by Emmy Grace
“Hi, Petey. It’s Lucky Boucher. Is Clive around?”
“No, he’s out at Old McDonald’s farm, helping him get his turkeys back in their pen. They’re scattered all across the road down there, holding up traffic. He thinks somebody tampered with the door to the coop so that it wouldn’t close right. Something I can help you with?”
I have so much to say about that whole explanation that I don’t really know where to start. I go with the thing that is forefront in my mind. Sadly, that’s not a dead body. “There is literally an Old McDonald around here who literally has a farm?”
There is a long pause on the other end of the line, after which Petey gives a short, dry laugh. “Oh, yeah. I guess I never thought of it that way.”
Who in the history of American civilization wouldn’t think of it that way? A big chunk of my development can be attributed to that ancient man. If not for Old MacDonald, I might never have known which animals make what noises.
For a few seconds, I marvel at the prospect, but then my brain returns to the very important matter at hand. A dead body. Lying a few feet away.
Priorities, Lucky. Priorities.
“Uh, Petey, you need to send Clive over here. Something has happened to Mr. Ames.”
“The accountant?”
“Yep.”
“What happened to him?”
“It looks like somebody murdered him.”
Petey’s voice takes on a cynical tone. “How would you know? You’re not a cop. Or a sheriff’s deputy. It takes training to know the difference between a murder and an accident. Or a suicide. Training you don’t have.”
Ouch. Seems like I must’ve touched a nerve.
Intimidated much, Ginger Creep?
“Well, since there’s an axe sticking out of his back, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say someone else put it there. I don’t think he’d do it to himself.”
“There you go again, making assumptions. Just don’t touch anything. I’m on my way. I’ll determine what happened. Not you.”
Ever since the whole “Falling Felon Incident” as Regina and I have become fond of referring to it, Petey has been a bit cool toward me. It’s very unusual for a man to be anything but very nice to and even a bit flirtatious with me (sometimes quite a bit more than “a bit”), but Petey is managing it.
I ponder this.
Maybe there’s something in the water here in Salty Springs that makes men immune to whatever weird attraction has taken hold of their gender since Beebee “blessed” me. The idea of that brings me as much relief as it does consternation.
“Okay, Petey. Just get here.”
I hang up.
“You really are a magnet for trouble, aren’t you?”
I scream at the same moment I jump like someone touched my butt with a cattle prod. I whirl around to find none other than Liam Dunning looking over my shoulder, staring at the very unfortunate Mr. Andrew Ames, Accountant Extraordinaire.
“People get shot for sneaking up on others like that, you know,” I say, punching him on the arm. He doesn’t even flinch; he just brushes over the spot when I’m done like a pesky little fly had landed on his arm.
Stupid muscles!
“Maybe around you they do,” he says snidely.
I notice the way his gray eyes flicker over to me. Very curious.
I’m beginning to suspect that Liam Dunning isn’t as gruff as he likes to appear. I think he just has a sarcastic, snarky, deeply buried kind of humor, so much so that a person has to be a psychological archaeologist to dig it up.
But unless I’m mistaken, I think I just got a glimpse of it. Like the gleam of hidden treasure, peeking out of a sand dune.
Yeah, if I were a betting girl, I’d say that Liam Dunning just made a joke.
Or at least attempted one.
I can’t stop my smile. “Why, Liam Dunning, are you playing nice with me today?”
This time when his eyes slide over to mine, they’re filled with derision. “If I ever decided to play nice with anybody, I wouldn’t start with you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and angle my body toward his. “And just why not? What’s wrong with playing nice with me?”
“You don’t need that kind of encouragement.”
“Encouragement? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t want to encourage you. You know…”
“Good grief,” I say in exasperation. “Being nice to someone isn’t the same as a marriage proposal, Dunning. You do know that, right?”
He doesn’t respond right away. His eyes narrow on me. “Oh, I get it. You’ve never met a man who can resist you, and it’s bothering you. Is that it?”
“What? That’s— I can’t even believe— Of course, I have,” I bluster, turning back to Ames. I’d rather stare at a gruesome corpse than Liam Dunning. I don’t want for him to read my expression.
“Who? What man has ever been able to resist you? I want a name.”
“Well, clearly you don’t have any issues with resisting me. Or being mean to me. How about we start there?”
His only response is to grunt. I don’t turn around to see his face.
An electric zap shoots through my shoulder and my left arm darts up into the air. I smother my squeak of surprise and yank it back down.
“What the devil was that?”
“N-nothing. I…I have a…” I yelp when my arm flies back up again. This time I reach for it with my right hand, drag it down into submission, and hold it across my stomach for good measure. “Never mind.”
He studies me in perplexity for a few seconds before moving on. Even though we haven’t known each other long, he probably already knows that, when it comes to me, sometimes you’re better off not asking too many questions. Just let it go. Whatever it is.
Fortunately, he does.
“So, what happened here?”
“Regina and I were walking by on our way to—” I suck in a breath. “Sweet Mary! Your dad!”
I tear out of the office in a flash, ripping my phone back out of my pocket and fluttering my fingers over the screen as I search for the number to the mayor’s office.
From behind me, I hear Liam’s deep voice. “Hi, Marjorie. Can you tell my father that there’s been a murder downtown and Ms. Boucher won’t be able to make it today?” A pause. “Thanks. You, too.”
I lower my own phone and slowly turn to face Liam. “You’re the most infuriating and presumptuous man I’ve ever met.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He smiles. It’s smug and arrogant and annoying and gorgeous. Beside me, I see my still-green best friend stop and stare, mouth hanging open. I think Tasty Cakes just skyrocketed to the top of her list of possible perfect soul mates.
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“You didn’t have to. You’re easy to read.”
Infuriating.
With lips thinned in irritation, I stomp back inside. Liam isn’t far behind. “You were telling me what happened?”
I take a deep breath and get back on track. “Oh. Right. As Regina and I were walking by, I thought I heard a clattering sound. Like a crash or something. I was going to keep walking, but something told me to come back, so I did. This is how I found him.”
“Did you pass anyone coming out as you entered?”
“Nope.”
“Did you see anyone running out the back?”
“No, but I didn’t go look. I mean, there’s an axed accountant draped over his desk and my friend is trying to throw up her lungs. I didn’t really think it was a good idea to go in search of an angry killer.” I roll my eyes.
I hear Liam mumble something about “smarty,” but I let it go. Because I’m an adult. And that’s what adults do.
I quash the urge to stick my tongue out at him.
“What I can say is that I didn’t hear anything. No mad dashing, no door slamming, no hurried scurrying. Nothing that would indicate a murderer making his escape.”
“Hmmmm.”
> “What’s ‘hmmmm’?”
“Just wondering how he could’ve gotten out so fast. I mean, Andrew can’t have been dead long.” Watching his step, he approaches the body and touches two fingers to his skin. “He’s still warm.”
“Maybe the clattering I heard wasn’t the sound of him being killed.”
“What are you thinking?”
“What if the killer was rummaging around, looking for something?” I scan the room with my eyes. “I haven’t been in here before, but I assume Mr. Ames didn’t always keep his office this messy, am I right?”
Liam glances at the half-opened drawers of the filing cabinet, at the papers scattered around Andrew’s desk, at the desk drawer lying broken on the floor. “Looks like it’s been searched. Andrew was obsessive-compulsive. There was never even a pencil out of place in here. That’s why pretty much everyone in the town trusted him with their financial information. The guy kept meticulous records.”
“Hmmmm.”
This time, it’s Liam who asks, “What’s ‘hmmmm’?”
“Being privy to sensitive information on everyone in town equals a whole lotta suspects.”
“No, not really. Most people around here have nothing to hide. It’s not like Salty Springs is a hotbed of criminal activity.”
“You sure about that? I’ve been here six months and this is the second murder I’ve come across.”
“Maybe that has more to do with you than with the town.”
I shift my weight and pop my hands up onto my hips. Southern sass comes shooting out like bullets from a double barrel shotgun. “Just what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe your luck only extends to you.”
“Are you saying that I make bad things happen around me? That I bring bad luck?”
Liam shrugs one big shoulder. “If the shoe fits…”
“Listen here, mister, you can take that shoe and shove it! I’m a nice—”
Liam holds up a hand to stop me. “Don’t go gettin’ yourself all in a twirl. I’m not saying you do anything on purpose. I’m just saying that trouble might have a tendency to follow you. That’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all?” I’m outraged. Partly because this isn’t the first time I’ve heard such a thing. I am a bit of a magnet for…stuff. Some of it’s good. Some not so much.
I sputter and stammer, but can’t think of a sufficiently cutting (or truthful) reply, so I make a sound. I don’t know really what kind of sound. Something guttural and heathen. Nothing very natural or human. Probably not very ladylike either. But since I already made it and it’s out in the open, I hope it adequately conveys my level of righteous indignation and feminine fury.
I spin away from Liam, cross my arms over my chest, and turn all my attention to poor Andrew Ames. Of course, he’s just lying there quiet as a church mouse, not saying a word. Give me a hint, Andy. Point me in the right direction.
A voice clears behind us, and both Liam and I turn to find a man in the doorway. He’s tall and handsome. Older. Dressed to the nines in a snazzy blue suit. Not one salt or pepper hair is out of place. When he speaks, his voice is firm and commanding.
“What’s going on here?”
“What are you doing here?” It’s Liam who asks.
“I was on my way back from getting coffee at the diner and saw a young lady out front, throwing up. When I asked if she was okay, she just pointed in this direction.”
“Coffee, huh?”
“Yes. Is there a problem with having coffee?”
“Did you already drink it?”
“Pardon?”
“The coffee. You must’ve finished it there, because I don’t see a cup.”
“Oh, uh, I did. Is there something wrong with that, too?”
Liam just nods and studies the man for a couple of seconds. “Cutting it awfully close, aren’t you?”
“Cutting what awfully close?”
I watch the guy’s dark brows draw down. The way he does it, and what it does to his face, is familiar to me. I’ve seen it before. Recently. That’s what tips me off to his identity. He looks a lot like his son.
I step forward, interrupting, and extend my hand. “Cutting it close for our meeting, Mr. Mayor. I’m Lucky Boucher.”
Liam looks on with a scowl as his father shakes my hand. I can see where Liam gets his handsomeness. And his commanding presence. And his wide and varied array of forbidding facial expressions. Liam—William Dunning, Junior—is clearly his father’s son, only his dad has the ability to turn that frown off and a smile on in the blink of an eye. Probably a handy little trick for a man in his position.
“Ms. Boucher,” he coos with a dazzling smile. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you. I’d envisioned this happening under better circumstances, but…” He glances over my shoulder at the corpse behind me. “I can’t say that I’m unhappy to have you on this case. Not only was Andrew Ames a pillar of the community, he was a friend.”
A shadow of sadness falls over William’s features. It looks surprisingly sincere, but I don’t allow myself to be swayed by his grief and compassion. Not yet. He is a politician after all. This is a lot of what they do—manipulate perception to suit their purposes. I might look like a jar full of marshmallow fluff, but I’m not all sugar and air. I don’t fall for a nice smile and some baby-kissin’. At least not anymore. I learned at an early age that people rarely ever show you who they are at first blush. No, you gotta dig a little. Sometimes a lot. And with this guy, I get the feeling I’m just scratching the surface. They don’t call him “Slick Willie” for nothing.
When his words finally interrupt my silent analysis, they bring me up short. “Wait, what? Did you say you aren’t unhappy to have me on the case?”
“I did. Is that a problem?”
“No, I just… I’m not a cop or anything. It just surprises me to hear you say that.”
“It seems you have a good nose for this sort of thing. I can’t authorize you to assist in any official capacity, but I think your insights could be helpful.”
“Oh. Well, thank you, sir.”
He nods. Meanwhile, Liam is standing to my right, glancing back and forth between us. There’s a look of disgust etched into every line of his face.
“So, what do you know so far?” Mayor asks me.
My eyes widen. I feel like a thousand watt spotlight just flicked on and is shining right at me. I even feel a fine sheen of perspiration break out across my forehead. No one has ever actually looked to me for answers before. Certainly not someone in a position of power. Most people view me as a busybody at best, a nuisance at worst. This is a nice change, but it’s unnerving. I might have to start doing those Kegel exercises to strengthen my bladder muscles. Even now, I feel like I need to pee.
“Well, we haven’t been here long, and we think it just happened, so we don’t know much yet.”
In my head, I am Mariska Hargitay, making my brilliant deduction, taking control of the scene. I try to sound confident and certain. I nod definitively. That probably helps. I see it a lot on television. Give them the facts. Nod.
“We?”
“Yes, uh, we. Me. And your son. We.”
The mayor makes a grunting sound, slides a pointed glance at his boy, and then returns that penetrating gaze to me. “Can you tell if anything was taken?”
“Taken? Well, no. It looks like the place has been searched, though. Liam says Mr. Ames was normally very neat, so…” I sweep my arm around at the disarray.
“So you can’t be sure yet if anything was stolen?”
How many different ways can he ask that question?
“No. Not until Clive gets here and they do a search, but even then, I’m not sure who would know.”
“I wouldn’t wait for that,” he says with a laugh. “Clive is a stand-up guy. Been an institution in this town for as long as I can remember, but I think his detecting days are behind him.”
“No offense to Clive, sir, but why do you keep him then?”
“Part of his job is elected, so I have nothing to do with that. The other part… Well, we just don’t have an abundance of crime around here. There hasn’t been a need for a sharp detective in…well, ever. We’ve never needed one.”
But now that there is a need, he comes to me?
I feel myself grow at least three feet as my spine straightens. In this very second, my passion is colliding with purpose. A beloved hobby with something more. And, man, are the fireworks beautiful! “Sir, I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of this. Don’t you worry.”
I all but salute him and declare, “Lucky Boucher is on the case.”
I don’t say that, but nevertheless, she is. It’s been ten minutes and already I’m like a dog with a bone. I won’t rest until this mystery is solved.
3
William Dunning claps me on the left shoulder. I feel a twitch, twitch, twitch, and then nothing. I think he just killed the stimulator. “I appreciate that, Ms. Boucher.”
“Lucky, please.”
“Lucky,” he corrects. “And you’ll keep me informed every step of the way, right?”
“Of course.”
“As the mayor of this town, I make it my business to know how things like this are progressing.” I nod in agreement. I can respect that. Maybe this man isn’t all conniving politician. “I’d like daily updates. Especially if you discover that anything was stolen.”
The respect that had just begun to blossom, like a teeny tiny flower in the sun? It’s wilting. Fast.
This man has hinted at stolen property, what, three times since he’s been here? My antennae are twitching like a rabid rabbit’s whiskers.
“Is there something particular you think a person might’ve been after, Mr. Mayor?”
He rushes to answer. Maybe rushes a smidge too much. “Oh, no. I can’t think of anything. I mean, Andrew was well liked. I just can’t imagine anyone hurting him over something personal. What he did have, though, was a lot of financial information on the townsfolk. In my mind, it makes the most sense that that is what someone would’ve been after.”
“Do you know of anyone in particular whose finances might need to remain hidden? Someone who would kill to keep them secret?”