Playing Dead in Dixie

by Paula Graves

  "My hero," Carly muttered, secretly pleased when she heard Wes's soft chuckle in response.

  "Old Nate's probably fifteen years old if he's a day. Cut him a little slack." Wes pulled up next to another Chevrolet pick-up truck parked in the yard. The other truck was at least a decade old, with a weather-worn exterior full of dents and dings and a right front fender that was Bondo gray.

  On the porch, the hound's tail thumped lazily against the porch floor. As Carly opened the door to get out, she heard the dog's low, happy whimper of greeting.

  Wes unloaded the box of food from the truck bed and started toward the porch, motioning with his head for Carly to go up ahead of him. The hound greeted her at the top step, sniffing her hand a couple of times before giving her knuckles a lazy flick of his long tongue.

  "No licking, mister," she scolded, giving the hound a quick scratch behind his velvety ears. "Not on the first date."

  She heard Wes stumble on the step behind her, and she turned around quickly, just in time to keep the box of food from tumbling out of his grip.

  "I've got it," Wes said, his voice a little gruff. He followed Carly to the door and waited while she knocked.

  After a moment, the door opened, and a pretty redhead with an enormous belly smiled at Carly through the screen door. She pushed the door open, her smile fading as she caught sight of Wes. "Chief Hollingsworth, is something wrong?"

  "Not a thing," Wes assured her quickly. He shot Carly a brief look before holding the box of food out toward Shannon. "But I could sure use your help on something."

  "NOW, IF YOU DON'T LIKE any of these, we can look at some other designs." Shannon Burgess handed Carly a manila folder. "I picked out things I think would look best on you."

  Carly opened the folder and looked over the sketches she found inside. They lacked the sophistication of fashion sketches by a trained couture, but there was no mistaking the raw talent. "These are beautiful, Shannon."

  Shannon had chosen five different outfits—a casual dress, two sleek pantsuits, and a couple of casual blouses that Carly could wear with jeans or dress pants. Each was well-designed, with enough classic lines to be practical and enough innovations to be fresh, in unexpected color combinations. A bubble of excitement rose in Carly's throat. "You can make these for me?"

  "If you make a choice soon," Shannon confirmed with a wry smile, patting her belly. "Wait too long, and Junior may have something to say about it."

  "No need to wait. How much for all five?"

  Shannon named a price that was nowhere near what the outfits were worth. "That includes the price of the fabric. Fabric Finds has some really nice stuff at great prices. I work there when I'm not squeezin' out puppies." She grinned. "Leanne lets me keep a tab there until the items are finished, and then I pay her once I'm paid. If you want, I can meet you in town tomorrow and we can see what they have."

  Carly grinned. "Shopping? I am so there."

  Shannon giggled, her freckled nose wrinkling. "Great! And the price is okay?"

  "The price is more than okay. In fact, I really can't let you charge such a low price. Do you have any idea what designer clothing goes for these days?"

  Shannon blushed. "I'm not a real designer."

  Carly patted the sketches in front of her. "You can do stuff like this, you're a designer. Trust me. I can't possibly let you make these for me unless you double the prices of each one. I couldn't live with myself." Of course, she might have to take Wes up on that offer to pay, at least as a loan, but it would be worth it. The designs really were beautiful.

  "Are you sure? The extra money sure would help."

  "I'm sure." Carly glanced across the room toward Wes and found him sitting cross-legged on the floor near the cold fireplace, playing trucks with Jackson, Shannon's carrot-topped two-year-old. The little boy gazed with sheer delight at Wes, who was making low "vroom-vroom!" noises as he moved one of the trucks around the woven rug.

  Carly's stomach turned a couple of flips, then clenched into a hot knot when Wes looked up and met her gaze, his expression unreadable.

  She looked away quickly and turned back to Shannon. "So, you've lived here all your life, I hear."

  Shannon nodded. "Born and raised. I hear you're from New Jersey."

  "Ya think?" Carly laughed. "You've heard about me already? I've been in town for just two days."

  "Small town gossip. It could teach the FBI a thing or two about where all the skeletons are hidden." Shannon's chuckled and sat back, stretching her legs. "Good lord, I'm tied of being pregnant. The first seven months aren't so bad, but the last two will make you swear you're never gonna have sex again." Her smile faded.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Carly struggled for a new topic, then decided if she and Shannon were going to spend any time together, it might be best just to get the subject of her dead husband out in the open. "I understand you're a widow."

  Shannon nodded. "My husband Jimmy Wayne died a few months ago in a car accident. He had a bit of a lead foot." She passed her hand over her rounded belly. "You never know what's gonna happen one day to the next."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Almost ten years, can you believe?" Shannon gazed over at her son. "We got married right out of high school."

  Ten years, Carly thought. Ten years, and Shannon was still living in this backwoods, scraping for enough money just to get by, with one little ankle-biter toddling around the house and another on the way.

  Carly knew what happened next. A woman with two kids couldn't hold down much of a job. She'd have to apply for welfare. She and the kids would scrape by, barely, and the kids would end up waiting for Santa in the form of the nice folks down at the insurance company who pooled their money to adopt a poor family for Christmas.

  That's what happened to people who limited their options.

  "Did I say something wrong?" Shannon asked.

  Carly shook her head quickly, schooling her expression with practiced ease. "I was just thinking you must have gone to school with Steve Strickland."

  "Yeah. Pretty much everyone who grew up around here went to the same school." Shannon looked over at Wes and lowered her voice. "Steve was a few years ahead of me. Wes, too. Although I do remember that when I was in grade school, he was considered the hottest guy around."

  Carly leaned in. "Do tell."

  "Well, he wasn't always Mr. Law and Order, you know."

  "Carly?" Wes's voice, almost right in her ear, made her jump. She looked up and found him holding the keys to his truck in one hand. "Sorry to break up the girl talk, but it's almost nine, and I need to check in on my dad before I go home."

  "Oh, okay." Carly turned back to Shannon. "I don't go in to work tomorrow until one. Do you want to meet me at Fabric Finds around ten?"

  "I'll be there." Shannon pushed herself up from the chair, groaning and rubbing her back. "Unless Junior gets impatient."

  As Shannon walked them to the door, she gave Carly directions from the hardware store to the fabric store. "I'll see you in the morning, ten sharp. And please, do tell Miss Bonnie how much I appreciate her sendin' all that food. I'll be sure it gets around to everybody who can use a little extra."

  Back in the truck, Wes turned to look at her as he cranked the engine. "Looked like you two hit it off pretty well."

  They had, Carly realized with some surprise. "Have you seen her sketches? She's really good. And she was going to charge me next to nothing for the outfits. I made her agree to take twice what she was asking."

  "That was generous of you."

  "It's only fair." She cut her eyes at him. "Of course, I may need to hit you up for a loan, until I get paid."

  He smiled. "What if you get yourself fired first?"

  She buckled herself in and gave an airy wave. "Oh, Floyd won't fire me. Floyd likes me. Floyd has excellent taste."

  "Floyd's also having a rough patch at the store. At least, that's what Aunt Bonnie told me." Worry lines creased his brow. "I didn't know
. I thought they were doing as well as most of the other businesses in town."

  "Really? Floyd said he just figured the economy was bad all over."

  "We've had a pretty good uptick in business around Bangor over the last few months. Lot of places are hiring two and three at a time these days. I don't understand why the hardware store isn't thriving as well. Floyd always seems busy."

  Carly cleared her throat. "I mentioned to Floyd that I'd be glad to take a look at his books."

  "And that would be helpful because . . . ?"

  "Because I have an accounting degree."

  His eyes narrowed. "You do?"

  Carly threw up her hands. "What, you have to have warts on your nose and crooked teeth to be good at math? Why do people always think I'm lying about that?"

  "You're right. I'm sorry."

  She narrowed her eyes, not certain his apology was quite sincere.

  He fell silent as he pulled onto Culpepper Road and then onto the four lane into town, but as they neared the outskirts, he asked, "So Floyd said no to you looking at his books?"

  "Well, I am a stranger. I wasn't going to push it."

  "Smart girl. Floyd may not look it, but he's the sort of fellow who can dig in his heels when you try to give him a nudge." Wes's half-smile turned into a frown as he peered through the windshield.

  "What is it?" Carly asked, following his gaze. She saw nothing but a small, neat house. Through the front window Carly could make out the flickering blue glow of a television.

  "That's my dad's house. It's after nine. He should be in the back by now, getting ready for bed." He glanced her way. "Do you mind if I stop in to check before I take you home?"

  "Of course not."

  Wes parked in his father's driveway and got out of the truck. As he headed up the walk, Carly debated whether to stay put or to follow him inside. The creepy night sounds outside the truck made up her mind for her. She got out of the truck and hurried up the walk, reaching Wes's side as he knocked on the door.

  "It's probably nothing," he murmured as they waited for his father to answer.

  But there was only silence.

  Muttering a soft oath, Wes tried the door. It rattled uselessly in his hand, locked.

  "I thought you people left your doors open around here."

  Wes cut his eyes at her. "You've been watching too many 'Andy Griffith Show' reruns." He pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  The front door opened directly into a neat, if slightly shabby, living room. An old leather sofa, a large coffee table that looked like it had a few years on it, and a television took up most of the small room, the television casting flickering light on the far wall. But the room was otherwise empty.

  A flutter of foreboding bloomed in Carly's belly.

  Wes pressed the off button on the television and it went silent. He listened for a moment, then called out, "J.B.?"

  A muttered litany of curses answered him, coming from somewhere a few rooms away.

  Wes hurried toward the sound, Carly on his heels. He skidded to a stop in the entrance to the kitchen, too fast for Carly to slow her own momentum. She slammed face-first into his back, hard enough that she saw stars before her vision cleared and she got a look at what had brought Wes up short.

  A lean, fragile-looking man in his sixties lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, propped up on one elbow amid broken crockery, a shattered salt shaker and a ruptured bag of microwave popcorn, the debris scattered from one end of the kitchen to the other.

  "I just wanted some popcorn," the man said.

  Chapter Four

  His heart in his throat, Wes crouched by his father's side, his gaze moving over J.B.'s thin body in search of injuries. He saw no obvious wounds, no unnaturally-twisted limbs. "Do you hurt anywhere, Daddy?"

  J.B. glared up at him, humiliation and rage saturating every inch of his too-thin body. He spoke in a voice raspy and tight with tortured pride. "No, I ain't hurt. Would you just help me get my feet up under me?"

  "Let me call Doctor Allen."

  "Hell and damnation, boy, I don't need no doctor! I just need to get my feet under me!" J.B.'s gaze shifted beyond him, color rising up his neck and into his cheeks. "Who the blazes are you?"

  Wes glanced over his shoulder. Carly stood behind him, her expression shuttered. She stepped forward and held out her hand. "Carly Devlin. I was a friend of your nephew Steve."

  J.B. looked at her outstretched hand as if she'd lost her mind. "You ain't from around here, are you?"

  Carly laughed softly and crouched next to J.B. "How'd you ever guess that?" She took his good arm. "Let me help you up."

  Wes took his father's other arm and helped her get J.B. to his feet. Wes dusted the salt and glass chips from his father's back. "You sure nothing's hurt?"

  J.B. shrugged off Wes's hand. "I'm positive. I just tripped over my old bad foot and took a tumble. I couldn't get any traction to get up what with that mess on the floor."

  Carly leaned in toward him, tucking her arm through his. "Try doing it in high heels, mister," she quipped.

  The look of puzzlement on J.B.'s face nearly made Wes laugh aloud. "You were a friend of Steve's?"

  "Sort of. I met him on the bus right before it crashed, but you know Steve. He was a real easy guy to like." Carly walked J.B. to the table. She glanced back at Wes, nodding her her head toward the mess in the floor before sitting beside J.B.

  Wes stared at the two of them for a moment, his anxiety-fogged brain slow to realize that he'd just been relegated to mop-up duty. Biting back a grumble, he found a broom and dustpan in a closet off the kitchen and started sweeping up the mess, keeping his ears open for the conversation at the table.

  "My grandmother, God rest her soul, had a stroke when she was only forty-five years old," Carly told J.B. "She lost use of her right hand, too. After the stroke, she concentrated on working on her legs, on walking. She sorta gave up on her hand, because it wouldn't anything she wanted it to do." Carly chuckled softly. "She called it her 'dearly departed hand.' Mind if I take a look?"

  Wes looked over his shoulder and found Carly reaching for his father's crippled hand. He almost called out a warning to her—J.B. could be like a dog with a bone about his claw—but to his surprise, his father let Carly take the bad hand in her own.

  "Oh, yeah, you've definitely got a hand problem here."

  "What are you, some kind of therapist?" J.B. shot Wes a suspicious look.

  Carly shook her head. "Not me. I'm just an accountant like you. Floyd tells me you did his books for him."

  "Used to. Now I can't write."

  "Nope, not with this hand," Carly agreed. "Too bad you couldn't get it working for you again."

  Wes emptied the dustpan into a garbage sack and put it aside, crossing to the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, where Carly and his father sat. Carly was gently massaging J.B.'s hand, her touch so light that Wes wasn't sure his father realized what it was she was doing.

  Carly looked up at him, her expression growing wary when she caught him watching her. He offered an encouraging smile, and she relaxed, a smile forming on her pretty pink lips.

  "Did you realize you use your hands for walking? You swing your arms while walking to keep a steady gait, or put out your hand to steady yourself if you start to lose balance. If your hand's not working right, your legs have to learn a whole new way to walk. When my grandmother finally figured that out, she started putting as much effort into improving the function of her hand as she did her legs. Soon, she was walking better and using that hand in ways she never thought she would again."

  J.B. pulled his hand away from her. "If my hand was ever going to be worth a damn again, it would've happened already."

  "How hard did you try to get it working again?"

  J.B. whirled around to glare at his son. "You been talkin' about me?"

  Wes shrugged. "I haven't told her anything."

  Carly stood up, holding up her hands. "Sorry if I st
epped on your toes or something." She didn't sound very apologetic, Wes noted. "I was just telling you about my grandmother, God rest her soul, and how she dealt with her stroke. If you don't want to be able to write again with that claw you got there, fine with me. Not my problem. Floyd seems happy enough with Sherry Clayton doing his books for him."

  J.B. made a rude snorting sound.

  Wes had to bite back another laugh. Everyone tried to coddle J.B., encourage him, tiptoe around his cranky moods and bitter self-pity. Wes should have known a woman like Carly Devlin wouldn't put up with J.B.'s crap for long.

  "I ain't ever gonna write with this hand again," J.B. muttered.

  Carly fixed him with a pointed, green-eyed gaze that oozed a mixture of pity and disappointment. "No. I guess you won't."

  J.B. stared up at her. To Wes's surprise, his father's gaze was as full of admiration as consternation. "You're a mouthy little thing, ain't you?"

  Her lips curved. "So I've been told." She gave a nod toward the kitchen. "Now that we've settled that I have a big mouth and you have a bad hand, you still hungry? I could pop another bag of popcorn, or heat up something from the fridge."

  "I ain't hungry."

  "Well, obviously, you are, or you wouldn't have gone skating in the salted popcorn." Carly strode toward the doorway where Wes stood. He quickly moved out of her way.

  While Carly looked through J.B.'s refrigerator, Wes turned back to find his father glaring at him.

  "Why'd you bring her here?" J.B. asked.

  "I was taking her back to Aunt Bonnie's house after delivering some of the extra food out to Shannon Burgess when I saw the light from your TV was still on in the living room."

  "I could've been watching a late movie or something."

  "But you weren't, and it's good I checked, wasn't it?"

  "You could've left her outside."

  "I can hear you, you know," Carly called from the refrigerator.

  J.B.'s lips twitched slightly. "I always heard they made 'em pushy up north," he called back.

  Wes saw Carly grin in response. She pulled a covered dish out of the refrigerator and placed it on the counter by the stove, pulling back the aluminum foil. She paused, frowning slightly as she tried to figure out what was in the pan. "What is this?"