by Lucy Score
Bubba refused to meet my gaze when I entered.
“Mornin’,” I croaked.
“Mornin’,” he said, busying himself by shutting down his desktop.
There was a tall stack of files on my desk. The sticky note on top said Scan. I fought the urge to shove them off my desk and make it rain decades-old police reports. At least it wasn’t a friendly “You’re Fired” note. I owed Bubba big time.
The conference room was empty this morning. He was probably off digging up Jonah Bodine’s corpse, trying to get a confession out of it.
“Mornin, all,” my dad called as he strolled through the front door. “Any trouble last night?”
Bubba glanced my way.
“Not a lick of trouble, sheriff,” he said finally.
I didn’t know how long Bootleg Springs could hold on to the juicy nugget of the sheriff’s wife and two daughters getting hauled downtown along with half of the rest of town for a brawl. But I was grateful for today at least.
Dad looked in my direction, and I looked everywhere but his face. I was okay at lying, but my defenses were down, swamped in hangover stew.
My desk phone rang, and I pounced on it, eager to put off any interaction with my father until much, much later.
“Bootleg Springs PD, Deputy Tucker speaking,” I said in my most professional tone.
“Is your father giving you any long, broody looks today?” my mom asked on the other end of the call.
I glanced his way. “Sure is, ma’am.”
She blew out a breath. “That sneaky son of a bitch has instincts. I’ll give him that. He must have asked me twenty times how last night went. You don’t think Bubba told him, do you?” She was talking about two decibels lower than usual. Which meant Nadine Tucker was traveling with me on this delightful hungover journey.
My father wandered into his office, and I slumped back in my chair.
“Bubba didn’t say anything to him. Dad’s just suspicious and as long as we don’t give him anything to verify those suspicions we’ll be fine.”
“I threw up twice this morning,” Mom groaned. “I haven’t done that in so long. At least a year.”
I snickered and stopped when it hurt my head. “I threw up once. Jonah made me this disgusting hangover cure. I kept it down for about ten seconds.”
“That was nice of him to deliver it to you next door,” Mom mused. My dad wasn’t the only one with finely tuned instincts.
“I was already there. Apparently I decided to stay at Bowie’s last night.”
“Did you now?” Mom said mildly.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said quickly before she could get any ideas in her head.
“Cassidy Ann, you do know that man is in love with you, don’t you?”
“Mom!” I hissed into the phone.
“I’m just tellin’ it like it is. The way he looks at you, all soft and sweet. Real deal, my darlin’. What are you gonna do about it?”
I rubbed a hand over my aching head. “I don’t know, Mom,” I finally admitted. “There was a time when I thought Bowie Bodine hung the stars in the sky. Then I find out all it took was one conversation with Dad to scare him off. I don’t want a man that shies away that easily. I want steady. I want a man I know is in my corner. Someone who won’t shake.”
“He was young and dumb, honey. Sometimes they do grow up.”
I thought back to that summer when I realized that my feelings for Bowie would lead to nowhere but heartache. Had I grown up? Or was I still the same scared girl?
“How’s Juney today?”
“Ugh. Your genius sister is fine. She worked out her protein and electrolyte ratios ahead of time and was up bright and early this morning.”
“If I didn’t love her so much I’d hate her just a little,” I laughed.
“Same here,” Nadine agreed. “Well, I’m going to head to the grocery store so I can make your father’s second least favorite meal tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“If I make him any of his favorites he’ll know it’s because I feel guilty. In fact, I should probably invite Gram-Gram over too just to make it very clear I have nothing to feel guilty about,” her mother mused.
My mother was a plotter, a maneuverer, a strategist. It was slightly terrifying.
“I hope you never have to use your powers against me,” I told her.
When she only laughed I felt a nervous tickle in my belly, but I was too dang hungover to pursue the topic any further.
“Well, good luck with Dad tonight. I’m going to go pretend to be a functioning adult.”
“Good luck with Bowie,” Mom said.
I hung up and opened up a report I’d been planning to finish yesterday. Being a small town, our police reports were a bit more entertaining than other departments. I’d pulled over drunk as a skunk Rhett Ginsler on his lawn mower as he cut a lopsided circle through the wildflower bed at Gin Rickey Park. He was upset over something or someone Misty Lynn had done.
Ugh. Misty Lynn. I hoped she’d be smart enough to keep her mouth shut about last night.
“Package for you, Cass,” Bex said, dumping a thick envelope on my desk.
“Bowie?” I asked.
“A teenage messenger. So most likely.”
I rolled my eyes. Only in Bootleg would a vice principal send students on personal errands and no one have a problem with it.
Bex looked at me expectantly. “Well, ain’t ya gonna open it?”
“I don’t need an audience.”
“Sheesh. Someone’s grumpy today. Also, you smell like liquor is leaking from your pores,” Bex said sweetly.
I sniffed at my uniform collar and swore. I should have taken more than a two-minute shower this morning.
Once Bex was back at her desk I ripped into the envelope.
There was a second smaller envelope inside. On the back, scrawled in Bowie’s handwriting was: A night to remember. One date and these photos will never see the light of day.
I frowned and flipped through the first few photos and snarled. Bowie Bodine was a dead man.
39
Bowie
I’d been back in my office from the morning pep rally for all of thirty seconds before I was interrupted. The woman storming through my office door under a full head of steam was not the ninth grader that started yesterday’s food fight. Cassidy leaned over my desk and tossed the envelope at me. “You are lucky I don’t shoot you on the spot,” she snapped.
“I’ll close this for y’all,” Maribel announced shrilly, her eyes wide behind her glasses. Good luck, she mouthed to me.
“Cassidy it was just a joke,” I told her.
“My job is not a joke. Do you even realize how close I am to being asked to resign?”
“Your father would never—”
“Jesus, Bowie. I’m not talking about my dad. I’m talking about Connelly. The man who banned me from any involvement in the Kendall investigation and spelled it out real clear that I’m to steer clear of you and your family, too. I’m already stuck on desk duty scanning a hundred million old case files. Pictures like that get out and he’ll boot my ass quicker than two shakes of a sheep’s tail!”
I sat up straighter. “Why are you supposed to steer clear of me?”
“Because your father is Connelly’s primary suspect. Because I’m supposed to be an objective investigator. And because he’s basically a dick.”
She was breathing heavy, eyes flashing. It took a lot to rile Cassidy and my little joke—a dozen pictures from my phone and Jonah’s from last night—had been the straw that broke her.
“Okay,” I said pushing out from behind my desk. “Let’s sit and talk this through.”
“Don’t you use that principal voice on me, Bowie Bodine!”
“Sorry. Force of habit. Sit down. Please. Coffee or water?”
She rubbed her forehead and then flopped down in the chair in front of my desk. “Both.”
I dug in my drawer and pulled out a bottle o
f aspirin and a roll of antacids. I programmed the coffeemaker and handed over my water bottle. I wanted to sit next to her, but she was carrying her service weapon and a taser, so I figured the edge of my desk was safer.
We sat in silence while the coffee sputtered into a mug.
“Connelly realizes that this isn’t some big city, doesn’t he?” I finally asked, setting the mug in front of her. “Can he honestly expect you to maintain some kind of distance from me? From us? We share a wall, for christ’s sake.”
“Preachin’ to the choir, Bow. But the man has it out for me ever since those reporters started squatting in your driveway. He thinks I can’t be impartial and after I talked to Mrs. Kendall and asked her a few questions yesterday, he lost his shit. Now all I’m allowed to do is scan files and pull over Rhett Ginsler when he’s gassed up.”
“Why didn’t you say something, Cass?”
“Why are you acting like we’re in a relationship?” she shot back at me.
“Honey, whether you want to admit it or not, we are. Now, whether that relationship is a friendship or something a hell of a lot more is up to you. You know where I stand. But either way, you can’t keep trying to do everything yourself. You can’t keep shutting me out, Cass.”
She ignored me and picked up the water. She downed the aspirin and chugged a gulp of water.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes.
“Let me help you,” I told her.
“Bowie, you hurt me,” she said, opening her eyes and staring at me. “Really hurt me. Yes, I was only nineteen and yes, you were probably a dumbass, but that doesn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. I thought we were meant to be and you telling me that you had no feelings for me devastated me.”
“I’m so sorry, Cass. I thought I was doing the right thing.”
“Now, all these years later, I come to find out that you did have feelings for me but you walked away because my father asked you to. Then he gives his blessing and you’re off to the races. It seems to me that your relationship with my father was more important to you than your feelings for me.”
I rubbed my palms on my thighs. “It’s complicated,” I told her.
“Try me. Explain it to me. Tell me how I’m supposed to trust that you aren’t going to crush me again because you get scared or you want to do the right thing. You taught me something all those years ago, Bowie. You taught me that I need to take care of myself because I can’t count on someone else to do it.”
“Your dad was more of a father to me than mine ever was,” I said, plucking the picture off of my file cabinet and handing it over. “That picture is in here because of your dad, not mine. I looked up to him. He was the kind of man I wanted to be. But I didn’t know if I could because of who my father was.”
She studied the picture carefully, running a finger around the edge of the frame.
“So when your dad asked me to back off, when it sounded to me like he was saying I wasn’t good enough for you, for your family…” I scratched the back of my head trying to find the words. “I was devastated, Cass. I wanted so badly to be good enough. To be more than just a no-good Bodine.”
“No one ever thought of any of you that way,” Cassidy argued. “Except maybe Gibs, but that’s because he’s so pissy.”
“It doesn’t matter if they did or didn’t. I thought it. Sheriff Tucker telling me to leave his little girl be took the breath right out of me. I’d gotten a degree and a good job. I came back here to make myself an upstanding member of this community in hopes that someday your dad would come to me and tell me that I was finally good enough.”
“Dammit, Bowie.” She stood up and stepped between my legs, hugging me hard.
“I broke your heart back then and I’m so very sorry, Cassidy. But you weren’t the only one who got broken.”
She gave a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”
I hugged her back and breathed her in.
This was not my finest moment. When courting a girl, it was always better to impress. Here I was confessing my vulnerabilities and fishing for pity hugs.
“You know he didn’t mean that, right?” Cassidy asked, pulling back.
I nodded. “Wish I would have known a long time ago. But do you get how much I looked up to him? He was my coach. He and your mom were there for me every time I needed it. Hell, your parents gave me and my brothers ‘the talk’ in high school.”
“They did not!” Cassidy gasped, drawing back.
I wasn’t done holding her. I pulled her back in and stroked her back. “They most certainly did. Your dad bought us all condoms and your mom lectured us on consent. You remember when my dad threw his back out that one winter and times were tight?”
She nodded against my shoulder.
“I’d outgrown my winter coat or probably shredded it doin’ something stupid. I was wearing one of my dad’s old fleeces. Your dad was waiting for me after school one day and gave me a new ski jacket and gloves.”
“The blue one,” she said, remembering.
I’d worn that jacket every winter until it fell apart.
“I owe your dad a whole hell of a lot and the only thing he ever asked of me was to leave you alone.”
She was silent for a beat. “I’m still mad,” she said finally. “At both of you. But maybe a little less mad.”
“I’m real sorry about the pictures,” I said, stroking a hand up to her neck and down her spine. “I thought it would be funny.”
“I really liked the one of me trying to kick Misty Lynn in the face,” she admitted.
“Me, too. Think you’ll be able to forgive me?” I asked.
Her sigh was long and heavy. “Probably. Just maybe not right this second. I’ve got a lot of figuring to do, Bowie. I don’t want to make another mistake. I’m all mixed up and makin’ stupid decisions left and right. It’s not just about you. My job means everything to me.”
“I know it does, honey. But look what happened when I let someone else get between us.”
She pulled back and studied me. “It’s not the same thing.”
“It is. It’s higher stakes now.”
40
Bowie
“Is this even legal?” Devlin asked as we stepped inside the darkened interior of Bootleg Distillery.
It was 11 p.m. on a Sunday night. The distillery was quiet as a church on Monday.
“Almost entirely,” I promised, turning on the lights. “Besides, it’s tradition.”
Jameson propped the back door open with a cinderblock, and Jonah waved Gibson’s pickup truck up to the building.
Gibs hopped out and, with a flourish, yanked the tarp off the bed of the truck.
“I really feel like this is illegal,” Devlin said, eyeing the six five-gallon glass carboys fitted into a custom wooden divider.
Gibson slapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. We’re not the ones distilling it. We provide the mash.”
“Great-granddaddy Jedidiah’s recipe,” Jameson said, picking up the thread of the story and lowering the tailgate.
“Ya see here, gentlemen,” I said in my best Southern drawl. “We Bodines mix up Pappy Jedididah’s corn mash recipe, deliver it under the cover of night to the distillery, and then Sonny Fullson’s uncle Remus turns it into a big ol’ batch of moonshine for Bootleggers to flavor up for the contest.”
“What contest?” Jonah asked. Jonah and Devlin were gearing up for their very first Thanksgiving in Bootleg Springs.
Gibson hopped up into the bed of the truck and hefted the first bottle. “Black Friday Moonshine Tasting Contest,” he said.
Devlin and Jonah shared a look that very clearly said “What the fuck?”.
Jameson took the carboy from Gibson and headed into the distillery.
“We don’t have a license to distill,” I explained, reaching for the next bottle. “So we deliver the mash by darkness and let the distillery make it up all legal like. Then the contestants buy it, doctor it
up, and we have ourselves a midnight tasting contest on Black Friday.”
Devlin looked relieved. “And we’re not breaking and entering, correct?”
Gibson jingled the keys cheerfully. He was always happiest just skirting the legal side of things.
“We Bodines have a reputation to uphold,” I told him solemnly. “Pappy Jedidiah would have a fit if we rolled up in broad daylight and made a legal delivery. We’re honoring our heritage.”
“And now you’re one of us,” Gibson said, shoving a five-gallon jug into Devlin’s chest.
“Ooof.” Devlin stumbled under the weight before recovering.
“Inside with the rest of ‘em,” Gibs directed.
We unloaded the jugs and lined them up in front of the still, a modern marvel compared to the copper monstrosity Great-grandad Jedidiah had used in his day.
In keeping with tradition, Remus had lined up mugs on the bar for each of us, and I was pleased to see he’d included enough for Devlin and Jonah. That was the thing about Bootleg Springs. You always knew you belonged.
Gibson ducked behind the slab of live edge cherry to play bartender.
“How was Cassidy feeling after Girls Night?” Devlin asked, accepting the crisp lager Gibson poured for him.
I grinned. “Rough around the edges. Jonah here poisoned her with some hangover cure that made her puke her guts up for ten minutes straight.”
Jonah flashed us a smile. “Happy to help.”
Gibs finished doling out beers and pulled a root beer for himself.
“Did she enjoy the pictures?” Devlin asked.
“No. No, she did not.”
“Y’all are movin’ in slow motion,” Jameson complained.
“Through no fault of my own this time,” I argued. “She’s more stubborn than Scarlett when she puts her mind to something.”
“And she’s put her mind to not datin’ you?” Gibson asked.
“I’m lucky if she’ll say dog to me. Frankly at this point, I don’t know if I should wind my ass or scratch my watch. Not only is she pissed at me, that detective is running herd on her for being tight with us.”
