by Maggie Wells
Simon sat up straight, the back of the leather chair snapping back into place with a thunk. “Isn’t that overkill?”
“Better too much caution than too little,” his grandfather admonished. “What’s the first thing you learn in law school? Either bury the facts, or bury them in facts. Depends which side you’re on.”
“I’m starting to wonder myself,” Simon muttered.
“You’re on your side,” Wendell replied stubbornly. “Now, you listen to me. I worked those backwoods my entire life. There are people there who are fine, upstanding citizens. Then there are those who should live under a fallen log.” Simon snorted, but Wendell plowed ahead, his tenor becoming more strident with each word. “You think you’re dealing with a bunch of banjo-playing hillbillies out there. You think you’re smarter than they are with your diplomas and tailored suits, but the biggest mistake you can make is thinking they can’t outmaneuver you. There are no shadows deeper than those cast in the woods, and Coulter’s kind have been creeping through them their whole lives.”
“Or slithering,” Simon countered, unable to resist putting up at least a token resistance to the truths his grandfather was doling out.
“As the case may be. Make no mistake—his type of man doesn’t flourish in sunlight.”
“How did you do this? How could you spend your whole life defending people who are up to no good?”
Wendell paused long enough for regret to pool in Simon’s gut. An apology poised on the tip of his tongue, he rested his forehead on the heel of his palm. “Granddad—”
“Believe it or not, it wasn’t always this bad,” Wendell said, a wistful note entering his tone. “Sure, I had moonshiners and the usual run-of-the-mill ruffians to deal with. The worst were actually the men who thought it was okay to knock their wives around. I didn’t have much stomach for defending them.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Of course, there were some ugly incidents between the whites and the blacks. Most of the time it came down to some white boys inciting trouble, then twisting things around until they could press charges against the people of color, so I actually got to defend a passel of those cases. Won a few of them too, though not as many as I should have. Depended on the judge and jury.”
Simon rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He’d hardly slept the previous night, and listening to his grandfather talk about all the tough choices he’d had to make over the years made him feel whiny for complaining about this one guy.
“Granddad, I’m—”
Wendell cut him off. “It’s not an easy job, Simon, but it’s a necessary one.” His voice warmed and gentled. “Focus on the good you’ll do.”
“Hard to do when I haven’t done much more than get people out of speeding tickets. And defend scumbags so I can keep the lights on,” he added.
“It’s enough for now. You’re not building your life’s work there,” Wendell reminded him.
“I could ruin yours,” Simon answered gloomily.
“Nah. Anyone can draw up a will on a computer these days. We’re mainly there to read things through and provide reassurance. You need this time to figure out what your path is going to be.” He paused, and Simon braced himself for further discussion about the stumbles he’d already made on that path, but his grandfather surprised him by reverting back to Coulter.
“I assume you did some research on this guy before you took him on?”
“Of course I did.” Simon tried to squelch the defensiveness in his tone, but wasn’t entirely successful.
“Give me a rough sketch.”
“Born in Miami. Solidly middle-class upbringing. Went to Florida State for a couple of years, but dropped out when he discovered the stock market,” Simon reported dutifully. “Made a pile of money trading online. I think he was a millionaire before he turned twenty-five.”
His grandfather let loose with a low whistle. “Impressive.”
Simon scowled. Something in him didn’t want Wendell to be impressed by the likes of Samuel Coulter. “Anyway, started running with a bunch of South Florida high rollers. Some fairly sketchy, others legit. Soon, the company he was keeping and the money he was making drew the attention of the Feds.”
“Charges?”
Simon shook his head, though he knew his grandfather couldn’t see him. “Investigations, insinuations, but nothing concrete. Coulter scaled back on his trading and turned to his other hobby.”
“The snake thing,” Wendell concluded.
“Started as a collector, but likes to refer to himself as a naturalist, or a conservationist,” Simon reported dryly.
“And the move from Florida to Georgia? That’s a hell of a change in social scenery.”
“I’m not entirely clear on the ins and outs of it all, but he claims he was feeling hemmed in by the city. I think he got sideways with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission on something and wanted to be somewhere where people might not be paying close attention.”
“If he moved to a small town for anonymity, he made a grave miscalculation,” Wendell said with a chuckle.
Simon forced a laugh himself. “No kidding.”
Tired of talking about Coulter, and hoping to avoid any rehashing of the mistakes that had landed him in Pine Bluff, he switched the subject to his attempt at making life in town more palatable.
“I’m hosting a cookout at your place, and Marlee Masters is supposed to come,” he said gruffly. “I’m going to offer to take some of the Timber Masters business back from her, since she has her plate full.”
Wendell chuckled. “That’s my boy. Generous to a fault.”
“I’ve also been trying to make nice with the folks over at the municipal building. I invited Harrison Hayes, Sheriff Kinsella and the deputies.”
“Smart move. They’re good people.”
“Hayes and Kinsella seem to be okay with me, but Deputy Cabrera hates my guts.”
“Lori?” Wendell sounded genuinely surprised. “I doubt she does.”
“She thinks I should go crawl under a log with my client.”
Wendell chuckled. “Yeah, well, she always has had a strictly defined line between right and wrong. If she thinks you’ve crossed it, she’ll make you work to get back on her good side.”
“You’re speaking from experience,” he observed.
“I got a few of her perps off the hook, so I wasn’t on her list of favorite people for a while there.”
Unable to resist, Simon asked, “How’d you get back on there? She speaks pretty highly of you now.”
“I helped her aunt once. Miss Anita’s husband died of cancer a few years after they signed a pickle of a rent-to-own agreement on a house. The whole setup was illegal, but the owner never figured on an immigrant being brave enough to call him out. I got the judge to order a settlement and rendered the property paid in full.”
“Oh, so all I have to do is pull a rabbit out of my hat,” Simon said wryly.
“She’s a tough cookie. And a smart one. Anita left her house to Lori in her will.”
“Her will?”
“Car accident. Both Anita and Lori’s father, Mateo, were killed. Been over a year, but the family is still reeling. They had a restaurant in town, but it was all too much for Sophia, Lori’s mother, to keep going. There was some life insurance money, so she closed the business and has been focused on her children.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Simon replied, ingrained manners kicking in.
“It’s been a rough couple of years for Lori. Losing Jeff Masters, then her father and aunt. The house was a nice gesture on Anita’s part, but I don’t believe Lori’s mother has taken kindly to her moving out of the family home.”
Simon’s curiosity was piqued on several levels, but he went for the easiest question first. “Why not?”
“I’m told it�
��s a cultural thing,” Wendell explained. “Young women are expected to live at home with their parents until they marry.”
“She served in the army,” Simon said with a perplexed laugh.
“Doesn’t count,” Wendell replied.
“Huh. Well, okay,” he said, giving up on that line of questioning for one he found more intriguing. “You said something about Jeff Masters?”
“Well, I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but it turns out that Lori and Jeff were...involved at the time of his death. Naturally, she was quite upset when we believed he committed suicide, but when it became apparent it was murder... Well, I think the events of the past couple of years have shaken her confidence.”
Simon couldn’t contain the short laugh that escaped him. If this was Lori feeling shaky, she must have been formidable in the days before life threw all that grief at her.
“Are you hopin’ to impress our lovely young deputy at this cookout?”
He should have seen the sneak attack coming, but he never did. He laughed, the sound bursting out of him so abruptly, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it. Recovering quickly, he took a mental step back and parried the question.
“I’m simply hoping to get off one list and onto the other.”
The evasion came so naturally to him, Simon wondered if he might have spent too much time in rooms filled with politicians. Either way, he needed to end this call and get his plea in with Dora if he wanted to have someone witness the delivery of Samuel Coulter’s mystery package.
“I’d better go, Granddad. I need to catch Dora and see what her price will be.”
“Oh, she’s an easy one. Cash money. Tell her you’ll pay her triple time, and she’ll hightail it right on over. She lives to spoil those grandbabies of hers, and the eldest has his heart set on a trip down to Disney.”
“Money it is,” Simon agreed.
“And don’t make Lori mad. The woman carries and she’s a crack shot.”
“Talk to you again soon, Granddad.”
“Okay, and be sure to cover your flank.” His grandfather’s affectionate laugh was a balm. Unfortunately, the comfort the call provided didn’t last long.
* * *
HE’D STARTED THE day by paying a small fortune to secure a witness to his taking possession of a box full of what he suspected may be contraband snakes. Once the job was done, all he wanted to do was go home and take the second shower. Unfortunately, he received an irate phone call from his client telling him the deputy Simon hadn’t been able to get out of his mind had staged a one-woman raid on his client’s property.
Simon’s nostrils flared. He tried to control the irritation bubbling inside him. One Saturday. All he wanted was one Saturday to hang out with some people and possibly lay the groundwork for friendlier relations between himself and some of his new colleagues and neighbors.
But no. He’d spent hours chasing down enough information to satisfy his client. Thankfully, Coulter wasn’t in any real trouble this time. He might get some flak for his manager’s suspect hiring practices, but the fourteen-year-old runaway they’d picked up at the Reptile Rendezvous admitted to having used a fake ID to get the job.
Her “boyfriend,” one of the half-dozen scruffy young guys Coulter had hired to work the exhibitions, claimed he had no idea Kaylin Bowers was underage. Fortunately for young Justin, he was only seventeen. The combination of his age and the evidence of Kaylin misrepresenting her age on social media had kept the boy out of any further legal trouble, but the unwelcome spotlight the girl’s recovery had shone on Coulter had likely cost the kid his job.
His client was somehow involved in yet another girl-in-peril situation, and it didn’t sit well with Simon. Neither did the discovery that Lori Cabrera had been the one who’d spotted the missing girl working at the Reptile Rendezvous. What business did she have hanging around his client’s property? She’d said she was spending the day with her sister. Had she gone there to check on the guy she said her sister’s friend was into? Or had she been fishing for something bigger to hook his client?
Simon vented his frustration by scooping the contents of pint containers of deli-prepared potato salad out with a spoon and thwacking the globs into the festively patterned melamine serving bowls his grandfather’s supposedly retired housekeeper insisted he use for cookouts with “company.”
He’d made the mistake of asking Miss Delia where she stashed his grandfather’s grilling supplies. She’d shown up at his door an hour earlier and marched through the kitchen pulling plates, platters, bowls and utensils from cabinets and drawers, all the while spewing a stream of instructions Simon hadn’t had a chance in hell of remembering.
She’d smirked when she saw he’d bought both mustard and mayonnaise varieties of potato salad, but said nothing. He’d bought both because he had no idea what people around here preferred, but Simon had no doubt whatsoever there’d be strong opinions on the matter. There seemed to be strong opinions on about everything in Pine Bluff, large and small. Delia had offered no clues. She’d simply laid everything out on the kitchen counter, told him she and her husband would be back in time for kickoff, then left with a pat on the cheek.
Now he stood seething in the kitchen, half-afraid he might cross-examine Lourdes Cabrera about her motives if she dared to show up. He was trying to make the best of his time here in Purgatory Bluff, damn it. The woman seemed determined to take his client down, and here he was, torn between forcing her to take a step back and wanting to make a move on her. He needed to get a grip.
The doorbell rang and he checked his watch. It was only five o’clock. His first guest was thirty minutes early, and he hadn’t even had time to change. Hurrying to the front door, he wiped his sticky hands on his gym shorts and hoped whoever it was had come prepared to help.
When he sneaked a peek through the sidelight window, he drew up short. Lori stood on his porch wearing oven mitts and carrying a large cast-iron pot.
She must have caught him peeking, because she called through the closed door. “Hurry. This thing weighs a ton.”
He pulled open the door. The percolating bubbles of anger had carried him through the afternoon, but fizzled out the second he saw her. Her thick coffee-colored hair was caught up in a big messy bun on top of her head. Tendrils escaped at her temples. He itched to touch one, but curled his fingers into his palm to keep from acting on the impulse. Staring into her wide brown eyes, he could barely contain his pleasure at seeing her. “You made it.”
“Hi. Yes. I’m early, but I brought baked beans, and I wanted the chance to talk to you alone.”
He swung the door open wide and gestured for her to enter. “I’m not quite set up yet, but come on in.”
He caught the scent of a light floral perfume as she passed him. She wore olive green cargo shorts. They probably wouldn’t have been as sexy on anybody else but appeared to have been made with Lori in mind. Her lush curves stretched the fabric taut, but not too tight. A formfitting gray T-shirt with a deep V-neck and the University of Georgia’s trademark G completed the look.
Afraid he’d been caught ogling the lucky consonant, he waved a hand toward the back of the house. “Come on back to the kitchen.” Extending his hands, he nodded to the heavy-looking pot she held. “Here. Let me take that.”
She pulled the pot closer to her. “I better hang on to it. It’s hot from the oven.”
He led the way to the kitchen. She marched directly to Delia’s six-burner stove and plunked the cast-iron pot down on the grate. “Beautiful kitchen,” she said, her face aglow with admiration.
“It was a bribe.”
She glanced at him in surprise. “A bribe?”
Simon simply shrugged. “Miss Delia wanted to retire about a year after my grandma passed, but Wendell wasn’t quite ready to take on the bachelor life. She said she couldn’t go on working in such an outdated kitche
n, so he had this built for her.”
Lori turned in a slow, appraising circle. “It’s gorgeous. I love the way it opens out onto the patio.”
“I think Delia only sticks around because her kitchen at home isn’t up to snuff now.”
“Does she cook for you?”
He shook his head. “No. Once Wendell left, she abdicated. She comes by every now and again to make sure I’m putting the forks in the right slot.” Simon watched with keen interest when Lori bent to adjust the gas flame to burn low and steady underneath the pot.
“Wow.” She ran a hand over one of the heavy grates. “My mother would kill to have this stove.”
Simon felt a pang of sadness when he recalled Wendell’s story about the family restaurant, but didn’t want to let on they’d been talking about her, so he stuck to the facts. “Miss Delia has good taste in almost everything.”
Lori stepped away from the range and slid the other oven mitt from her hand. She placed the cartoon twosome on the counter and stepped back to have a better look around. “Almost everything?”
“Well, we’ve always found her loyalty to my grandfather suspect.”
Lori laughed, and the sound punched him right in the gut. He braced himself for impact, but realized there was no way on earth a man could be prepared for her unguarded smile. His wits scattered, he switched straight into babble mode. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I wasn’t sure if I would,” she replied with her usual candor. Crossing her arms over the G emblem, she leaned back against the counter and studied him through narrowed eyes. “I assume you spoke to your client today,” she said, her demeanor a shade shy of confrontational.
“I have several clients, but if you are referring to Mr. Coulter, yes, I have,” he retorted.
