Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  “The bad news?” she prompted.

  “I can’t persuade the judge to dismiss the murder charges. This is the biggest case in Jefferson County since the turn of the century, and he wants to go through the formal courtroom procedures. A preliminary hearing and all that. Then he will formally decide if there’s enough evidence to try you.” He spread his hands out before him in a this-is-the-best-I-have-to-offer gesture. Roxanne resisted the urge to check his finger for a wedding ring.

  “That sounds like fun,” she said instead. “When can we do that?”

  “We’re on the docket for Monday.”

  “Monday?” She almost choked on the candy. If she had to wait until Monday she would miss the convention entirely. As it was now, if she left this afternoon she still might make the knit-off and—she grimaced—the concert tomorrow night. “What’s wrong with today?”

  “Judge Hurley has prior commitments.”

  Roxanne threw up her hands in exasperation. “Let me guess. He’s got a very important golf date with the governor.”

  “Actually, he’s gone fishing with the County Prosecutor.”

  Her voice rose to a shout. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Now, Roxanne. Calm down.”

  “Calm down? Does everybody in this damned town go fishing when they should be working?”

  “I don’t—”

  “How am I supposed to get a fair trial when the prosecutor and the judge are off … fraternizing with one another?”

  “It’s not a trial. It’s a preliminary hearing.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A prelim is when—”

  “Never mind.” She waved a hand as if to disperse his words. “What’s the good news?”

  “Judge Hurley has agreed to allow you bond.”

  “How much?” Did she even want to know?

  “Half a million.”

  She collapsed into the hard wooden chair, her anger replaced by hopelessness. “That’s good news? I don’t have that kind of money.” And without it she would remain confined in the county jail for the next three days. Only one person she knew could help her now and the only way to get out of jail was to make the one call she didn’t want to make.

  She could feel Daniels’s eyes on her as she reached for the phone. She would try her father; she had no other choice. Roxanne chewed slowly on the remaining half of the Butterfinger as silence came across the dead phone lines.

  She wadded up the wrapper and replaced the receiver. She turned to Daniels and tried to smile. “Looks like I’ll be a guest at the Jefferson County Hilton for a few more days.”

  He grimaced and reached inside his suit jacket. “Here,” he said, handing her a small gray cell phone.

  “I used to have one of these. But now it’s state’s evidence. Doesn’t matter, though.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t get any service out here.”

  “Try mine.”

  Roxanne took the phone with a grateful smile. “I—”

  “Just call.”

  She nodded and dialed the ten digits that would connect her to her father’s downtown Chicago office. It rang twice, then a woman’s voice greeted her. “Nina, it’s Roxanne. Can I—can I speak to my father?” She closed her eyes as she said the dreadful words.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” her father’s secretary replied. “He’s taken the weekend off.”

  Roxanne’s eyes snapped open. “He what?” It was hard enough to humble herself, but to humble herself to no cause …

  “I know. I couldn’t believe it myself, but the doctor told him to get some rest before he collapsed. He even called and had me confiscate your father’s cell and his tablet.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Some rugged spa for men on the other side of the lake. They don’t even have phones in their rooms. I just can’t believe your father allowed himself to be coerced into that.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Would you like to leave him a message, dear?”

  A message?

  “No message. Thanks, Nina,” Roxanne muttered, then hung up. “May I?” She held up the phone and gestured vaguely.

  Daniels nodded, and Roxanne punched in Newland’s cell number. This was the ultimate gamble. After the way she had left him on Wednesday night, she’d be lucky if he didn’t volunteer himself to be the state’s key witness against her.

  “Come on, come on,” she whispered as the ringing continued on the other end.

  “Hi, this is Newland—”

  “Newland?”

  “—I can’t make it to my phone right now. But leave me a message, and I’ll call you back. Maybe.”

  Damn. “Newland, it’s me. I’m in Jefferson County, Tennessee. I’m not going to make it to the festival. I’ve run into a … snag.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as if by saying the words softly they somehow wouldn’t be true. “I—I’ve been arrested. Call me back. I … aw, never mind.” She clicked off the phone and handed it back to Daniels.

  “No luck?” He gave her a sad little smile.

  Roxanne shook her head and blinked hard, fighting the tears that threatened. Crying wouldn’t do her any good. She took a deep breath. It was going to be okay. She’d just stay in jail. It wasn’t so bad. Really. Not like on TV. Yeah, she’d just stay in jail.

  Cheerful, off-key whistling floated into the cell.

  Roxanne wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “I’m not sure. It smells like—”

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” the sheriff’s voice boomed through the jail.

  The whistling stopped.

  Roxanne looked at Malcolm as Deputy Dennis’s voice joined the sheriff’s.

  “County Manual page six, section three, paragraph eight: in compliance to Jefferson County Health Code Manual page two, section six, paragraph four, the county jail will be fumigated the first Friday of all even numbered months.”

  “We can’t fumigate. We’ve got a prisoner,” the sheriff boomed again.

  “A prisoner?” a third voice asked. “Y’all never have a prisoner. You didn’t arrest Lester for that little mishap with the chainsaw, did ya?”

  “If only,” Roxanne muttered. She wasn’t certain, but she thought she saw Daniels smile.

  “Better than that,” Deputy Dennis boasted. “I single-handedly captured Valentine’s murderer.”

  “Ya don’t say.”

  “He sure did.” The sheriff’s voice was filled with button-bursting pride.

  “You want to see her?”

  Roxanne turned to her attorney who shook his head. “I will not be put on exhibition like some five-legged frog at the carnival.”

  “You mean she’s here now?”

  “Where else would we keep her?” the sheriff asked. “This is the jail.”

  “But this will never do,” the exterminator fretted.

  “Whadya mean?”

  Roxanne heard the sound of what could only be Deputy Dennis smacking his forehead. “Jefferson County Health Code Manual page two, section six, paragraph five: the jail must be evacuated at the time of fumigation for the protection of the health of any prisoner incarcerated at said time. The jail shall be uninhabited for at least seventy-two hours after said fumigation.”

  “You mean you’re going to let her go?”

  “No,” the sheriff stated flatly.

  Roxanne glared at her attorney. “For Pete’s sake, do something. This smell is giving me a headache.”

  Malcolm rose and walked to the bars. “Gus.”

  Keys jangled, then the sheriff strode into sight.

  “I do believe that incarceration in an uninhabitable cell is a violation of my client’s constitutional rights.”

  “Now, Malcolm. Don’t start.”

  “You can’t leave her in here, Gus.”

  “I know. I know.”

  Deputy Dennis materialized behind him. “Sheriff Dad, we’ve got no choice. We’re going to have to reloca
te the prisoner.”

  “Boy, how many times do I have to tell you? You can call me Sheriff or you can call me Dad, but don’t call me Sheriff Dad.”

  “Relocate?” Roxanne had exactly sixty seconds to be confused. During that time, the deputy unlocked the door to her cell, grasped her by the arm, and escorted her up a short flight of stairs.

  “Now wait just a minute.”

  He propelled her down a narrow hallway and into a room. The door was immediately shut and locked behind her.

  “Daniels! Tell these hillbillies to let me out of here.” Roxanne pounded on the hard oak door. “Daniels. This is cruel and unusual punishment. Daniels!”

  She continued to pound, kick and yell, but no one answered her summons. Great. Just fabulous.

  She turned and surveyed her new “cell.” She had to admit, the accommodations were better. Framed artist sketches of bird dogs mingled with the various official-looking awards that adorned the paneled walls. Three filing cabinets stood like proud soldiers along one side of the room. A massive, but worn, leather chair sat on the other side behind an even bigger, even more worn desk which boasted a name plate engraved with the official seal of Jefferson County and the name Gus Harlow.

  Roxanne’s reporter’s instincts skidded back to the filing cabinets. Where there were filing cabinets, there were files.

  After a brief search through one cabinet, she found what she was looking for. With a satisfied smile, she propped her feet on the sheriff’s desk and began to read.

  • • •

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Roxanne slid her feet from the top of the sheriff’s desk and shot her attorney an innocent look. She had been so involved in the official file of James A. Valentine that she hadn’t heard Daniels enter the office.

  His eyes were dark and unreadable, but one look at the grim set of his mouth, and she knew it was not time to be coy. Still, she couldn’t help herself. “Reading?”

  “Give me that.” He jerked the file from her.

  Sheriff Harlow ducked into his commandeered office.

  Daniels shoved the file behind his back.

  Roxanne tried not to laugh as a red flush crept up her attorney’s neck.

  “Okay, Miz Ackerman. You’re free to go.”

  “Is he serious?” she asked Daniels once the sheriff had moved on. She was relieved yet suspicious at his nod of affirmation. “What strings?”

  “Let’s get your things. I’ll explain in the car.” He tossed the file onto the sheriff’s desk, then grabbed her arm as if to forcefully drag her there himself.

  Roxanne ignored the warmth of his fingers against her skin. It had been a long time since she had felt like this, like melted butter on fresh toast. Why now? Why him?

  “Whose car? My car?”

  “No. My car.”

  Pushing the attraction aside, she dug in her heels as best she could on the slick laminate flooring. “Oh, no. I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s going on.”

  “You have to stay with me.”

  “You? But—”

  “Listen, Roxanne. If you don’t come with me, they’re going to lock you in Lester’s basement.”

  “A basement?” She looked toward the sheriff, then back to her attorney. “Can they do that?”

  “Lester lives in the old courthouse. The way the sheriff sees it, he’s well within his jurisdiction to incarcerate you in the old jail cells in the basement.”

  The mental picture of a crazed man standing guard over her cell with his trusty chainsaw flickered through Roxanne’s mind.

  She snatched up the bag of candy and followed her attorney out of the office and to the front desk. After a brief signing of papers, she collected her purse and was once again out in the bright southern sunshine.

  She felt a little like a pimple on prom night as she followed Daniels to his car, a brand new Mercedes sedan. Its boxy shape and sedate-to-the-point-of-boring charcoal gray color fit his conservative image, but was not what she had expected from her southern counselor. The car hinted at big money in a small town, and Roxanne’s journalist intuition kicked in.

  “Where’s your minivan?”

  “What?” He opened the passenger’s side door for her, like a true southern gentleman.

  Roxanne slid inside the car. “Never mind. I’m just grateful to be free. But you don’t have to do this. I mean, just point me in the direction of the nearest hotel, and then you won’t have to see me again until Monday.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” He opened his own door and got inside. “You have to stay with me.”

  “And what’s your wife going to say when you bring home a murderer?”

  “Alleged murderer, and I’m not married.”

  “Oh,” Roxanne chewed her lower lip as Daniels started the engine and backed his boring, expensive car out onto the street. “But I thought … I mean … well, what I meant to say … oh.” She pressed her lips together.

  “You thought you would have this weekend free.”

  “Something like that,” she mumbled.

  “Not a chance.”

  “But how am I going to—?” She stopped. She had almost asked, how am I going to prove my innocence with you watching every move I make?

  “How are you going to what?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Those earthy brown eyes flicked from the road to her. The look clearly said, “I don’t believe you.”

  “So.” Roxanne tried to make her tone sound conversationally casual. “What do we do now?”

  “Do?” This time he didn’t even bother to look at her.

  “Yeah, do. I didn’t know if you had any plans, and as much as I hate to admit it, being in jail gave me a lot of time to think—”

  “And read?”

  “Yes, and I have a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “A plan. As I see it, the first thing we need to do is—”

  “We?”

  Lord, did he have to repeat everything she said? “Yes, we. You said you’d help me.”

  He glanced over to her, suspicion in his so-brown eyes. “Help you what?”

  “Find the murderer, of course. Isn’t that why you agreed to take me into custody?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you do it?”

  He shrugged and turned his attention back to the road. “It’s just the way I was raised. Southern hospitality and all. I couldn’t let them lock you up in Lester’s basement.”

  Roxanne knew when she was being lied to, and Malcolm Daniels was telling the truth. “Thanks.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s not your fault that the jail is uninhabitable or that Judge Hurley wants the Missouri state record for largemouth bass.”

  “But you’re not going to help me?”

  “Roxanne, this is not Perry Mason.”

  “Fine, I’ll do it myself.” She folded her hands demurely in her lap and looked out the window.

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I won’t?”

  “You won’t.”

  “And who’s going to stop me?”

  “I am.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  Roxanne didn’t like the set of his jaw or the tone of his voice. “Just what are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight until after the preliminary hearing.”

  “No deal. You’ve already said my case doesn’t look good. I’ve heard about the way these small towns operate. The only way I’m going to get out of this mess is to find the killer myself. There can’t be that many blue Caddies in this town.”

  Daniels pulled his boxy Mercedes onto the side of the narrow street. “All right, Ms. Chicago. Let’s get one thing straight from the beginning. Do you have half a million dollars?”

  Roxanne gave him her best have-you-lost-your-mind look, then disdainfully swung her braid over her s
houlder. “If I had that kind of money, I’d have paid my own way out of jail.”

  “That’s right, darlin’ and you keep that in mind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You were released into my custody and from right now until Monday morning, I own you. Bought and paid for. You will do what I say when I say to do it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.” Roxanne ground through clenched teeth, her plan to prove her innocence still forming in her mind. She wasn’t the type to give up that easily. She would find the murderer and clear her name. After all, one small detail was still in her favor: Malcolm B. Daniels IV couldn't watch her twenty-four hours a day, now could he?

  Chapter Four

  Get away from my attorney. That’s my first task, Roxanne thought as they drove through the small town. It wouldn’t be easy, but it had to be done. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust his knowledge of the law. But she had seen those stories of innocent people accused of crimes in foreign countries and then sent to prison for years and years and years. Jefferson County wasn’t exactly a foreign country, but it was damn close.

  Yet when she thought of giving him the slip, Roxanne felt a little bit guilty. After all, he had saved her from a fate worse than jail. And he had talked the sheriff into giving her back her cache of candy. And he had constantly reassured her that on Monday morning she would be free. If only she could be so confident …

  The Mercedes slowed, and Daniels parked the car on the side of the shady street.

  “Where are we?” she asked as he opened the door for her. Roxanne had been a feminist from birth, yet his action seemed respectful rather than demeaning. But she didn’t want to think about that right now. She had a few other worries.

  He collected his briefcase from the back seat of the sedan and nodded his head toward a building across the street. “My office.”

  The two story colonial boasted black shutters mounted aside open, white framed windows. With its pristine trim and crisp red brick, it looked clean and straightforward, just like the man who worked there. An American flag rippled across the too-warm Southern breeze and only added to the lazy, small town atmosphere.