Small Town Spin

by Walker, LynDee

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  I watched her go, noting the way she slumped her shoulders, trying to make herself as small as possible. I’d walked through most of high school like that in an effort to hide my height. It looked like Evelyn was just trying to hide.

  I spun back to the dance floor, looking for Luke, and found Kyle blocking my view. “Well?” he asked.

  “Still don’t know. She’s got some anger and guilt around all this. And some daddy issues, too, I think, from the way she was talking.” I knew Em would say that could mess a teenage girl up. “It’s hard to say if she’s upset for ruining her friendship with them and not having a way to fix that or if she feels guilty for killing them. Sydney was definitely drinking moonshine, though. Evelyn said she had half a jar before she flung the rest in Evelyn’s face. Couldn’t walk upright. And someone gave it to her.” That sentence stuck in my head. We were dealing with something in the moonshine. I was as sure of it as I was my shoe size. That stuff would mask just about any kind of nasty taste I could imagine.

  “That is a tough code to crack,” Kyle said, turning and wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me to his side. “You see the other kid you wanted to talk to?”

  I looked up at him, liking my poisoned drink theory more as I considered Luke.

  “He was on the dance floor thirty seconds ago,” I said. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

  I searched the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street for Luke’s blond head, and saw Coach Morris first. He waved, crossing quickly to shake Kyle’s hand.

  I introduced them, turning my most earnest smile on Morris. “Did Eli come with you tonight, coach?” I asked. “I’m wondering if he was at any of the parties last week. Maybe he saw something? Heard something?”

  Morris shook his head. “He said he didn’t feel like it. Hasn’t been himself lately. He and TJ weren’t exactly buddies, but he’s torn up over Sydney. She was a special girl.”

  Crap. But interesting, too. Torn up, sad? Or torn up, guilty?

  “I just talked to Luke,” Morris said, glancing around. “It’s been hard the past few days. I almost can’t look at him. I can’t believe he’d really want to hurt his teammate.”

  “We are still in America,” Kyle said. “There’s the whole ‘innocent until proven guilty’ thing.”

  “He tampered with TJ’s cleats,” the coach said.

  “We think, anyway,” I said, eyeing Morris. He was trying awfully hard to hand Luke to us on a platter. Too hard?

  “Not the same as murdering someone. I’m not saying he’s not capable of it, because causing serious injury to a rival is a bad sign, but if he’d wanted TJ dead why not call him out to the beach or the baseball field alone and just shoot him?” Kyle asked.

  The coach fell silent. “I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t planning to kill him.”

  “That would be way more likely if there were signs of trauma to the body that indicated a spontaneous method.” Kyle looked around. “Nicey, you said tall and blond.” He pointed. “That kid?”

  I followed his gaze and saw Luke making out with the redhead in the shadows next to the barbecue stand.

  “That’s him.”

  Kyle turned to Coach Morris. “How about an introduction?”

  “Sure thing,” Morris said, waving for Kyle to follow him across the street.

  I started back for the table, hoping Bobbi’s chicken was as good cold as it was warm, when a voice behind me stopped my foot in midair.

  “Who is that, and what does he want with my son?”

  I spun to find the woman who’d come looking for Luke at the funeral, dressed in a purple broomstick skirt and a floral-print top.

  She nodded to me. “You were talking to Lucas at the funeral the other day. With a different fella. Who’s that one?”

  I smiled. “He’s a baseball fan. Coach Morris was telling us about Luke’s arm, and my friend wanted to meet him. I hear this is going to be a heck of a season for the Eagles.”

  Her shrewd expression softened slightly. “It will be now,” she said, her eyes flicking from me to Kyle and the coach, then back again.

  I blanched, staring at her for a second with a smile pasted across my face, my brain in hyperdrive, shifting puzzle pieces.

  How many stories had I read about moms who were willing to kill for their children? Okay, most of them were defending their wee’uns’ lives, shooting intruders or occasionally taking out child molesters. But hell—what if I suspected the wrong Bosley? I turned my eyes to the scene across the street.

  Morris tapped Luke’s shoulder and introduced Kyle. Luke broke into a big grin and offered a hand, dismissing the girl with a wave. She backed up a few steps, staring daggers at the coach.

  “He’s a good boy,” Luke’s mother said from my elbow. “He deserves a fair shot.”

  I tried to keep my trap shut and failed. “Did he not get a fair shot at some point? The coach said he’s been on the team for three years running.”

  “He should have been the star. But TJ was there. Not even from here, with his famous daddy and all their money. My husband was the most winning pitcher in Mathews history until TJ came here. Lucas was destined to start for the Eagles from the cradle.”

  “He’s been a starter since he was a sophomore,” I said. “I found that impressive.”

  She cut her eyes to me. “He should be the star,” she repeated. “People wanting to meet him, shake his hand. Give him scholarships that will get him the hell out of this town. He’s got a fair shot now.”

  She walked toward Kyle and my jaw dropped, my mind racing.

  What did I know about Mrs. Bosley?

  She was the PTA President. Which meant she was at the school as much as the teachers. Evelyn said someone gave Sydney the moonshine she was drinking. Which Evelyn probably wouldn’t mention if the someone had been her.

  I froze, digging out my Blackberry and opening the photos.

  There was Syd’s moonshine jar. And there was a piece of paper in the bag next to it.

  Bright green, like the one I’d seen in TJ’s locker. I closed my eyes and pictured the party flyer. Concave, and crinkled up along one edge.

  Like it had been wrapped around a jar?

  Hot damn.

  I clicked back to the county marriage records and searched for Bosley. I found that Simon Bosley had married Lily Sidell the year before Luke was born.

  Sidell. Elmer and Bobbi Jo said the Sidell family made moonshine.

  Quickly, I tapped every word into a note before they faded. Then I texted my best friend. “I need to talk to you,” I typed. “Sorry again for bailing on girls night, but can we get coffee in the morning? Need a mom’s perspective.”

  She texted right back. “Sure, doll. You find your murderer yet?”

  “Probably. If I could figure out which one of these Looney Tunes it is,” I replied. “Lesson from this trip: there’s no shortage of folks with motive out here.”

  “Fun. Thompson’s @ 9:30. Can’t wait to hear. Miss you. Xoxo”

  “Thanks. Miss you. Xoxo”

  I looked up as Coach Morris and Norma slow-danced into my sight line, her short frame fused to his tall one. Her eyes were closed, her head resting just below his shoulder. His arms cradled the small of her back, and his feet moved to the music—but Morris’s eyes were on Luke Bosley, an unreadable expression on his face.

  I knew the feeling.

  Tucking the phone back in my bag, I smiled as Kyle crossed the street toward me. I collapsed into his chest when he offered me a hand, the crazy week finally biting me in the energy stores.

  “Hello, there,” he said, squeezing my shoulders.

  “I am so tired,” I said. “Can we go?”

  “If you’re ready,” he said, glancing at his watch. “We should head out to the woods to meet my ABC guy. And wait ’til you hear what I got from the kid.”

  Kyle passed the turn off for the freeway and drove for about a mile with the guidance of the high be
ams, then hung a right onto a narrow dirt road that barely cut through the woods. I glanced at him, then at the pitch-black surrounding the truck. “We’re meeting someone here?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to find places no one can see out here,” he said. “We have to protect his cover, or we’ll put his life in very real danger.”

  I nodded.

  He rolled to a stop in a teeny clearing, and I spotted the outline of a pickup with no headlights on coming the other way. Kyle turned the brights off, the sallow glow of the low beams not making much headway with the darkness. He stepped out of the truck without turning off the lights, walking around to open my door and help me down. I blinked away fatigue as I stood up and turned for the front of the car. The undercover ABC agent stepped into the light. I froze, tightening my fingers on Kyle’s arm as a stream of tobacco juice hit the dirt in front of Kyle’s borrowed pickup.

  Bubba—the same Bubba I’d met Tuesday night in Maryland—called a “Hello,” and I swallowed a “Crap hell.”

  I pulled a dose of composure out of the chilly night air and strode past Kyle, putting out my hand. Bubba’s eyes widened slightly when I stepped into the light, and I started talking before he could open his mouth.

  “Thanks so much for coming to talk to me,” I said. “Nichelle Clarke, Richmond Telegraph.”

  Kyle put a hand on my elbow and then shook Bubba’s proffered one. “We’re strictly off the record here,” he said.

  Bubba gave me a once-over. “We’d better be.” He raised an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not wearing a wire?”

  I pinched my lips down on a smile. “Absolutely,” I said. “I didn’t even bring a notebook. But I sure could use some background on what’s going on out here.”

  “I understand you think moonshine had something to do with TJ Okerson’s death,” Bubba said.

  “At the risk of sounding paranoid, can I ask where you heard that?” The Post’s story whirled through my thoughts.

  “From Agent Miller, there,” Bubba said. “Who has a lot of respect at the ATF.” He held my gaze as he spoke and I fidgeted, dropping my eyes to my boots. Kyle chuckled and thanked him.

  “I don’t know for sure what to think,” I said. “But I know there was moonshine present at both scenes. And Sydney Cobb was definitely drinking it. Can you tell me where the tripleX label comes from?” My voice shook and I cleared my throat, praying Kyle would think I was just nervous. I’m a lousy liar.

  Bubba smiled. “I believe I can. That’s the Parsons family. I’ve been working a sting inside their operation for eighteen months,” he said, leaning against the hood of the truck. “I understand you’ve called half the guys in my division looking for a comment this week, but they won’t breathe a word about an investigation with an undercover officer in place.”

  So that’s why they’d been so sweet. “That’s common policy.”

  He spit again. “We’ve got three stills. Parsons has a business front at the auto body shop on Main, and there are a couple of places serving the stuff. I’m days away from a bust. And now you have dead kids? Part of the reason I came tonight was to find out what you know.”

  “Not a lot,” I said, lighting on the “places serving” part of that and worrying about Bobbi. But I had zero ways to ask about that without implicating her, on the off chance she wasn’t already on his list, so I moved on. “Moonshine was there at both parties, and like I said, Sydney was seen drinking it. Half a jar, I heard. I’ve seen two different labels on it, though. The one Sydney had was faded across the middle. A different one I saw was not.”

  “Faded how?” He looked interested.

  “Like the ink went to gray and then back to black.”

  “I’ve never noticed that, and I’ve seen about every part of their operation.”

  I put a mental star by that.

  “You said they sell it out of a body shop? Do a lot of kids come around to buy it?”

  “I wouldn’t say a lot of kids. Some, probably. I know we get more old guys than kids.”

  “Did you ever see TJ?”

  “Not off the football field.”

  Damn.

  “Does the sheriff know you’re working out here?”

  “It’s agency policy to coordinate with local law enforcement.”

  “That’s not an answer,” I said.

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  I resisted the urge to lean back against Kyle, keeping everything as professional as I could considering the waves of exhaustion crashing over me. “You know the sheriff has cousins in the moonshine trade, though?”

  “He does. So does everybody else around here, to be fair.”

  “Have you heard anyone say anything about the dead kids? Any reason someone might want them dead?”

  “Not a word.”

  “How about the moonshine? Any complaints of a bad batch lately?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Double damn. I sighed, wading through thick thoughts in search of another question. The funky label. He’d never seen a faded one, so where had it come from?

  “Do the Parsons sell unlabeled jars of tripleX to anyone?” I asked, bracing a hip against the truck’s fender to stay on my feet.

  “Not often. There are a few folks distributing across the state who prefer unlabeled jars. It’s not as traceable that way.”

  “Why label them at all?”

  “Vanity? Underground brand recognition? I have no idea.”

  So someone could be buying them unlabeled and putting the faded ones on themselves. Which meant knowing about the auto body front didn’t help me. But it’d have to be someone the moonshiners trusted, from what he said. Someone like Lily Sidell Bosley?

  “Do you know who takes the unlabeled ones?”

  “Not by name. It’s not a big group of people.”

  I nodded to myself, then smiled at Bubba. I was out of questions, which flipped my focus to getting Kyle the hell out of there before Bubba brought up our first meeting. “Thanks so much for talking to me,” I said, offering my hand again. He shook it.

  “If my name turns up in the newspaper—” he said.

  “I don’t have your name,” I cut him off. “And I would never compromise a police officer’s safety.”

  “I don’t suppose I gave it to you, at that.” He dropped my hand, holding my gaze with somber eyes. “Do yourself a favor and be careful. These guys aren’t the type you screw around with, and they don’t like the things they’ve been hearing about you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d done a little research on you, too. Like, maybe on where you live.”

  I shivered in the breeze and nodded, the unfiltered cigarette butts in the corner of my yard flashing through my thoughts. “I appreciate the heads up.” Not that I could keep the Mathews grapevine quiet.

  He got back in his truck and started the engine after Kyle thanked him and told him to leave first.

  “Thank you,” I said, turning to Kyle.

  “It didn’t exactly solve your puzzle,” he said, wrapping me in a tight hug after Bubba was out of sight. “And I’m more worried about you than I was before.”

  “There are unlabeled jars,” I said, laying my head on his chest. “The faded ink is the key to something, here. I just have to find out who gets the unlabeled ones. And then who gave it to the kids.”

  “You will.” He turned and opened the passenger door of the pickup. “You’re pretty smart.”

  The heel of my boot caught on the edge of the door when I climbed back into the truck, tossing me forward into the floorboard. Graceful as a drunkard on stilts, party of one.

  “Did you sneak some moonshine when I wasn’t looking?” Kyle slid behind the wheel and offered me a hand as I clambered up into the seat. His fingers closed on the bare skin of my arm and I froze for a second at the warmth that radiated from his fingers, thinking about dancing close to him, feeling his breath on my cheek and his hands on my back.

  I smiled as I smoothed my skirt. “Yeah, no. Once
was all the exposure to that I’ll ever need. I think I wear heels so much, other types of shoes throw me off.”

  “Too bad. The boots look good on you, Texas.”

  He turned his head to check the mirror as he started the truck and I studied his jawline, shaded auburn with stubble around his goatee. I sat on my fingers to keep from reaching out to see how it would feel under them. “The hat looks good on you, cowboy.”

  He turned back and flashed a grin. “You always have been a sucker for a Stetson and a pair of good boots.”

  “That was a long time ago.” I gripped the door handle and averted my eyes, giving in to some nice memories for a moment.

  “But it was good. And it could be again.”

  I stared out the window, thinking about how natural his arms felt around me. It really could.

  “You were amazing tonight,” I said, my eyes on his sure hands, guiding the truck around dark curves.

  “So were you. We still make a good team.”

  “I suppose we do. Thanks for believing me. And thanks for coming with me.”

  “Anytime, Lois. Your instincts are good.”

  “Thank you.” That was high praise coming from Kyle. “So, what’d you find out from Luke?”

  “He’s capable of it, I think, but the way he seems so contemptuous of TJ and the temper he seems to barely conceal, I’m not sure the lack of trauma matches.”

  “Liver failure.” I’d been mulling that since Tuesday, and had nothing to show for it. “I can’t figure it.”

  “It would track with a Vicodin overdose,” Kyle said gently.

  “Don’t go back there. My instincts are good, remember?” I said. “Besides, the coroner I talked to said the Vicodin should have caused suffocation first.” Except TJ’s liver was already damaged. But I wasn’t offering up anything that might raise his doubts.

  “I just feel like you need a voice of reason.”

  Subject change. “I talked to Luke’s mother for about twelve seconds, but speaking of crazy.” I shook my head. “I’m wondering if she might not fly to the top of the suspect list.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “She went on about how TJ had an unfair advantage and Luke was the rightful star of the baseball team, and that’s been rectified.”