Beverly Barton Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  John chuckled. “I guess it’s lucky I’m married to a plump, understanding wife who loves me just the way I am. Otherwise, I wouldn’t get to indulge in my favorite pastries so often.”

  When Ron joined John in the outer office, John poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him, then helped himself to an almond and sugar glazed confection.

  “What do you think of Captain Norton?” John asked.

  Ron shrugged.

  “I know you were expecting Bernie to—”

  “I wasn’t expecting anything,” Ron said. “I’d hoped she would think I deserved the job. Or if not me, then you.”

  “Nah, not me. I didn’t expect it.”

  “But you wouldn’t have turned it down.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have, but . . . well, I guess, in a way, it’s my fault you didn’t get the promotion.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Ah, Ron, come on. You know the answer to that as well as I do. Hell, everybody knows Bernie didn’t want to choose between the two of us, and that’s why she brought in a ‘hired gun’ from Memphis. Norton made a name for himself with those murders back last year when some nut job killed that Vanderley woman and that high-priced lawyer Quinn Cortez was involved.”

  “Okay, sure, I figure Bernie made it easy on herself by looking outside, and I can see why she picked a guy like Norton. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’d take this job. Who’d trade being a Memphis police detective for being a chief deputy in Adams County?”

  “I guess we could just ask him.”

  Ron guffawed. “Yeah, you do that, John.”

  “Nah, not me. I thought you could ask.” John grinned at Ron, then took a huge bite out of the bear claw.

  He parked on the side of the paved county road, a road he knew well. At this time of day, the odds of any traffic coming along to interrupt him were low. But just in case, he removed the jack and the tire iron and placed them by the back wheel. Then he scanned the road and the area on both sides, soybean fields that had once been cotton fields as far as the eye could see. He pulled the plastic tarp from the back of his vehicle, lifted it gently in his arms, and headed down the old dirt road that led out into the fields. When he reached midway, far enough off the main road not to be seen, yet close enough for his delivery to be easily discovered tomorrow or the next day or next week, he rolled the contents out of the tarp and into the middle of the rut-scarred lane. She spread out on the ground in a most unladylike manner, her lifeless body pale, her dark eyes wide open and staring up at him. After tossing the tarp aside, he knelt down and arranged Stephanie’s body so that one hand covered her pussy and the other arm rested across her breasts.

  There, she was decently covered and yet the beauty of her luscious body was not hidden. He lifted her long dark hair and spread it out across both shoulders, the feel of it like silk against his fingers.

  “You wanted to be free, didn’t you, my beauty? You told me so yourself.”

  He rose to his feet, then took one final look at his old lover. The only thing that marred her sultry, dark beauty was the slash across her throat, highlighted by dried blood against her flesh.

  You’re free now. And so am I. Free to love again.

  He wished his relationship with Stephanie had worked out, for his sake and hers. He had thought surely she was the one, that he could love her as much as she loved him. But in the end, he had realized that he had no choice but to end things and continue his search. Out there somewhere was the one and only woman for him, someone who would erase all the painful memories, someone who wouldn’t disappoint him, someone worthy of his love.

  Picking up the tarp and folding it into a twenty-by-twenty-inch square, he headed back to his parked vehicle. Off in the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder. Glancing at the horizon to the west, he noted the dark sky and figured it was raining over in Scottsboro. Back on the paved road, he scanned the four directions hurriedly; seeing and hearing no sign of anyone approaching, he opened the back of his vehicle, tossed the tarp inside, then retrieved the jack and tire iron. After putting everything back in order, he opened the passenger door, slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

  He reached out and fingered the note lying on the passenger seat. A love note for his new love. Sighing, he closed his eyes and pictured her. Young and beautiful. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Maybe she was the one. Maybe this time he wouldn’t be disappointed. Maybe this time she wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Ah, my beautiful, sweet Thomasina.”

  He loved the pursuit, those heady days of getting to know each other, those romantic moments when anything and everything was possible. He would leave the note for her today. And then he would wait. But not for long. He was eager to begin their love affair.

  Sheriff Granger stayed in step with Jim as they headed up Main Street, away from the courthouse and toward the restaurant in the heart of downtown Adams Landing. Her long-legged stride easily matched his pace, an advantage of her being a tall woman.

  “I did warn you that Jerry Dale was a huge Jimmy Norton fan,” she said. “So be prepared. He’ll probably gush all over you.”

  Jim groaned inwardly, but managed not to cringe. It wasn’t that he had any hang-ups about his glorious past as a star running back for UT, but God almighty, that had ended nearly twenty years ago.

  “I suppose you run into fans all the time, huh?” she asked.

  “Occasionally,” he replied. “But when it comes to people I have to work with, I don’t want them to think of me as Jimmy Norton. To be honest with you, Sheriff Granger, I prefer people get to know the man I am now, just plain old Jim Norton.”

  She looked at him, a peculiar expression in her brown eyes. “I was a fan, too. My dad and I. Of course, my dad is a big Alabama fan, and the truth is, he really doesn’t like UT, but he used to watch every game back when you and Griffin Powell played. Heck, I guess just about every college football fan in the South did.”

  “You watched college football with your dad? How old were you—ten?”

  “Actually, I was twelve your freshman year and turned fifteen your senior year.” And I fell madly in love with you when I was fourteen and spent the rest of my teen years comparing every guy I met to the great Jimmy Norton, a man I’d seen only on TV, in newspapers and in magazines. Looking back, she supposed one of the reasons she’d started dating Ryan Fowler in high school was because he’d been the team’s number one running back, and in her fantasies, Bernie had put him on a level with her idol. Her big mistake hadn’t been dating Ryan; it had been falling in love with him and marrying him.

  “You’re what now—?” He mentally counted the years. “Thirty-two?”

  She nodded.

  “Was it unmannerly for me to ask your age?” he asked.

  “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

  He liked her attitude. “You’re young to be sheriff.”

  “The youngest Adams County sheriff ever,” she told him. “And the first female. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father and grandfather both held the office before me.”

  “A family tradition, huh?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Tell me, Sheriff Granger—”

  “Bernie.”

  “Huh?”

  “Call me Bernie,” she said. “Everyone does.”

  “Okay. Bernie.” Somehow the name suited her. She didn’t look like a Bernadette. That name belonged to some petite bit of fluff, not a substantial woman who looked like she could take care of herself in just about any situation. She was no helpless, clinging female. No I-need-a-big-strong-man female. He’d bet when she was a kid, she could beat the living daylights out of all the little boys and had probably put the fear of God into more than one. And he’d lay odds that in a fair fight, she’d hold her own even now.

  “I prefer to be called Jim,” he said. “Not Jimmy. And James was my dad.”

  “Jim it is.” She paused. “We’re here. This is Methel’s.”
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br />   He stopped at her side and inspected the building. His guess was the two-story structure dated back to the late eighteen hundreds and the outside facade hadn’t been updated in a good thirty or forty years.

  “Local lawyers and courthouse personnel, along with city policemen and our department, keep Methel’s in business,” Bernie told him. “There’s always a huge lunch crowd during the week. If you like down-home cooking, you’ll love the food here.”

  He reached around her, grasped the door handle and opened the door. She jerked back, glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, then walked into the restaurant. Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to men opening doors for her. She had seemed taken slightly off guard by his gentlemanly action.

  “We just find the first available table,” Bernie said. “There is no hostess.” She surveyed the room, which had the look of an old diner, with one row of booths against the left side wall, a counter with six bar stools along the right wall and a dozen small tables situated in between. The waitresses wore jeans, white shirts and tennis shoes, and from the best he could tell, they ranged in age from eighteen to sixty.

  Just making conversation, Jim said, “Something sure smells good.”

  “It’s the Friday special. Beef roast.” Bernie lifted her hand and waved. “There they are, in the very back booth. Come on. If we don’t put in our order before one, we won’t get any peach cobbler. It goes fast.”

  Jim followed her. In his peripheral vision he caught the inquisitive stares of the other patrons. He figured everybody knew who he was and they were wondering how he would measure up. When they approached the back booth, two men slid off the red vinyl seats and stood. He recognized Ron Hensley, and by process of elimination assumed the other man was the DA, Jerry Dale Simms. Auburn-haired and freckled, Simms grinned and held out his hand. He was taller than Hensley, about six-one, broad shouldered, hefty, with a wrestler’s bulky build.

  After Bernie made introductions, Jerry Dale grabbed Jim’s hand and pumped it as he grinned and talked and slapped Jim on the back. Jim usually hated it when people fawned over him—over who he used to be—but he got nothing but good vibes from Jerry Dale and decided then and there that he liked the friendly good old boy.

  “Sit down. Sit down,” Jerry Dale said as he slid back into the booth. “We’ve done ordered peach cobbler for four. Didn’t want to wait and risk not getting any.”

  Ron slid in beside Jerry Dale as Bernie sat and scooted in across from the two men. By the time Jim sat down beside Bernie, their blond, mid-twenties waitress appeared, a cheerful smile on her face, and handed each the one-page, vinyllaminated menu. Jim had barely glanced at the items listed before the waitress asked, “What’ll it be, folks?”

  “Today’s special,” Jerry Dale replied.

  “Same for me,” Ron said.

  “Make that three,” Bernie told her.

  Jim glanced up at the waitress, caught a glimpse of her name tag—Renee—and said, “I’ll go along with everyone else.”

  “Four specials. And four peach cobblers. Everybody want sweet tea?” Renee looked right at Jim. He nodded. “You the new chief deputy?”

  “Yeah,” Jim said. “I’m Jim Norton.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Renee Michaels.” She glanced over at Ron and grinned, then turned and sashayed off toward the kitchen, swaying her cute little tush.

  Jim wondered what the momentary exchange between Renee and Ron was about, but he pretended not to have noticed. He could tell by the expression on the lieutenant’s face that the waitress had struck a nerve. His guess would be that at some time in the not-too-distant past the two had been lovers.

  “Have you gotten moved in and settled into your new place?” Jerry Dale asked.

  “Pretty much,” Jim said. “Not a lot to do in a furnished rental.”

  “I guess not. Later on you might want to buy a house. If you do, just let me know. My Amy is a realtor and she’ll be up to date on all the best bargains.”

  “Thanks, but I figure I’ll be renting for a good while. I don’t really need much more than a roof over my head.”

  “No wife? No kids?” Ron Hensley asked, and Jim wondered if the guy really didn’t know any of the personal details of his life.

  “An ex-wife who lives in Huntsville with my son. Kevin’s twelve, and to be perfectly honest, he’s the reason I’m here in Adams Landing. He’s why I took this job.”

  “And a good reason it is, too,” Jerry Dale said. “I’d move to the moon if Amy ever left me and took our kids up there. How long you been divorced? Did she up and remarry and take your kid away?”

  Jim shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to be rude, but at the same time preferring not to go too deeply into personal matters with people he’d just met.

  “So how are J.D. and Anna Leigh?” Bernie Granger asked Jerry Dale. “I hear Anna Leigh made the junior high cheerleader squad. I’ll bet she’s one happy little girl.”

  “Lord, yes.” Jerry Dale went off on a proud papa tangent, giving blow-by-blow details of how his thirteen-year-old daughter beat out six rivals to win a spot on the squad.

  Jim figured Bernie had sensed his discomfort at discussing his ex-wife and son and had diplomatically steered the conversation away from the topic. He’d been in town less than twenty-four hours and he already owed his new boss. Gut instinct told him he was going to get along just fine with the sheriff, that in time they would probably become friends. And that would certainly be a first for him. He’d never been good friends with a woman unless he was screwing her. But there was always a first time for everything.

  After lunch with fellow teacher and friend Shannon Tolliver, Thomasina Hardy returned to her classroom at the Adams County Junior College. She’d been teaching here since her graduation from Auburn University five years ago, having taken the job so she could move back home to Verona, a rural community about twenty-five minutes from downtown Adams Landing. She’d never had dreams of living in a big city, away from her family and childhood friends. Some people couldn’t understand why, at twenty-seven, she enjoyed living at home with her widowed mother and younger brother, with her two older siblings’ homes within earshot of the home place. The Hardy clan was close-knit—mother, four siblings, two in-laws, and three grandchildren. Thomasina hoped that someday she would marry a fine man and bring her own children into the clan. But for now, she liked her life just as it was.

  But she didn’t love her life and hadn’t ever since she and Ron Hensley had broken up about six months ago. She’d gotten a little more involved in their relationship than he had and when she’d made the mistake of becoming possessive, he’d backed off so quickly it had made her head spin. Her heart had been broken and she’d gone into a mild depression for about two months; then she had looked around and realized there were a lot of other men out there—better men than Ron. One man in particular had caught her eye—Brandon Kelley, the art director here at the junior college. He wasn’t an Adams County native, wasn’t even an Alabama native, and had come to work at the junior college only last year. She didn’t know a great deal about him, only the basic facts. He was thirty-eight, divorced, no children, and had come to Alabama from North Carolina.

  Once he started teaching at the junior college, enrollment in art classes doubled, and seventy-five percent of his students were female. But who could blame the students for drooling over the guy. He was simply to die for. Chocolate brown eyes, curly brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples and worn just a tad too long. He was handsome in a Greek god sort of way. Thomasina had to admit that she was as infatuated with Dr. Kelley as any of his young students.

  After sitting down at her desk, Thomasina pulled out the right-side bottom drawer and placed her handbag inside, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had less than fifteen minutes to relax before the start of her first afternoon class and she had found that a quick, ten-minute power nap usually refreshed her and gave her the energy boost she needed to keep her going until the end
of the day. But today, for some reason, she couldn’t seem to drift off into that semi-asleep state. Her mind kept whirling with thoughts—thoughts about Dr. Brandon Kelley. Her older sister, Amanda, had told her to ask the guy for a date, and she’d been trying to build up her courage to do just that. After all, what was the worst that could happen? He’d say no. And if he did? No big deal. She’d at least know where she stood with him and could move on to someone who was actually interested in her.

  Thomasina opened her eyes, grumbled to herself and gave up on getting her daily afternoon power nap. As her gaze traveled over her desktop, she noticed a square white envelope lying in the middle of a textbook she’d put there before leaving for lunch. She stared at the envelope for half a minute, then picked it up and turned it over to the front. Her name—Thomasina—had been printed in bold letters in black ink. Her heart did a nervous rat-a-tat-tat.

  The envelope had not been sealed, but the flap had been tucked neatly beneath the V-shaped back opening. She slid the flap up, and with forefinger and thumb eased the one-page note out of the envelope.

  Thomasina took a deep breath, then unfolded the paper, which had been pressed in half, and read the brief message.

  I worship you from afar, my beautiful Thomasina.

  With her heart fluttering and her pulse racing, she gasped. It was a love letter, of sorts. A succinct message from an admirer. But who? One of her students? Possibly. After all, she was rather attractive and had dealt with male students making passes at her on several occasions.

  She read the note again; the words were written in bold print and with black ink. But what student could have written something so utterly romantic? None she knew of. It was something a man would have written, not a boy. A worldly man, with the heart of a poet. Or an artist?

  What if Brandon Kelley had written it? What if this was his way of wooing her?