“You can use profanity in front of me, Sheryl. I’m a grown woman now.”
“No, I meant the reporter part.”
Allie burst out laughing. “God, I love you.”
Sheryl squirmed in her seat. “Don’t start that shit. Anyway, most of them were there because they’ve heard his son’s lies.”
Allie nodded. “I heard him talking to the press—”
Sheryl twisted in her seat. “That little bastard!”
“Freedom of speech, Sheryl.”
“Screw freedom of speech.” Sheryl crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the front windshield. “How about slander? How about outright lies?” She turned back to Allie. “You’re not dumb enough to believe what he’s saying, are you?”
Allie looked over and raised her eyebrows.
“What?”
“I take exception to the dumb part.”
Sheryl slid down in her seat. “Sorry, this really pisses me off.” She shifted uncomfortably. “So, do you? Believe what that asshole’s saying?”
“I don’t know what I believe. I don’t know all the facts.”
“She shot herself in the head. They ruled it a suicide. End of story.”
Allie cut her gaze over at her, and Sheryl rubbed a hand across her mouth. “The autopsy showed no signs of a struggle, no drugs in her system. What else could it be? Do you think he walked in and said, ‘Excuse me, Mrs. Sheriff, but would you stand still while I plug you in the head? Oh, and you’ll need to hold the gun.’ I mean, if she’d been attacked, she would have fought. Right?”
“One would think so,” Allie said mildly.
Sheryl was agitated. She kept pulling the seatbelt loose and then letting it snap back across her chest. That had to hurt. “Well, there was no sign of a struggle, so she wasn’t attacked. I think the sheriff is innocent, and so do the other guys. He didn’t do it. Period.” When Allie didn’t speak, Sheryl said, “Does he strike you as a killer?”
Allie considered that. The sheriff was many things. He was often brusque, at least in Allie’s experience. She’d seen how downright frightening he could be when he thought someone was out to harm him. Then, she thought about her aunt. Lou had loved the man for years. Could she have been that wrong about his character, that blinded by love? “No, he doesn’t. But―”
“No buts,” Sheryl said, blowing out a breath. She relaxed back in her seat. “Then, I take back the dumb part for real.”
“I’m so grateful,” Allie said with a wry smile.
They wound through the back streets of Cocoa for a few minutes in silence. The roads still steamed from the overdue rain, and puddles stretched halfway across the road, Florida drainage being what it was. Then, Sheryl said, “Take a right at the next light.”
“A right? We came in from the other direction.”
“I thought we’d go back the other causeway. See what’s happening in Cocoa Beach. Maybe grab a drink on the way home.”
“That’s probably the best idea you’ve had all day,” Allie said as she flipped on her turn signal.
***
Allie headed to Lester’s automatically. It had been their regular hangout since Allie returned from Belgium after her divorce. Sheryl originally chose it because no other cops frequented it. It was one place where she and Allie could talk without interruption. At least that was the premise. The reality was that everyone found them there. Joe Odum had stormed in one night in uniform and all but dragged Allie out of the place. He had called Sheryl a disgusting drunk, not quietly either, and left her sitting there as he escorted Allie home. Her sometimes boyfriend Marc had found her there more than once. The place had a lot of history with them, which was probably why they hadn’t been back in months.
Sheryl said nothing when Allie pulled into the parking lot, but Allie saw her stiffen. “Would you rather go somewhere else?”
“No, here’s fine,” Sheryl said, but Allie could see her gird herself before she opened the passenger door and climbed out.
The bar itself had no history and even less charm. In a strip mall off the 520 causeway, Lester’s was sandwiched between Flip-A-Coin Laundromat and Wong’s Chinese Takeout. It was one long, narrow room. A pockmarked wooden bar stretched the length of the right wall with booths along the other side. In the center, a half-dozen Formica-topped tables and chairs, too beaten up to have any residual charm, stood in a row. About midway down behind the bar, a door led into the kitchen, and at the back was an eight-by-eight clearing that served as a dance floor.
The lighting was inadequate, the noise, deafening. It was Friday night, and the place was hopping. Most regulars clustered at the near end of the bar, eyes glued to wall-mounted TV turned to top volume. Everyone else seemed to be either holding conversations in their outside voices or stumbling around on the dance floor to country music blaring from the jukebox. The place smelled like every bar Allie had ever been in, of beer-soaked wood and wet bar rags.
Heads turned as Allie and Sheryl made their way down to the far end of the bar, but Sheryl always managed to turn heads when she entered a room. Tonight, she was dressed in form-fitted slacks and shirt with a loose jacket thrown over them. Allie knew the jacket hid her radio—she had heard it hissing and crackling all the way over—and, probably, her gun. She didn’t want to think about that.
She was glad to see a different bartender serving drinks. The regular bartender had witnessed the scene Joe made when he came to save Allie from herself and Sheryl. Her face still burned when she thought about it.
They ordered their usual Bloody Marys and hot wings. They were getting quite a few curious looks from down the bar, but no one made a move to approach them. The looks weren’t surprising—two women alone in a bar on Friday night. Allie saw their reflections in the wall-length mirror behind the bar. Physically, she and Sheryl were polar opposites. Sheryl was as dark as Allie was light, with dark curly hair to Allie’s straight blonde. Sheryl looked almost Italian, or maybe Greek—olive skin, high cheekbones, full lips, and lush curves. Allie was pale and too thin even now. She was shorter than Sheryl was—five six to Sheryl’s five ten. There was no way around it. She was a washed-out second to her gorgeous friend.
It wasn’t until the drinks were in front of them that Sheryl seemed to emerge from her trance. Allie didn’t have to wonder what she’d been thinking. Knowing anger would be healthier than grief, she went back to talking about the sheriff’s son. “So, you don’t think Rand Arbutten’s accusations will cause the sheriff any problems?”
Sheryl blinked a few times. She glanced sideways at Allie. “He’s full of shit.” She picked up her drink and gulped down half of it. “Sheriff will blow him out of the water.”
Allie had to hope she was speaking metaphorically. “What do you know about them?”
“The sheriff and his son?”
Allie nodded. “About their relationship.”
“Not much,” Sheryl said with a shrug. “Just gossip.”
Allie waited. Sheryl picked up her drink and finished it, holding up a finger for another. “Scuttlebutt is the kid was a hellion. Started to get into trouble while he was in grade school. Petty stuff. Skipping school. Shoplifting once, I think I heard. Maybe some bigger shit later on. The mother tried to cover it up, but Sheriff got wind of it. Slapped his ass into military school.”
“Is there a military school around here?”
Sheryl’s brow wrinkled. “Beats me, but he sent him to South Carolina. To get him away from Mama, probably.” She took a drink. “Heard he ran away a few times. Made it all the way to Florida the first time before they caught him. Second time, the sheriff had the cops in Camden pick him up and hold him until he got there.” She grimaced. “I wouldn’t have wanted to be in that kid’s shoes.”
Allie remembered the kid in question was now in his thirties. Had he held a grudge all this time? A thought struck her. “How did he get along with his mother?”
Sheryl looked over in surprise. “What do you mean?”
; Allie pushed at the salt on the rim of her drink with her celery. “I don’t know. I just wondered if there were any rumors floating around about how they got along.”
“There were a few back whenever,” Sheryl said after a moment. “Seems she thought the sun rose and set for him. A few guys said she smothered him. Hard to do, though, when he was away at school.”
“There were summers.”
Sheryl nodded. “And she used to visit him all the time.”
“You mean when he was at school?”
“And in college and when he moved to Orlando to work. Rumor was—” She broke off and looked at Allie. “God, I hate gossip.”
“Liar.”
Sheryl grinned. “True. Anyway, rumor was she insisted he come home. Here. To live. She didn’t want him living all the way over in Orlando. It’s what, a whole fifty miles away? I hear he told her no.”
Allie chewed her lip. “So, all wasn’t roses between them.”
“Not all roses.” She looked over at Allie, and her eyes widened. “Why are you so determined that it wasn’t a suicide. First you’re ready to hang it on the sheriff—”
“I was not ready—”
“And now, it’s the son. Not that I’d mind seeing him accused of murder, but still…”
Her voice trailed off, and Allie wondered if Sheryl was thinking what she was thinking. Had Rand Arbutten hated his mother enough to kill her? Was that why he was so quick to accuse the sheriff? And what about Cord? Would he twist the facts to protect his son? Allie remembered the way Cord had stared at Rand during the viewing. What she’d seen in Cord’s face was longing, almost embarrassing in its nakedness. Then, she remembered Sidney glaring at Rand Arbutten when he was talking to the reporters. Now, that was someone she would automatically suspect of murder, and it fit, in a way. If the sheriff killed his wife, and Sidney knew, Sidney would hate the son for drawing attention to it. Or if—
A sudden pain behind her eyes brought her back to sanity. What in God’s name was she doing? The death had been ruled a suicide. Why was she trying to turn it into a murder? Had her experiences this past spring so warped her way of looking at life that she couldn’t accept the truth? “It was a suicide,” she said aloud.
Sheryl nodded. “Of course, it was.”
The music stopped, leaving a hollow echo in the room. A low rumble of conversation could be heard from the booths against the wall. People on the dance floor began shuffling toward their tables, only to turn around when the music started up again.
“So, what does he do?”
“Who?”
“Rand Arbutten. God, you lose the train of conversation quickly.”
“We were talking about the sheriff.” Then, “Son’s an attorney.”
When Allie groaned, Sheryl glanced over and grinned. “They’re not all like your mother.”
“I was thinking of my brother.”
“Your brother is hot.”
“My brother is an asshole.”
“Allison Grainger,” Sheryl said, her grin broadening. “Such language.” She cuffed Allie on the shoulder. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” Then, her smile faded. “He’s really stirring things up. The sheriff’s son claims his father had some bimbo.”
Allie winced. Sheryl raised her eyebrows. “What?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
After a minute, she did. “We all know it’s bullshit. We’d have known if the sheriff had someone on the side. This is a small town. It’s not like we’re in Atlanta.” She cut her eyes to Allie. “Or Brussels.”
“Don’t remind me.”
It had taken Allie a while to tell Sheryl the truth about her marriage and divorce, but Sheryl had gradually worn her down. Allie still burned with humiliation when she thought about what a fool she’d been. Their first four years of marriage weren’t idyllic, but Allie―young and naïve—believed it was her fault.
Then, they were sent to Brussels, and two years into their time there, she’d caught him in the most compromising of positions with his assistant—George. Tessa Gaudio, her supposed best friend in Brussels, let slip that Garrison was a repeat offender, screwing everything that came within range. Women. Men. Probably consenting animals. So, Allie started carrying around the little digital camera Garrison had given her for Christmas and showing up at his office unexpectedly. It didn’t take long. One quick snapshot, and she was home free, as in divorced―her choice, and she’d wanted it badly enough that she’d asked Garrison for nothing, except the plane fare home.
“Only her fingerprints on the weapon. Know what he told the reporters?”
Allie blinked. “Who?”
“And you say I lose the train of conversation. Ha! The son.” She shifted on her stool. “He said no one would know how to stage a suicide better than a cop.”
They both thought about that for a minute.
The regular bartender stepped out carrying a platter of chicken wings. He looked more like a bouncer than a bartender—more brawn than brain, Allie suspected—dressed in a muscle T-shirt and jeans that barely contained his eighteen-inch thighs. He stopped short when he saw Sheryl and Allie. Then, he moved toward them.
“Ladies,” he said, depositing the platter on the bar in front of them with a smirk. “Long time no see. Your keeper turn you loose for the night?”
Sheryl regarded him through narrowed eyes.
“It’s been a while,” Allie said mildly. She knew Sheryl was wound tight. It wouldn’t take much to set her off.
“Wait,” he said, making a show of looking down the bar. “Is that your little watchdog I see down there?”
Before Allie could blink, Sheryl had grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him halfway over the bar. “Watch your fucking mouth,” she growled.
The bartender made some move with his hand, and Sheryl released him. He took a step back. “Jesus, lady! What’s the matter with you? I was just kidding.” He shrugged his shirt on straight. “You better watch yourself, or I’ll call the cops.”
Sheryl thrust her hand into her jacket pocket and yanked out her badge, slapping it down on the bar. “I am the cops.”
Allie wasn’t sure what would happen next, and she wasn’t the only one. Many curious looks were aimed in their direction. The other bartender started down their way but stopped at a signal from his partner.
He and Sheryl glared at each other for a long minute. Then, Sheryl said between her teeth, “That watchdog was a cop and a friend of mine, asshole, and he’s dead.”
The bartender’s eyes widened. “Hey, geez, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Sheryl picked up her badge and shoved it back in her pocket. She looked away. “I gotta pee,” she told Allie. She gestured at the chicken wings. “Get them to wrap those. We’re not staying.” She slid off her barstool and headed for the ladies’ room.
The bartender stood there, looking stunned, as if he had no idea what had just happened. Allie took pity on him. She held out her hand. “I’m Allie Grainger. I’m sorry. Sheryl is still—” She searched for the word. “Sensitive about it.”
He hesitated and then shook her hand. “Del Delaney,” he said. “Hey, I really am sorry. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” He picked the platter of chicken wings off the bar. “I’ll put these in a box for you.”
Before he could move, Sheryl returned, her eyes red. She looked at neither of them as she reached into her slacks and pulled out a twenty. “I’ll be in the car,” she said, dropping it on the bar.
“Sheryl?” Allie said. Sheryl stopped and turned around, and the pain in her face almost knocked Allie off her stool. Allie held out the car keys. Sheryl took them without a word and walked away.
Del looked at Allie, his face bleak. I’ll—” He motioned at the platter.
Allie nodded. She had just put another twenty on top of Sheryl’s when he came back carrying a Styrofoam box.
“Tell her, will you?” he said, looking toward the door. “I’m real sorry.”
Allie nodded again. S
he took the box and slid off the stool. She started out, but then she turned back. Quickly, before she could question the wisdom of that she was doing, she said, “She was in love with him.”
Chapter 5
A pounding at the front door yanked Allie out of a deep sleep. She blinked her eyes open and squinted at the clock on the bedside table. Six-thirty. She shook her head. Wasn’t this Saturday? Could the idiot land developers be trying to make her life so miserable that she’d sell out in self-defense? The pounding started again. “Open up in there. Police!”
Allie groaned. She stumbled into the living room and flipped off the deadbolt, opening the door. “Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.” Without a backward glance, she headed into the kitchen to start the coffee.
Sheryl was a step behind her. Allie pulled out the coffee pot to empty last night’s dregs, but Sheryl grabbed it. “You’re not going to waste that?” She snagged a mug off the counter and filled it with cold coffee. She drank half of it in a gulp.
Allie pushed her hair out of her face and grabbed the pot from her. “That’s disgusting.”
Sheryl looked at her over the top of the mug. “No,” she said, tossing a newspaper on the counter. “This is disgusting.” WAS IT SUICIDE—OR MURDER? screamed the boldface, two-inch headline.
“Oh, God,” Allie groaned. She fixed the coffee pot and pushed the start button. Then she took the newspaper to the dining room table and sank down in a chair.
“On Tuesday of this week, the body of Jean Arbutten was discovered at her home by her husband, Brevard County Sheriff Cord Arbutten. The victim had been shot in the head at close range. The death has been ruled a suicide, but sources close to the victim continue to insist that the woman never would have taken her own life. One source, who declined to be identified, said that Mrs. Arbutten ‘wasn’t depressed. She was terrified.’ ”
Allie skimmed the rest; the last line read, “The sheriff wasn’t available for comment.”
There was more, but the coffee was done. Allie had her priorities. She glanced back at the byline and threw down the paper. “Guess who his source was?” she said, heading into the kitchen to take the cup of coffee Sheryl was holding out to her.
LIVE Ammo (Sunshine State Mystery Series Book 2) Page 4