Dead Man Talking

by TM Simmons

  Chapter 18

  I lugged the litter box out before we left, and Trucker and Miss Molly rode in the back seat of my Jeep. Uncle Clarence drove sedately down Esprit d’Chene’s driveway ahead of us. He turned right at the gate, me left. I waited until we were half-way between Esprit d’Chene and Jefferson before I confronted Katy. When I whipped into a small dirt road and slammed on my brakes, I caught her off guard. Jamming the Jeep into park, I twisted on the seat.

  Panic flashed across her face, and a stab of guilt shuddered through me. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she’d opened the door and fled. She looked so small and vulnerable inside the wide seatbelt harness, the lamb’s wool padding I’d wrapped around the shoulder belt for comfort snugged against her elfin face. All the years of love and friendship we’d shared surged against my anger at her deceit.

  Then she crossed her arms and glared out the windshield. “We need to get to the station, Alice,” she reminded me.

  Forgetting my injured hand, I clenched a fist and batted the steering wheel. My fingernails bit into my palm, and the horn blared, pain mixing with the startling blast of sound. Katy jumped as, instinctively, I cradled my hand against my chest, heart pounding in frustration. “We’ll get to the station,” I muttered. “But first, what the hell are you hiding from me?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Katy replied in a shaky voice. “Believe me, if I could, I would.”

  I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Katy, do you realize that part of the reason you’re giving this statement this morning is because you’re a suspect?”

  She finally looked at me, eyes wide in shock. “A suspect in what?”

  “Bucky’s death.”

  “I had nothing to do with that! You know I didn’t! I couldn’t have!”

  “It’s SOP,” I said quietly, my need to make her realize the trouble she could be in warring with my love. “Standard operating procedure. The investigators look at people connected with the murdered person first. Family. Friends. Former acquaintances.”

  “You’re giving a statement, too!”

  “As a witness,” I explained. “I have an iron-clad alibi.”

  She bit her lip. “Jack would never make me a suspect.”

  “Jack’s a homicide detective first, Sugar. Above all else, he has an obligation to uncover the killer’s identity. Over and above any obligations he feels toward people he cares about.”

  “But I didn’t have anything to do with Bucky’s death!” Katy cried again.

  “I don’t believe Sir Gary did, either,” I told her honestly. I didn’t, either. The ghost still intrigued me, and I didn’t totally trust him yet. However, he’d made quite a few points with me by warning Katy that I was in danger when I confronted Bucky in the library. Well, confronted wasn’t the right word, I guess, since Bucky’s ghost probably had no idea who or what was in the vicinity, without a head to see his surroundings.

  I sighed. “You and Sir Gary were the only ones at Esprit d’Chene the night before last. Except for whoever came up the driveway.”

  “Then that’s who the police need to concentrate on. Not me!”

  I draped my wrist over the steering wheel. My stinging palms reminded me how close we’d all come to eating the bread pudding. “What’s it going to take to make you understand, Katy? You’re not just in danger of being charged with murder. Someone’s trying to kill someone else at the plantation.”

  Katy clenched her hands in her lap and stared out the windshield, her obstinacy unbreakable. Maybe because someone had always come to Katy’s rescue, she couldn’t imagine that her security could be threatened. Hell, I had my suspicions, also. Who could help it, with the way she’d been acting? Had Katy counted on the fact that Jack had once been family to steer the investigation away from her? If so, she didn’t know my ex-husband as well as I did.

  “I thought we were friends, not just relatives,” I reminded her.

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “We’re going to be late.”

  Stubbornly, I tried to wait her out. That had worked when we were kids. I’d want Katy to follow me on some misadventure that would get us both grounded for a week if we got caught. Like borrowing a relative’s car on the pretense of going to a movie or shopping but instead sneaking off to a bar known not to check IDs that closely. Shoot, Katy had learned to boot-scoot right along with me by the time we were both sixteen. Now, however, we were women. And we’d shared much more important confidences than which cowboy was the best kisser.

  I shifted into reverse, but didn’t back up. “I want you to know, Katy, that I’m here for you. But I can’t help you if you aren’t honest with me. This is serious, not a silly lark like sneaking down to Bourbon Street to drink hurricanes.”

  “I know, Alice,” she replied. I passed my glance over her face as I checked the county road behind us and backed up, noting her relief. “You always have been. I know how important your writing is to you, but look how you came when I had trouble with Sir Gary.”

  “Good thing, too,” I said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. I waited, hoping she’d keep the communication channels between us open, but she only went on, “How are your hands this morning? I can drive, if you want.”

  “I’m fine. But thanks for the offer.”

  “Alice, there is something I should tell you.”

  “Please,” I said with a quick glance. “You have to understand, Katy, that a murder investigation isn’t something to mess around with.”

  She waved a negligent hand. “It’s not about the investigation. It’s Uncle Clarence.”

  Sadness filled me. I’d already suspected something was wrong with the dear old man. “He’s ill,” I guessed.

  She sniffed and reached for one of the tissues on the console. “He won’t be with us much longer. I’ve been taking him to Tyler for treatment, but there’s not much they can do.”

  “Cancer?” I asked, but Katy shook her head.

  “It’s some sort of blood disease that affects older people. Nothing that radiation or even any of the new, experimental treatments can help.”

  I reached for a tissue myself to wipe my eyes so I could see the road. Dear Uncle Clarence. He’d bounced us on his knee, pretending to be a pony. He’d taught us how to fish, with cane poles and minnows in the spring when the white perch spawned and night crawlers at night for catfish. Before he’d retired and moved to the Jefferson area ten years or so ago, he’d lived on Lake Ponchetrain in New Orleans. His home now was a smaller manor house than Esprit d’Chene, but just as elegant.

  Uncle Clarence had never married. Katy and I weren’t supposed to know it, but family rumor said a bad case of the mumps when he was a teenager had left him sterile. Maybe knowing he couldn’t leave behind an heir had destroyed his desire for a wife and family. Maybe he just never found the right woman.

  Uncle Clarence had looked for a woman, though, by gosh. I’d never seen him at any of the parties or balls in New Orleans without some ravishing beauty on his arm, usually someone from the right side of the social sphere. But Katy and I had run across him once or twice in our teenage rounds of trouble, and the women around him then were blue-jeaned and teased hair. Fact is, we liked the ones we met on our boot-scooting forays better than his Chanel-spritzed, evening-gowned socialites.

  “Remember Cat Dancer?” I asked, still sniffing back tears.

  “She died a few years ago. Uncle Clarence and I went to her funeral.”

  “You didn’t mention that.”

  “It was while you and Jack were having problems. We didn’t want to bother you.”

  “He was seeing her all those years?”

  “I asked him once why they didn’t marry, but he just shook his head and changed the subject. I really liked Cat. She read the Tarot cards for me once in a while. In fact, she tried to warn me about Brian, but I didn’t listen. Not all of her card readings were totally accurate.”

  “No psychic claims to be one hundred percent." I had my own idea about why U
ncle Clarence and Cat never married. I remembered Cat’s beautiful, lush body and her silky black hair curling down her back. Her high cheekbones and brown eyes. Her full lips. Today hardly anyone cared whether or not the person they fell in love with came from a mixed-blood background. But Uncle Clarence was a born and raised Southerner, and family meant everything to him. Some of our Southern relatives would have ostracized him, had he had the audacity to actually marry Cat and make her mistress of his home.

  Cat could trace her roots clear back to Marie Leveau, the voodoo queen of New Orleans. She’d run a bed and breakfast in the French Quarter for years, with a steady, income-producing clientele that ranged from her psychic friends to the just-curious. Twila and I had spent a night with Cat once, and experienced one of the most awesome séances of our lives. Neither of us doubted Cat’s powers.

  Jefferson came into view ahead, and the chance of prodding Katy diminished with each turn of the Jeep’s wheels. My darned suspicious mind couldn’t help wondering why Katy had chosen this exact moment to tell me about Uncle Clarence. In order to sidetrack my questions? I couldn’t actually believe that of my cousin. But then, I couldn’t quell the thought, either.

  I pulled into the parking lot across from the county jail and courthouse. I drove through, looking for Jack’s Longview cruiser, frowning when I didn’t see it.

  “Jack said he was working out of Jefferson,” I mused.

  “Maybe he’s at the city jail,” Katy put in.

  The city jail was on the next block, and when I stopped at the red light at the intersection of Austin and Polk Streets, I saw Jack’s cruiser parked between two city police cars. A small, blue sports convertible took up the remaining space in the tiny parking area. I scanned the street for another spot, but that side of the street was full. On the other side, in front of The General Store, an old building full of tourist regalia and an old-fashioned ice cream fountain that served delicious sundaes, I spotted a place. U-turning at the end of the block, I grabbed it.

  Mindful of my pets, I left the engine running and took the extra set of keys from the console, so I could lock up and still get back in. Katy waited for me on the sidewalk. Fear marred her fragile features as she gazed at the front of the jail.

  “Hey,” I said to try to put her at ease. “You’ll get early wrinkles if you frown like that." She shrugged, then took a deep breath and marched toward the jail.

  I’d never been inside this building, and when we entered, I stared around in confusion. How on earth did they get any work done in this crowded space? Files covered both desks, and four uniformed cops conferred over a spread of papers on the far desk. The uniform stripes identified three as two patrol officers and a sergeant. Behind the desk sat the police chief. Their discussion must have been consuming, because none of them so much as glanced at us. Their conversation did, however, cut off abruptly. Papers shuffled, then the chief nodded at his men and they turned to leave, striding past us out the door with a bare tilt of their heads in greeting.

  “Can I help you ladies?” the chief said. “Oh, hello, Katy.”

  “Hello, Chief,” Katy replied. “We’re here to see Jack Roucheau.”

  “He’s in the other building." The chief grabbed his hat from the edge of his desk and jammed it on his head. “You must be Miz Carpenter,” he said, extending his hand as he approached us. He had a firm grip, and a kind, pleasant face.

  “Yes. We’re here to give Jack our statements.”

  “This way." He motioned us back out the door, then led us down a path between the concrete jail building and the City Office Building, which fronted Polk Street. Behind the building we’d just left was another building. The path led past the door and on into the alley between the jail and The General Store. The chief opened the door and motioned us to precede him. Feminine laughter floated out, but Katy distracted me when she gripped my hand so tightly the injured palm shouted pain. I gasped, and Katy dropped my hand.

  “I’m sorry, Alice. I forgot.”

  I slipped an arm around her waist. The chief was waiting for us, but I squeezed Katy in comfort. “It’s going to be fine.”

  A mini-skirted redhead sat on one of the desks, legs crossed and thighs exposed. Jack sat behind the desk, and I bit back my query as to whether the redhead wore any underwear. Jack had the perfect view to answer that, but I thought better of it even as the question formed. Redhead swung around, and her blue eyes widened. Not at Katy and me, though. At the chief. She scooted off the desk, scattering files on the floor, then bent down to retrieve them. Yep, she did have on underwear. Blue bikinis.

  The chief and Jack exchanged a purely masculine look. Then the chief said, “If you’ve found the Singleterry file, Carol, please put it on my desk.”

  The redhead straightened and held the file to her full breasts. “Yes, sir. It’s right here. I’ll get it back in order.”

  “Do that at your own desk, please,” the chief said, and she skittered out the door as the chief glanced at Katy and me. “She truly is a good secretary and dispatcher.”

  “Brightens up your office, too, I imagine,” I mused.

  Jack laughed and rose from his chair. “Did either of you manage to get any sleep?”

  “No,” Katy said, at the same moment I said, “A little bit.”

  “I’ll leave you to business,” the chief said, and followed the redhead.

  The office was a small, windowless area. A door in the middle of the back wall evidently led to yet another part of the building. Thick steel, it was firmly closed.

  “The cells are back there,” Jack explained, although I hadn’t asked. My eyes had landed on a steel cabinet beside the door. The door hadn’t been fully closed, and I could see the hilt of Grandpere Jean’s sword on a shelf. A clear, plastic evidence bag covered it, a red tag wrapped around the hilt.

  “Chain of evidence?” I asked with a lifted eyebrow, nodding at the sword and open cabinet door.

  Katy followed my gaze, and blanched. I steadied her and pushed a chair over to her to sit in. Jack rose and shut the cabinet. “I was checking evidence against the officers’ reports, so the evidence chain’s intact, Alice. Do you have somethin’ you can do for a while?”

  Katy grabbed for my hand again. “Can’t she stay?”

  I jerked the hand back, mindful of the pain, and Katy’s wide-eyed, fearful gaze tore at my heart. “I’ll go do some grocery shopping. Anything special you’d like me to pick up?”

  She only shook her head, eyes pleading with me. I left her there to Jack. Maybe he could get further with her. Something had to make Katy understand her secure world was on the verge of collapse. This situation was a hell of a lot more serious than her divorce. All our huge family had supported her through that, but family support wouldn’t help her now. If it came to that, her best bet would be a hard-nosed lawyer.

  Trucker and Miss Molly greeted me in their usual fashion, Trucker with a slurp on my face, Miss Molly curling up in indignation on the passenger seat. I turned right at the stoplight, driving through town toward where I remembered a fairly decent-sized grocery store on the other end of the tourist section. Jefferson is filled with beautiful, restored buildings containing antiques, both real and trendy replicas, as well as bed and breakfasts and bargain stores with cut-rate necessities. I let my mind wander and scanned the sides of the street to see if any new, interesting place had opened since I’d last visited rather than focus on my forthcoming statement. Anyway, I didn’t think that would take long. Given that I was still half-pissed over Jack’s continued insistence that anyone who believed in ghosts had a hallucinogenic problem, I figured I’d throw his just-the-facts crap in his face. But this time, the facts would be my facts — true, whether he believed or not. Let him make what he would of them. With a little sleep behind me, I felt better able to confront Jack without Twila’s support.

  At a Y intersection, I turned left and pulled in at the grocery store. As I reached for my purse, I noticed Katy’s and my wrinkled tissues on the floor
and picked up my cell phone instead to dial Uncle Clarence’s number. He answered on the second ring.

  “Uncle Clarence." I had no idea at all what to say. If I could have written him a letter, I’d have been able to fill it with everything inside me. I just wasn’t that good with actual, hands-on sympathy. “Um...how are you feeling?”

  “Katy told you, Ah assume,” he replied.

  “Uncle Clarence. I just — I don’t — I love you,” I finally sputtered.

  “And Ah love you, child,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about me. Ah’ve missed my Cat quite desperately since she left me.”

  I glanced at Miss Molly with a frown, before it dawned on me that he was talking about Cat Dancer. “She was a lovely lady. I wish Twila and I had known about her passing.”

  “She’s not that far,” Uncle Clarence said in a whisper. “If you get a chance, come by the house. She’s waiting for me to cross over with her.”

  I could believe that. After all, I believed in ghosts. “Tell her I said hello.”

  “Ah will. And don’t you worry none about me, child. Ah’ve lived a full life. Maybe not exactly what Ah would have chosen, had Ah had a say in it. But a full one. You take care of our Katy when Ah’m gone.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “You always did, Alice, my sweet. Now, how about you and Katy coming over this weekend and Ah’ll make us some jambalaya and crawfish gumbo? Ah’ve got some mudbugs in the freezer, and you remember how you like my jalapeno cornbread.”

  “I’d love that. If we can find the time. But I can help cook — ”

  “Ummm...no, that’s all right." Uncle Clarence chuckled. “But you can ask Katy to whip up one of her red forest cakes, if you want.”

  “I’ll do that." I didn’t even have the heart to tease him back about my lack of cooking skills. “I’ll call you within the next day or so and let you know if we can make it.”

  “Wonderful. I need to check my trotline. Maybe we’ll have some fresh catfish, too.”

  “Goodbye, Uncle,” I said. “I love you.”

  “Love you, Alice. Bye.”

  I stared at the phone. Maybe Uncle shouldn’t be out on the bayou running his trotline in his condition, but Katy and I had both been raised to respect our elders. I wasn’t about to try to dictate anything to Uncle Clarence at this late stage in the game. Sighing, I left my pets once again in the car, Miss Molly curled in feigned disregard, Trucker accepting of the imprisonment he couldn’t change.

  In the grocery store, I filled a cart to the point where I was afraid the latch on the front of the conveyance might spring open if I placed one more box or jar in it. After I checked out, and as I pushed the cart full of bags toward the doors, a woman rushed in. She halted when she saw me, and a familiar voice shrilled, “You must be Alice, Katy’s cousin! I recognize you from your picture on the back of your books! I’m Irene!”

  She rushed me, hand extended. Pudgy, her boutique-style dress strained at the waist and hips. Ferret-like brown eyes peered out from a plump face, topped by obviously-dyed black hair, a white skunk-streak down the right side. If she was trying for fashion, I hoped that style never caught on. She pumped my hand vigorously before I could jerk it free.

  “Ouch!” I snarled. Goodnight Irene didn’t notice.

  “Can you believe this mess our dear Katy has found herself in?” she cooed as best she could in that piercing voice. “Why, I’d be in the hospital under sedation! Where is dear Katy?" She dug in her purse and pulled out a cell phone. “At home in bed? I better call!”

  “Katy’s not home,” I gritted.

  She batted long, had-to-be-false eyelashes. “Then she must feel better! I’ll drive by!”

  “No. You won’t." I didn’t feel a bit embarrassed at my lack of diplomacy. “The plantation’s under guard, and no one’s allowed in!”

  “We’ll see about that! I’ll have you know, I’m Katy’s best friend!”

  I stifled the urge to twist that bodice even tighter around her chubby neck. Katy had to live with these people after I left. Somehow, I reached into my realm of good manners and changed my tactics.

  “Irene,” I said in a smarmy, just-the-two-of-us tone, “Katy’s told me what she thinks of you. And I know you’re the type who’ll be staunchly at Katy’s side." If nothing else, to be the primary purveyor of choice gossip tidbits, I mused as Goodnight Irene nodded eagerly. “The best help you can give Katy right now is to keep doing exactly what you have been — protecting her so she can have the solitude she needs. Katy’s genteel sensibilities have never had to deal with anything like this before.”

  “I understand completely!” Irene shrilled conspiratorially. “Ladies like Katy and I weren’t raised to be the center of such rife gossip and speculation!”

  “Um . . .” I stalled, slipping a glance at my wristwatch. Sometimes gossip and speculation include interesting elements, drawn from a molecule of truth. After all, where there’s smoke —

  Irene appeared to take my reluctance to part with her a shared sisterhood, lending itself to confidences of like-minded society matrons. She leaned closer, eyes darting around to make sure no one could overhear us. “I’ve been telling everyone who repeats that one nasty bit of fanciful rumor that it has to be untrue!” she whispered, the shrillness in her voice even at that level. “Someone who looks like Katy! She just wouldn’t do that!”

  “I totally agree,” I whispered back, no idea what she was talking about. “You know how easy it is to fool some people.”

  “Yes!" She nodded her head emphatically, her mouth a tight line. And didn’t say another word. What now?

  “Uh . . ." My gaze landed on a rack of paperbacks. “Why, I use that mistaken identity ploy in my books all the time. It’s easy to confuse an eyewitness. Even easier to confuse more than one of them. They all see something different. Especially in a place like...you know.”

  “A smoky bar late at night!” Irene rang forth in her normal shrillness, falling straight into my trap. “Exactly! Katy Gueydan wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like the Holey Bucket! Let alone with a slimy swamp rat like Bucky Wilson-Jones! Why, even his father disowned that boy!”

  “Exactly,” I parroted. Where the hell was the Holey Bucket? I’d bet my pack of T-bones that Uncle Clarence knew where. Well, all the T-bones except for Trucker’s.

  “I do have to go, Irene,” I said, thinking I should leave her some tidbit to pass along to her greedy friends. A payoff, as well as a sacrifice to the society gods to keep Goodnight Irene a happy informant in case I needed her again. “Katy’s giving Detective Roucheau her statement as we speak. I’m sure by the time she’s done with that horrible chore, she’ll feel much better emotionally. I’ll tell her that you asked about her and wish her the best.”

  “A statement?" Irene pulled back in horror. “Don’t they only ask suspects to do that?”

  “No!” I said. Civilians! They just didn’t understand, like those of us who study interesting things like murder investigations. “No, no, no. Don’t you watch TV? They have to talk to everyone. I have to give a statement, and I didn’t even arrive until after they found the body.”

  “You?" Uh oh. The grimace of distaste indicated I’d shoveled dirt into my communication channel with Goodnight Irene. “Uh...nice talking to you. Do give Katy my regards." She shuffled determinedly away from me, clutching her oversize purse to her strained bodice. “And do tell Katy that we’ll all understand perfectly if she has to miss the Daughters of the South meeting tomorrow evening.”

  “Wait. I — ”

  But Irene whirled and escaped. I hesitated and saw her wave frantically at another fake matron heading down a store aisle. My last glimpse of them before I angrily pushed my cart on was a set of spray-starched hairdos bent together so close it looked like they were kissing.

  I shoved the shopping cart toward the hatchback, in between the Jeep and a black Cadillac parked four inches over the yellow line. Fuming at Irene’s stupidity — and mine for atte
mpting to manipulate her — I inadvertently nicked the Cadillac’s rear fender with the cart. I pushed the cart on around to the back of the Jeep and returned to see what damage I’d caused.

  Not much. Shoot, the paint was barely scratched. Noticeable, but a good bottle of black fingernail polish would take care of it. With Halloween this close, there was plenty of black nail polish available. Besides, it probably was either Irene’s car or belonged to her small-town society friend inside. Everything else in the lot was either pickups or elderly, family-type sedans, except for a red Mercedes.

  Groceries in the Jeep, hatchback slammed, I marched the cart to the space provided and shoved its nose safely into the butt of another one. I got as far as my driver’s door before Irene burst out, carrying a small, plastic grocery sack that looked as though it only held a loaf of bread. She headed straight for the Cadillac, squeezing between my Jeep and her door, jerked the Cadillac door open, and it slammed against the Jeep’s passenger door. Irene didn’t stop to assess the damage. She thrust her pudgy body through the too-small opening, fired up the Cadillac’s engine, and zoomed out of the parking place.

  I mentally noted her license plate number and stormed around the Jeep, expecting to find a huge dent in the door. There was only a smudge in the dirt. Evidently, the Cadillac had those rubber protective strips on the door. Probably Goodnight Irene needed them! I sighed and someone called, “Ma’am?”

  A tall, handsome man stood in the store entrance, a frown on his face. I quickly rearranged my irritation at the “ma’am” into my publicity smile. When he caught my eye, he strolled toward me. He wore faded jeans and a knit shirt with the store logo over the pocket. As he drew close, I could read the nametag pinned under the logo. Cory Stevens, Store Manager.

  “I’m Cory Stevens,” he confirmed, holding out his hand, which I accepted. “I saw Irene hit your door and wanted to make sure she hadn’t damaged it." His grasp was firm, and he held my hand a little too long, which a stab of pain from my injured palm told me. I must have reflexively stiffened, though, because he turned my hand over and gazed at my palm. “You’ve injured yourself.”

  “It’s nothing,” I assured him. “And the car’s not hurt. Just some dirt knocked off, and you won’t even be able to tell that after I get it to the car wash.”

  He studied my face and stuck his fingertips in the back pockets of his jeans. “Well, I wanted to make sure. I...uh...haven’t seen you shopping here before.”

  “I’m Alice Carpenter. Katy Gueydan’s cousin.”

  “Katy,” he replied with a grim nod. “Will you tell her that if there’s anything at all I can do, to please call me?" Unlike Irene, his offer sounded sincere.

  “You know her, then.”

  “Yes, of course. She’s my cousin, too. Come to think of it, just like you are.”

  My interest waned. Related. Huh. The first interesting man I’d laid eyes on in Jefferson, and he was a cousin.

  “Uh...Katy and I are cousins by marriage,” Cory put in, maybe noticing my face.

  I brightened. “Oh, then that makes us cousins by marriage, too,” I purred. “Distantly.”

  He considered me for a moment. His eyes were brown, a lighter shade than Jack’s, his chestnut hair full, styled more than just cut. “Very distant,” he mused. “But not too distant for me to buy you lunch, I hope.”

  “Oh. Darn it, I can’t. Today, I mean.”

  “Tomorrow?” he asked in what I hoped was a...well, hopeful voice.

  “You can call me at Esprit d’Chene." I dug in my purse and pulled out a business card. I always keep them handy, but they’re convenient for pleasure, also. “My cell phone number’s on the card, and it has voice mail.”

  He gazed at the card for a second, then tucked it in his jeans pocket. “You can bet on it." He turned to re-enter the store, saying over his shoulder, “Now, don’t you believe a word Katy tells you about me. That hayride last summer was just an accident waiting to happen." He winked just before the door closed. But my mood was already dimming once again. Obviously, he and Katy had dated. I’d never much cared for the thought of her castoffs.

  It doesn’t matter, I thought to myself as I drove back to the jail. I’m not in the market for a man anyway. I giggled and stroked Trucker’s muzzle when he nuzzled my ear. “Even a man who runs a market that sells T-bones, huh, Trucker?”