by Lyla Payne
Once he’s gone, I bend down to pick up my purse, ready to get the hell out of here.
“You okay?” Detective Travis peers at me with an unreadable expression. It might be discomfort at having to speak to me, or anyone, or it could be general distaste. Hard to say.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
Most people are good enough at picking up social cues to understand when a person doesn’t want to speak to them, but not Travis. Nope.
“Where’s your cousin?”
“Amelia?”
“Do you have another cousin living in Heron Creek?”
“I don’t have another cousin at all,” I snap, unnecessarily annoyed by his prying. This is life in a small town, and apparently it’s not taking Travis very long to become accustomed to the time-honored tradition of sticking one’s nose in other people’s business.
“I’m not trying to tell you how to handle your family business …”
I look up, studying him closer now. His strong jaw, the few freckles scattered over the bump in his nose. He might have been in a fight, once, but based on what I know about him, I doubt it was his idea. He probably said something stupid to the wrong person.
Despite my aversion to the man, which I’ll probably have to get over at some point because it’s based on what is now a moot point, there’s no denying he’s handsome. His black hair might have been recently cut—his loose strands are a tad uneven, suggesting Hadley Renee plans on keeping up Glinda’s tradition of You Never Know What You’ll Get at Sonny and Shears—and his gray eyes stand out more than ever, clouded with hesitation.
Probably because of the look on my face.
“But you’re going to fire off a suggestion, anyway?” I guess, more than a little acid on my tongue.
“It’s just that I’m no stranger to dealing with depression, and Amelia’s in trouble. I don’t think you should be leaving her alone for any significant amount of time, is all.” The words spill out in that rusty, unused voice of his and the genuine sound of them calms my knee-jerk desire to say she’s going to be fine.
His worries mirror my own, conjure images of Millie striding toward the river in her sleep, barefoot but not faltering. I think of the conversation we had this morning when she didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to admit it, and I know deep in my gut that he’s right.
“She should be at work,” I tell him.
“She’s not. I came to tell you there are complaints about the library not being open this morning. I figured you’d be here and that you’d made other arrangements.” His lips press together, clouds gathering in his expression. “I’ve been growing worried over the past several weeks, seeing her around town and chatting with her.”
I want to snap at him, tell him to mind his own business or thank him for thinking I don’t notice shit going on under my own goddamn nose, but I’m too worried. It mashes together with my fear and culminates in a lightning storm of needing to get home right this minute.
I shoot to my feet and shoulder my bag, noting that Travis does the same thing, as though intending to follow me. “I’ll go check on her, thank you.”
“I’d love to call on her myself, if you think she’s up to it.” There’s a hint of color in his pale cheeks.
It stops me, blanking everything else in my mind for a moment. “Call on her? Like in the old-fashioned sense of the word?”
It’s not that I’m unaccustomed to men fancying Amelia. But I am surprised to have it happen in her current state, with her recently acquired reputation and the fact that the admirer in question seems to realize how broken she is at the moment.
I narrow my eyes, anger squeezing my throat. “She’s not in any sort of shape to deal with you in that way, Travis. If you really know what she’s going through as you claim you do, surely you’d realize that.”
His eyes pop wide, horror driving the color from his cheeks. “No! I mean, I’ll not deny my interest, Miss Harper, but that’s not my intent in calling on her. Not now. I thought it might be good for her to make new friends in town. See that there is more here for her than work and home and family. That’s all.”
“Hmm,” is all the brilliance I manage before heading for the door, too worried about Millie to handle thinking about Travis coming by and befriending her. It smacks of his taking advantage of my cousin, and that makes me want to smack him. My steps slow slightly, feet pausing with one hand poised to swing open the door to the hallway, because as much as Travis bugs the shit out of me, my instincts say he’s not a bad guy. More than that, they say he’s not wrong about Amelia needing more to live for than me and her baby. Plus he carries a gun, and curse or not, Mrs. LaBadie is flesh and blood. A bullet will take her out as effectively as it would kill a person with a soul.
“You can come by. I think it would be good for her.” I squeeze my eyes shut, not looking at him because saying the words is hard enough. “But so help me, Travis, if you make things worse you’ll have to deal with me.”
“No one wants that less than I do,” he responds with an earnestness that’s almost comical.
I leave, hurrying for my car and trying not to think about what could have happened since I left this morning. My brain is so wrapped up in creating worst-case scenarios that it almost misses the sound of Dylan Travis telling me he’ll be right over.
Chapter Eleven
I push the town-wide twenty-five-mph speed limit all the way home, unsure whether it’s for Amelia’s safety or because the town’s detective—who already thinks I belong in the loony bin—is right on my heels. A mental inventory of the mess in the living room, in the kitchen, and what state my cousin is going to be in pushes my foot down harder.
I’d use the fact that we were out of town last weekend as an excuse, but the truth is I’m more of a wait-until-it-piles-up kind of gal. Another thing Beau doesn’t really know about me yet. Or maybe he does. My gut warms at all of the things my boyfriend has guessed without me having to tell him, and that fondness tugs at the roots of the doubt that sprouted while sitting in that courtroom.
The figures slumped on my grandparents’ old green porch swing drive every other thought out of my head and stick my heart in my throat. I may be way overdue for a trip to the eye doctor, but there’s no mistaking the man wearing dingy denim overalls, a straw hat, and no goddamn shirt. It’s Big Ern, which means the smaller, wiry figure in sleeveless flannel couldn’t be anyone but Clete.
My palms start to sweat at the sight of the moonshiners, even though they had insisted we’re pals now after solving Glinda’s murder together and not getting them arrested in the process. We might have been kind of on the same side during those brief weeks, but my boyfriend is the mayor and he’s already in legal trouble as is. The last thing either of us needs is for Mrs. Walters, or heaven knows who else, to see me cavorting with questionable characters in broad daylight.
Not to mention that Travis is on his way over here right now.
That last thought propels me out of the car and up to the front porch with more eagerness than I feel, the slightest twinge of annoyance encroaching on my nerves when neither of them stands up to greet me. My hands find my hips, mostly so the two hillbillies won’t see them shaking, and I clear my throat to steady my voice.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, unable to stop my gaze from roving the street.
Just because I don’t see Mrs. Walters doesn’t mean she isn’t watching. That old biddy figured out online shopping for the sole purpose of ordering multiple pairs of binoculars without getting odd looks from the Cohens down at the pharmacy or Mr. Bates at the general store. There aren’t enough places in town to spread her business around and cover her snooping trail.
Big Ern watches me with his dumb eyes, his beefy hands in his pockets. We’re both waiting for Clete to speak.
“Aren’t you going to invite us inside?” he says after another moment of contemplative silence.
The words hell no tickle the back of my throat as the curtains on Mrs.
Walter’s front window flutter. Having them inside is preferable to having them out here. “Fine.”
I use my key to open the front door, nervous all over again because of the stillness on the other side. A glance back at the moonshiners almost makes me laugh—they’re so out of place in the carefully decorated foyer they might as well be fish doing the salsa on a sheet of ice in Norway. My heart pounds, desperate to call out for Amelia but not wanting her any further involved in this business, whatever it turns out to be, than she already is by living with me.
The sound of a toilet flushing upstairs floods me with relief so potent I sink down onto the divan in the formal living room, nodding to the other chairs by way of invitation. Clete takes me up on the offer, perching on the edge of a wooden rocker that my grandmother favored while cross-stitching, but Big Ern lurks in the doorway between this room and the foyer, as though determined to be ready for a quick getaway.
Relaxing has probably been bred out of their DNA, given their line of work.
“I should tell you that the law is heading this way. Not because I called them,” I rush on, even though they know good and well I haven’t touched my phone since they saw me. “Detective Travis is a, um, friend of my cousin’s and he’s coming to see her.”
“We’ll be quick,” Clete says, chomping on a giant wad of tobacco. He glances around as though looking for someplace to spit, and my stomach turns. Not hard enough to go get him a cup, though. “There’s a rumor floating around that your boyfriend is in a bit of a pickle.”
“And that concerns you? I’ll pass along the message. I’m sure that’ll just warm Beau’s heart.” I push, anxious to get rid of them before Travis arrives. It doesn’t stop me from wondering how exactly these kinds of rumors make their way out into the backyard of nowhere. The question snags, content to wait for another day, but it’s not going anywhere. The moonshiners must have friends in town even with Glinda gone … but who?
“Don’t interrupt. It’s rude.” He grins with a mouthful of stained, crooked teeth. “Could be that we outlaw types know a little bit about what goes on in town—and a little bit about what goes on in the legal ’stablishments wastin’ their fool time tryin’ to bring us to so-called justice.” He pauses, staring at me. “Could be that I know something—just heard it, mind you, no proof—that would prolly be of interest to the mayor. As far as his case, you understand.”
“Yes, Clete, I understand what you’re getting at,” I inform him, trying to keep as much contempt out of my tone as possible. My mind is clicking and whirring, trying to figure out exactly what he might have heard. What it could mean for Beau if Clete and his merry band of misfits could help … how? “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific, though, about what exactly might interest Beau.”
“What that grand jury’s claiming he did, someone else did. Could be that I know who.”
That gets my attention, and Clete doesn’t miss the change in my demeanor. It never occurred to me until this moment that both sides of the case could be true—that Lindsay Boone got unnecessarily screwed by the DA’s office and Beau is innocent. But if so, it means someone else in the prosecutor’s office did those things—took bribes, put Lindsay away for a long, long time in order to protect someone else—and they’re knowingly letting my boyfriend take the fall.
The weight of that realization pushes me back into the cushions, and I grab the nearest throw pillow, hugging it to my chest as the possibilities and pitfalls of pursuing this dig claws under my skin.
You are not Nancy Drew, the devil whispers.
You’ll probably end up making things worse for Beau, getting involved with these guys. So, I guess that’s what you’ll be doing, then, his twin chuckles into my other ear.
“Shut up,” I mutter, not realizing I’ve spoken aloud until Clete snorts.
He shakes his head, looking bemused. “The sad thing is, I know your crazy ass is talkin’ to the voices in your head, not to me. Maybe we should be blackmailin’ Graciela, threatening to tell the mayor how many cards she is short of a deck, eh, Big Ern?”
The oversized flunky gives Clete an obligatory smirk but slides a glance my direction that says he’s more worried about me than amused. I squint back at him, waving a hand to show him I don’t need his concern or pity or whatever it is.
“Don’t worry. The mayor isn’t working off the assumption that I’m in possession of all my marbles.” I pause, the bigger implication to his statement sinking in. “But you want something in exchange for this information, of course.”
“’Course. We ain’t running a charity ward out in the woods.”
The sound of a car door slamming out front drags our attention from our unscheduled tête-à-tête. It has to be Travis. Beau will call me later tonight but I’m guessing it’ll be hours before he’s done with whatever paperwork has to be filed at the courthouse and his lawyers dismiss him for the evening.
“That’ll be Detective Travis,” I inform them. “Might as well come out with it, Clete.”
“We’re friends, ain’t we, Graciela?”
I snort, unable to stop myself, but then reconsider. This might be the only man willing or able to help Beau out of this mess, and if he’s telling the truth—even if he wants something in return—I suppose that does make him a friend. Of sorts. Not to mention the fact that we’ve helped each other before, and I’m alive today partly because of his interference.
So I reconsider and give him a nod. “I’m not going to invite you for Sunday dinner, but yes. We’re friends.”
“Hell, girl, I ain’t plannin’ to take out an ad in the Heron Creek Sun.” He moves his wad of chew from one cheek to the other, shooting a glance out the window. There’s a knock on the door. “I’m wantin’ to take some of my enterprises legitimate, but the state has to approve me as a legal distributor of booze. Seeing as you’re friends with that Will Gayle character who works for the state and datin’ the mayor besides, thought you’d be able to rub my back in that regard.”
The doorbell rings. Anxiety creeps through my blood, clenching my fingers into fists and flipping my stomach like a pancake. Something like what he’s asking isn’t exactly legal, and getting either Will or Beau involved—even without their knowledge—could be a slippery slope that ends with all of us covered in what we’re hoping is mud.
Still …
“I’ll snoop around, okay?” The doorbell rings again. Travis had to see my car in the driveway, so there’s no way he’s leaving without at least seeing my face. “How can I get in touch?”
“We’ll find you,” Clete says, jerking his chin toward Big Ern. “Back door?”
“Through the kitchen.” At least I’m pretty sure Amelia’s upstairs, unless she snuck out a window in the past five minutes, so she won’t see them sneak out.
They head off in the direction I point, and I smooth my skirt before stepping into the foyer, hoping none of the upheaval their visit caused shows on my face. Travis’ look of annoyance morphs into relief when I swing open the door and give him a sigh. “I didn’t mean you should come by right away.”
“I’m working on using patience. It’s not going all that well.” He steps into the house without being invited
I peer around him as I shut the door, noticing that he drove his police-issued car, and my stomach sinks. Great. No way Mrs. Walters didn’t see, which means it will definitely be all over town that the cops were visiting Gracie Harper’s house again. Who’d she get away with murdering this time?
“Couldn’t you have driven your own car?” I hold up my hand, cutting off his response before he gets it out. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll go see if Amelia’s … decent. You can wait in the living room if you want.”
I don’t offer the formal sitting room even though it’s closer, and even though that’s its actual purpose, because I’m suddenly paranoid that he’ll notice something and connect it to Clete and Big Ern. He’s a cop, after all. He’s trained to pick up on scraps of
fabric or the lingering smell of chewing tobacco and conclude that everything is not as it should be.
He wanders off and I pretend I’m not sweating, taking the stairs two at a time. Amelia’s room—the old guest room—is a lot like the one I sleep in. We shared the blue room as children by choice, but the purple room is just as cozy. It has a similar handmade quilt and gauzy curtains that flutter in the stuffy, midday breeze.
My cousin is a lump under the covers and doesn’t stir as my feet press creaks out of the dark, wide-planked hardwoods that floor the majority of the house. She’s awake, though. Her green eyes stare at a photo of my grandparents that hangs on the wall, one that captures the happiness on their faces on a day at the beach.
“Millie. Why are you in bed? You’re supposed to be at the library.” No answer. “People are freaking out, and because of you I had to talk to Detective Travis at the courthouse—the arraignment was awful, by the way, thanks for asking—and now he’s here. Downstairs, wanting to talk to you because you’re doing a miserable job of convincing people you’re fine.”
“I’m not an actress.” Her voice is scratchy, rough. As though a witch holds it hostage.
Maybe one does.
The fact that she didn’t answer my question, that she’s not moving and apologizing and freaking out about having company when she looks and smells like three-day-old breath and swamp water spikes my fear. It builds like the clouds that precede a storm that might become a hurricane.
My eyebrows pull together, wrinkles creasing in my forehead more deeply than I’ve ever felt before the past couple of weeks. Whether it’s normal or the result of the extra stress in my life, I don’t approve.
“Amelia, you’ve got to get up. What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?” I smooth the sticky hair off her forehead, but despite the sweat, she doesn’t feel overly warm. “Talk to me.”
“I called the Middletons.”
My heart sinks right through my butt. “Oh?”
“They’re going to sue me. For custody.”
Her words almost choke me with anger. “Their abusive son almost killed you and their grandchild and they’re going to sue you? For what?”