a cell but the fine citizens of Jefferson County, Tennessee.”

  “No, why can’t I call?”

  “Oh, some fellow named Lester took out a very important telephone pole with a chainsaw.”

  “Again?”

  “You mean he’s done this before?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Once or twice.”

  “And you guys have me locked up.” Roxanne shook her head. “So what are we going to do?” she asked.

  “I won’t lie to you. Your defense is shaky.”

  “There you go trying to make me feel better again.”

  Her words were mocking, but the hand that rose to tuck back a wayward curl of dark hair trembled. She was scared. She was full of tough talk and sarcasm, but underneath it all, she was afraid. Malcolm found himself wanting to protect her. No, defend her. Not protect her. He was here to defend her, nothing more.

  “I didn’t say it was hopeless, just shaky. Now, it’s nearly five hundred miles from Chicago to Tennessee. I presume you stopped for gas along on the way?”

  “Yeah, some little station around Carbondale.”

  “Did you get a receipt?”

  She nodded. “It’s in Mabel’s glove compartment.”

  “What about a GSR test?”

  She raised her brows in question.

  “Gun Shot Residue test. Did Deputy Harlow swab your hands after he arrested you and brought you back to the station?”

  “So that’s what it was for. What does that do?”

  “It’ll prove that you didn’t fire the gun that killed Jamie Valentine.”

  “Sweet. I oughta be out of here in no time.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, but it takes a week to ten days to get those results back from the lab in Nashville.”

  “Not sweet.” She flopped back in her chair, a defeated slump pulling on her shoulders.

  He stood and walked toward the door of the cell, trying to put more distance between them, trying to come up with a defense to free her, and needing all the while for her to remain in jail for as long as possible. It was his job to get the charges dropped, and as soon as that happened he was personally escorting her to the county line.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “I’m going to see if I can find that receipt. If we’re lucky, the clerk will remember you. Then I’m going to talk with the judge; maybe we can work something out about the charges. Can I get you anything?”

  She sighed an I-thought-you’d-never-ask sigh. “A candy bar. Something King Size and chocolate.”

  Malcolm bit back a smile. Evidently his new client had a sweet tooth. “I’ll see what I can do. Just wait right here.”

  She looked pointedly at the iron bars that surrounded her. “I didn't think I had a choice.”

  The metallic sound of imprisonment followed Malcolm down the short corridor. Deputy Dennis re-locked the cell and for the time being, Roxanne Louise Ackerman wasn’t going anywhere. The thought should have been comforting to him, but it wasn’t. Malcolm didn’t want her in the Jefferson County Jail. He didn’t want her in Jefferson County period. She was too potentially dangerous. One article printed in that rag she worked for, and he could kiss a lifetime of carefully laid plans goodbye. Right now, the jailhouse was the safest place for her. At least as far as he and Truman were concerned.

  Malcolm didn’t believe for a minute that Roxanne had anything to do with the murder of Jamie Valentine, nor did he believe she was lost. She’d come to Jefferson County for a story, and it had nothing to do with the King of Rock and Roll. She was nearly a hundred miles east of Memphis. No one got that “lost” on accident.

  The Silverstones were the Kennedys of the South, and Malcolm had a sinking suspicion the sexy reporter had come to dig up some dirt. His background was blemish-free, but with his bid for the US Senate next year, he knew he couldn’t be too careful. After all, if her editor could cover a weeping portrait of Elvis, who said her story had to be true? As long as she was incarcerated, Malcolm could keep an eye on her. But the sheriff couldn’t hold her in jail until Malcolm could find out what was bothering Truman, and if it had anything to do with the reporter’s appearance.

  “What’s the scoop on her, Malcolm, my boy?”

  At the sheriff’s words, he turned, for the first time aware he had been standing in the narrow gray hallway, staring into space. “She says she didn’t do it.”

  The sheriff hoisted up his ever-slipping gun belt and smiled his grimacing, ex-Marine smile. “They all say that.”

  “She also said you took away her personal effects.”

  “Just following the books.”

  “Now that’s a first. Why all of this sudden interest in procedure? Could it be because she’s a Yankee?”

  Deputy Dennis Harlow—the sheriff’s son, budding law of Jefferson County, and arresting officer of Roxanne Ackerman—sauntered up. He was tall and thin and eager. Too eager. “County manual page eight, section ten, paragraph four. ‘All personal items should be taken from the prisoner and held on the authority of the county until the release of said prisoner.’”

  Malcolm ignored the young man and instead focused his attention on the sheriff. “Gus, give me her things. Namely her chocolate. I have a feeling she’ll be much easier to deal with after a dose of sugar.”

  “‘Personal items will be returned to the prisoner at the time of their release,’” Deputy Dennis quoted. “County manual page eight, section ten, paragraph five.”

  Sheriff Harlow smiled with apparent pride at his son’s knowledge of the law. “That was one big bag of candy. I’d be careful if I were you, Malcolm. Never trust a woman who eats too many sweets.”

  Malcolm tried
to keep an impassive face over the sheriff’s twisted philosophy. Mrs. Harlow had left with a traveling salesman when Dennis was only two. Since then, Gus was always giving advice and telling anyone within earshot what kind of woman not to trust. “I’m going upstairs to talk to Hurley. When I come back down, I want that candy.”

  The sheriff continued to smile. “By the by, I saw Davies at the bait shop. He and the judge are headin’ up to Missouri this afternoon. He said you could call him before two if you want to talk about a plea bargain, but he won’t be in after that.”

  “I can’t call him. The phone lines are down.” And the man had a terrible aversion to cell phones, keeping his turned off more than it was on.

  “Awh, they’ll have those back up in no time.”

  And as soon as they did, Roxanne could post bail. Then she’d be free to roam Jefferson County, digging up things that might be better left buried.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Malcolm muttered to himself. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  Chapter Three

  Roxanne rose the instant her attorney entered her cell an hour and a half later. She thought he had forgotten all about her. Mentally, she had been calling him all sorts of names—her mother would have not approved of any of them—but when he tossed her the Ziploc baggie containing her chocolate stash, he rose past the status of savior and up to sainthood.

  Before the door to her cell had even closed behind him, she had the bag open and the wrapper off a Butterfinger.

  “You are my knight in shining armor,” she gushed.

  He smiled, then the moment disappeared as he got straight down to business. “I've got some good news and some bad news.”

  “Give me the bad news.”

  He frowned. “Most people want the good news first.”

  She swallowed, then licked her lips to retrieve any wayward bits of chocolate. “I’m not most people.”

  “No,” he said softly, his gaze centered on her mouth.

  She could see the spark of attraction in his eyes, an attraction she felt too. She pushed it away. It was her curse to forever be attracted to the wrong kind of man. She had vowed never to get married again, and Mr. Conservative had two-point-five children and minivan written all over him. She shouldn’t care. He was most probably already married to a sweet little woman who baked cookies all day while Junior played little league baseball. At least Malcolm Daniels would be easy to resist; she would be leaving Jefferson County just as soon as the charges were dropped.