Cookie Beaumont, you win. You can have them both.
Bobbie was packing her bags and heading out. To where, she had no idea.
A fist pounded on the front door. Her heart jumped into her throat. Nick.
Racing across Mrs. Porter’s pink and white living room, she threw the door open, a please-want-me-need-me-beg-me-not-to-go-even-if-I-don’t-know-what-on-earth-I-really-want knot tying her stomach.
Brax stood on her doorstep, gun at his belt, tan uniform crisp despite a full day’s use.
“Oh” was all she could say.
He waited a beat for anything sensible that might come out of her mouth, then leaned one hand on the door jamb, blue eyes frigid. “Now you’re going to answer last night’s question.”
“What’s that?” She really couldn’t remember what he’d asked.
“What’s going on between you and Nick Angel?”
Her stomach plunged to her toes. “Nothing.”
Really, nothing. Or, instead of the sheriff on her front porch, it would have been Nick.
Brax didn’t bother with a coaxing smile. He didn’t bother with a smile at all. “You’re not a good liar.”
Actually, she was. Her best lies were the ones she told herself. Like how she’d only come to Cottonmouth to show Warren that other men still found her sexy. No, she’d come to find her self-worth again, she’d come so that Warren could give it back to her, as if he could. How utterly stupid. She closed her eyes a brief moment, just long enough to squeeze the pain back into its cubby hole.
Successful for the moment, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the bare facts. “I made Nick lasagna and a pasta salad. He still refused to let me watch Buffy on his cable.”
Brax accepted that as if it actually made sense. “And you asked me out to dinner”—he spread a hand—“why?”
Because she hated the Cookie Monster. “I wanted to make my husband jealous. He didn’t seem to notice, though.”
For the first time, Brax’s face softened. “At least you’re being honest.”
Was she? She waited him out.
He went on. “Good thing I didn’t kiss you out there at the tavern the way I wanted to.”
She should have felt a quick thrill instead of this hollowness. She tried the eenie-meenie-minie-mo thing, but that didn’t work either. “Why?”
“I follow one good rule. Never get involved with a woman on the rebound,” Brax philosophized.
Gee, was that some sort of male rule? Nick had said virtually the same thing.
“Learned that with my first wife,” he added.
Okay, not philosophy, just first-hand experience. Somehow, that said more about him than anything else. Or maybe it was just her own experience coloring everything. “How many have you had?”
“Wives? Just that one.”
She drew a breath, let it out. “It’s a good rule.”
It should also apply to her—translated to—never get involved with a man right after you’ve been dumped. Her arms found their way around her stomach in a tight hug.
He glanced at the gesture, then back to her face. Sympathy, empathy, pity? Too close to the things she’d felt for Nick this morning.
“I came to give you a word of advice.”
“I’m all ears.” If she didn’t start sobbing first.
“Stay away from Nick.”
Oh. She’d been expecting something like her mother would say, like there’s plenty of other fish in the sea. “Because he’s a serial killer?”
He laughed, mostly a humorless grunt. “No. Because he’s got ‘fuck you and the horse you rode in on’ written all over him.” Pause, assess reaction, continue. “If you’ll excuse the language. Maybe you saw that this morning.”
She’d seen Nick’s facade, among other things. “Maybe I saw you blaming him instead of Jimbo.”
He wagged his finger at her. “You really don’t know anything about it. There’s history.”
She pursed her lips. “I think I’ve heard all the history.”
“Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t. One thing’s for sure, whatever you’re looking for, he won’t give it to you. Nick doesn’t need anyone, Bobbie. He’s not going to ever need anyone.”
“I’m not one of those women who needs to be needed.” But Roberta was. And Roberta lurked just beneath Bobbie’s skin.
Brax’s mouth creased in a half smile, and he shook his head without telling her she was full of baloney. He was too much of a gentleman to say it. “He’s actually a pretty good guy. But he’s had some lousy breaks, and he’s not handling them well. Makes him sort of testy even with his friends. Nick’s not a guy that trusts easily anymore.”
Somehow, she didn’t think Nick would like the description. “Is this the history lesson?”
Brax smiled, for real this time. “Guilty.”
She flipped a hand and covered up every emotion that might have shown on her face. About being needed, about lousy breaks, about wanting to fix the unfixable in other people. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving Cottonmouth, packing up my stuff tonight.”
He raised a brow. “What about Mavis and the Cooked Goose?”
A twinge prodded her heart. “I’ll give her notice tomorrow.”
He stared at her for a long time, as if he could see every sharp shard piercing her body. “You know, Bobbie, though we’re gonna hate to see you go, maybe it’s the best thing for everyone.”
There was no maybe about it. She’d definitely overstayed her welcome.
* * * * *
The sight of Brax on Bobbie’s front stoop still stuck in his craw hours later. But Nick had to admit, he’d acted like an ass. Last night. This morning. Who the hell was he, anyway, thinking he was some sort of truth messenger? He didn’t have the right. He’d regretted the words, all of them, to Jimbo, to Bobbie, to Brax, the minute he’d left the dinner. That pitying look she’d sent him still curled around his gut.
At this point, the best thing he could do for Bobbie Jones was to leave her alone.
Damn, it was hot in the bedroom. He shoved the sheet down to his waist. Princess was going ballistic over there. Why the hell couldn’t Reggie get out of bed and shut her up? It was twelve-thirty in the morning.
Actually, Reggie wasn’t a bad neighbor. He’d helped rebuild the section of fence between their yards, and he didn’t usually let Princess bark her fool head off in the middle of the night. Reggie was probably in the middle of getting some, that’s all.
Which brought him back to Bobbie. Yeah, go figure that thought pattern. Think sex, automatically think Bobbie.
Bottom line. Truth. Being that he wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep with Princess hopping around in her backyard, he ought to at least be honest with himself.
One, he had been a bastard to touch her last night. Two, he had been a bastard to throw his certifiably insane mistake with Cookie in her face. Three, he’d compounded everything by acting like a jealous jerk down at The Cooked Goose instead of letting her in on number one and number two already mentioned.
Reggie’s back door opened, there was a thud, a curse, then a hissed, “Shut the hell up or I’m taking you to the pound.”
Princess stopped barking.
And who was he kidding? He’d used the idea of showing Bobbie “the truth” as an excuse to take out his frustration on Jimbo. But none of it was Jimbo’s fault either. Nick had poached on his territory. The man was within his rights to knock Nick’s block off and throw around a few combative comments. So who else was Brax going to tell first to shut up?
There, everything all out in the open. Conclusion?
He hadn’t handled himself decently since the day Bobbie Jones moved in across the street.
On the other side of the fence, Princess went ballistic again, the high-pitched yelps beating on the inside of his skull. He pulled the pillow over his head.
Where was he? Oh yeah. Indecent handling of himself, nothing to do with whacking off. Conclusion?
Lea
ve her alone. He didn’t have anything to offer. And anything else he said would only make what he’d already done worse.
Of the two of them, Brax was the better choice.
Shit.
The only good thing to come of all his musing was Reggie yanking Princess inside the house and slamming the door. The barking stopped, this time for good.
* * * * *
Was one supposed to hand over a typed resignation letter when one quit being a waitress?
Bobbie pondered the question throughout the breakfast rush. She’d told Brax she was leaving, but she still hadn’t packed the mocha machine. Or the kitchen stuff. Tonight, she’d tackle that.
Leaning over the Formica table, she sloshed the damp cloth back and forth. Wiping tables was Billy the busboy’s job, but she’d needed something mindless to do. Especially before the lunch hour started.
Gosh, she would miss Mavis. And Ellie. And Mr. Fry, Janey Dillings, the banana splits at Johnson’s, even Beau, who waved and spat tobacco every time she walked by. So many people and things she’d hate to leave behind.
She hadn’t felt like that about San Francisco or Mr. Winkleman or the job she’d had for seven years.
She pushed the salt and pepper shakers back against the window ledge, made sure the sugar was filled. She hated to let Mavis down this way.
As if a thought could conjure, Mavis’s shriek burst forth from the kitchen. “How may times do I have to tell you—” The rest was lost in the clatter of pots and pans. The swing doors flew, banging the counters on either side.
Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell Mavis.
The doors had barely stopped swinging when the front door slammed open, the overhead bell giving a frenzied peel. Patsy Bell Sapp grabbed her chest to calm her breathing, her bouffant listing precariously to the left.
“Have you heard?”
Mavis put the coffee pot on the counter. Ellie stopped fiddling with the cutlery bins. Bobbie took two steps forward, forgetting the cloth on the table.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“The suspense is killing me,” Mavis quipped, with a roll of her eyes.
“Mavis Morgan, you’re going to be sorry you said that when you hear.”
“Then, for God’s sake, tell us.”
Patsy drew a shaky breath. “Jimbo’s been murdered.”
A beat of silence followed, so profound you could hear the cars turning into the minimall parking lot all the way out on Highway 26.
Then Mavis started laughing. “I swear, Patsy, you had me going for a minute there.”
“It’s true. They found him out at the lake with his head bashed in.”
Bobbie suddenly felt sick. “What lake?”
Patsy turned, her crinkly eyes misty. And sort of scary. “Lake Beaumonde, of course. Out at the picnic area.”
She was very much afraid she knew the exact spot.
“And you know what else, Bobbie Jones?”
Bobbie couldn’t drag in a breath if her life depended on it.
“Your ex-husband just confessed to killing him.”
Chapter Eleven
Nick balanced the flat of purple, yellow, and pink pansies on his palm. Investigating the pickings in Sylvestor’s greenhouse out back of the store, he’d found the choices few and what remained after the spring were near death. In all good conscience, he couldn’t plant expired flowers in his mother’s beds. He’d planted enough dead things in her backyard already.
The green and white cruiser pulled up beside him just as he exited the Home Depot. Caught shopping at the minimall. Damn.
“Hey, Nick, how’s it hanging?”
He wondered what the sheriff had been telling Bobbie last night. “Just the way it ought to, Brax. What do you want?”
Do-it-yourselfers stopped for a gander at the proceedings, then, when no guns or cuffs appeared, moved on. Being at the highway junction, the minimall served not only Cottonmouth, but the surrounding towns of Sterling, Hooker Creek, and Hedston—not to be confused with Headstone. The parking lot was full, the gawkers plenty, not that Brax’s cruiser was an unusual sight. The man liked to make his department’s presence known, part of his campaign for keeping the peace before it was broken.
Brax stared for ten seconds from behind a pair of mirrored shades. “Just wondering if you’d heard the news about Jimbo.”
Brax was not your typical gossip. Something was up. “Don’t tell me. He finally kicked Cookie out on her ass.”
“Nope.” Brax hung his hand out the side of his cruiser, hot afternoon sun beating down on his arm in his short-sleeved uniform. “Afraid the poor old man’s going to have to forego that pleasure. Permanently. Since he got his head smashed down at Lake Beaumonde last night, sometime between midnight and three a.m. Least, that’s the time the doc’s going with before the autopsy.”
Holy shit. Jimbo murdered? Brax was looking for the slightest reaction. Nick didn’t give it to him. “I suppose you’re wondering where I was last night, since Jimbo and I had that argument yesterday.”
Brax adjusted his sunglasses. “Alibis are always good in a situation like this.”
Nick shifted, setting his feet apart. Hooking a thumb in his beltloop, he held the pansies with one hand. “Sorry, I don’t have one. I was sleeping in my own bed all by myself.”
A teenager peeled out at the stop sign. Brax ignored the car. “That’s a shame, Nick, a damn shame. You could be in a speck of trouble. Be a lot easier if you’d had someone with you.”
Like Bobbie? He wouldn’t have used her name even if she had been there in anything other than his fantasies. “Shall I drop by the sheriff’s department so you can arrest me?”
A woman coming up on his left gasped, stopped, then fled to her car.
Brax pushed up his glasses as if they’d slid down. “No hurry. I know where you live. There’s a little matter of evidence.”
“Haven’t got any against me then, I presume.”
“’Cepting that fight. But that doesn’t even qualify as circumstantial at this point.”
What the hell was with the yokel dialect? Brax was baiting him. No sense in falling for that, either. “It wasn’t exactly a fight, Brax. Neither of us threw a punch.”
“That’s just what I’m saying. Unless, of course, you went after him later to finish it off.”
Nick didn’t bother answering the question in that statement. “I really appreciate you thinking of me first, Brax. Warms my heart.”
“No problem.” Brax draped his right hand over the steering wheel and waited for a mother and her two wide-eyed children to pass between them. “Seems the murder weapon is missing, too. M.E. says blunt instrument, some sort of flat-edged thing.”
“Thought you were the medical examiner, Brax.”
“Nah, I’m just the coroner. Around here, it’s nothing more than a title.” He gave a negligent wave. “Now, about that murder weapon. Hyram speculates it could be a shovel. Course, he’ll get real specific once he does the autopsy. Mind if I stop by to look at your collection of gardening tools?” Brax didn’t miss a beat.
Bastard. But Nick played the word game. “Collection?”
“Heard you do a lot of digging around your place.”
Yeah, roadkill burial duty. And Brax knew it. “Don’t you need a warrant for something like that?”
“Not if you voluntarily let me look.”
“You really think you’re going to find a bloody shovel in my shed?”
Brax shrugged. “Never can tell. Criminals can be real dumb. Some of them think it’s better to keep the evidence where they can get to it quick, if need be.”
“And if I refuse to let you in?”
The hand hanging over the door flipped up. “Well, refusing makes it look like you’ve got something to hide. Tends to create a bias against you.”
Nick considered Brax’s good ol’ boy routine. In high school, some would have called them best friends. Twenty years and Mary Alice’s abortion stood between them now.
“Get a warrant.”
A muscle flexed in Brax’s jaw, then he tapped his fingers against the side of the car, just above the big gold county star. “If that’s the way you want to play it. While I’m at it, guess I’ll add your shoes to the warrant, too.”
His shoes? Shit. “So, you found a footprint.”
“Can’t be divulging information crucial to the case. What size you wear?”
Instead of answering, Nick said, “I don’t scare easily, Brax. You should know that.” Especially since he hadn’t beaten Jimbo’s head in, nor would his shoe print match the one Brax had found.
If he’d actually found one. Could be Brax was playing a baiting game.
Except that Nick had been out at Lake Beaumonde on Sunday night. Shit, shit. Where exactly had they found Jimbo?
“One other thing. Tire tracks don’t need a warrant if we find ’em in a public place. It’d be real polite if you drove down one of my nice county dirt roads when I’m around to see it. Or, driving through oil leaves a good test impression.”
“Fuck you, Brax.”
“Now why did I expect that to come out of your mouth at one point or another?”
“Because you’ve known me for thirty-eight years.” And because it was his usual greeting for his old pal since he’d come home. He knew it was stupid to ask, but he had to know. “Where exactly did they find his body, just out of curiosity?”
Brax smiled, all feral teeth, like he knew he had Nick by the short hairs now. “Down at that little picnic area just off Delton Road.”
Holy Christ. Glad for his sunglasses masking his eyes, Nick kept the rest of his expression clean. “The whole thing seems like a run of bad luck for Jimbo. Good for Cookie, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Trying to make sure I consider her a suspect?”
“You know what they say about the spouse having the biggest motive.” Not to mention Bobbie’s almost-but-not-quite ex-husband, who, last time Nick had seen him, was getting head from the freshly-minted widow.
“Gee, Nick, you’da made a good cop.”
“Thanks.”
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 17
