Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2)

by Skully, Jennifer

  She’d morphed from ferocious feline to whimpering child so quickly moisture sprang to Brax’s eyes. His skin prickled as if someone walked over his grave. “She’s not going to be mad, Maggie. She’s going to be sad. Let’s go home and get you cleaned up.”

  “You don’t think Whitey killed him? I can’t leave if he did.”

  Brax eyed the man’s white beard and scrawny chest. “Nah, Whitey didn’t kill him. It was somebody else, somebody we don’t know.”

  Behind him, someone gasped. Had to be Chloe.

  “Maybe it was the book. I forgot all about it.” Maggie suddenly wore the most beatific look of hope.

  Brax hated to crush it. “Nobody kills anybody over a book.”

  “It’s a first edition.” The chicken with nothing to do but watch uttered that. Cotton Candy? She’d need a good lecture about the art of talking a jumper off a window ledge.

  Maggie started pointing and jabbering. “See, see. It could be.”

  “Listen to me, Maggie. The book isn’t important.”

  Another interpretive whisper in Brax’s ear: “Carl could have sold it on eBay for a thousand dollars.” Which explained why Carl had Death Game in his desk drawer. It had to be the same book Maggie referred to.

  The sound of crunching rocks once more issued forth from Whitey’s mouth.

  The chicken clucking in his ear was starting to fray Brax’s nerves, but he needed the info. “He says he’s still got author copies left, and he doesn’t need the thousand dollars because he got six figures on his last advance.”

  Brax whipped his head around to stare at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Whitey. Waldo Whitehead.”

  The old geezer sitting on his butt in the gravel was bestselling science-fiction writer Waldo Whitehead? Jesus. That was the name Maggie used when Brax first climbed out of his car.

  What the hell did it matter now except to bring Maggie back to the real world? “Honey, listen to him. He’s got more money than Carl ever dreamed of, and he’s got a whole box of Death Game in his house. He didn’t need the one Carl had.”

  Whitey, a.k.a. Waldo Whitehead, nodded his head vigorously in agreement.

  “So let the nice chickens go, and we’ll go home, okay?” Brax pleaded.

  “But what about Carl?” she moaned. “Somebody pushed him off the trail. I can’t let them get away with it.”

  Everyone stared, four pairs of chicken eyes, a mother hen, a rooster who’d lost his cockscomb while sitting on his ass in the gravel. And Maggie. Brax’s broken down sister.

  To lie or not to lie, that is the question.

  “Sheriff Teesdale and I are going up the trail tomorrow morning. We’ll look for evidence. I swear to you, Maggie, I will not sweep this under the rug. I’ll do right by you and Carl. I promise.”

  After interminable moments, she let the chickens lead her to him. His damn hands shook as he put his arm around her shoulders and tucked her close. The passenger side door stood open, and he helped her climb inside, strapped her in carefully, then shut the door. Chloe hoisted herself into the backseat.

  “Somebody murdered him?” Caramel?

  Brax gave them all a nod. “Most likely.”

  “We’ll boil the asshole in oil.” Maybe Cotton Candy.

  “We’ll draw and quarter the bastard.”

  “We’ll cut his balls off.” He was sure that was Chocolate.

  He’d never known chickens could be such a bloodthirsty lot. Brax held up his hands in supplication. “Enough or I’ll have to haul you all in for vigilantism.”

  Beyond them, Waldo Whitehead still sat in the gravel as if he’d lost the use of his legs. Brax strode to him. Waldo “Whitey” Whitehead, supplier of skull license plate frames and author of New York Times bestselling science-fiction novels. Brax stuck out his hand and hauled the man to his feet.

  “How much were you going to charge Carl for the outhouses?”

  “It was the percentage we were haggling over. I wanted fifty-five and he wanted fifty-five.”

  Amazingly, Brax understood every word, as if there were a phantom chicken at his ear interpreting. Or Whitey merely affected the garble for incomprehensible reasons. “Why didn’t you settle for fifty-fifty?”

  Whitey dusted off the seat of his worn trousers. “What’s the fun in that?”

  The scrawny man might have gotten the jump on the much beefier Carl if he’d charged him from the rear. But what would have been the fun in that? Outhouse haggling would be over with the snap of a finger.

  “What about the first edition?”

  “I only wanted to sign it. Can’t stand one of them being out there unsigned, though I know there’s a million anyway.”

  “How badly did you want that signature on it?”

  Whitey stroked his beard, then opened his musty brown eyes wide. “How badly do you think, son?”

  Brax had read in some magazine, probably while waiting in the dentist’s office, that Waldo Whitehead’s last book contract had topped the million mark. Murder was about money, desire, love, greed, fear, pain, envy, or a host of other strong emotions. Except on the part of the occasional serial killer, it wasn’t about fun.

  Waldo hadn’t needed money. More than likely, he’d needed to wage the war with Carl for his own amusement. Innate logic dictated that Waldo wouldn’t do away with his entertainment source. “Badly enough to hold out on those outhouses, I’d wager.”

  The old man smiled, the barest of crinkles at his eyes and a forehead smooth enough to make Brax wonder at his age. “Gonna miss that boy something fierce. Think I’ll name my next hero after him. Carlsonicus Felmanicus. Whatd’ya think?”

  “Nice ring. I think Carl would like that.”

  Like Teesdale, Whitehead had chosen a different path, where Twinkie wrappers and outhouses symbolized a better life. Life out of the fast lane. Minus the pressure.

  Brax envied them.

  He might be making another monumental mistake, but in his judgment, Whitey didn’t fit the killer profile.

  Brax slapped his hand on the hood as he rounded the front of his SUV, then turned back. “If any of you think of something important, the slightest detail, call Sheriff Teesdale.”

  The word would be all over town before the sun came up. By tomorrow morning, everyone in Goldstone would know Carl hadn’t merely fallen to his death. He’d been murdered.

  * * * * *

  Maggie spent the five-minute drive with her head against the window. She snuffled, sniffled, wiped at her nose and her eyes, then started all over again.

  Brax didn’t know how to help her.

  Chloe did more for her than he could by leaning forward from her backseat position and slowing rubbing Maggie’s arm. Up and down, up and down. It mesmerized his peripheral vision.

  A convertible sat in his spot at the top of the drive. Brax pulled in next to it and cut the engine. He unbuckled Maggie’s seat belt as Chloe climbed out and opened the door where Maggie rested her head.

  “Come on, sweetie,” Chloe crooned like the mother hen she so obviously was.

  Brax took Maggie’s other arm, and together they led her to the front door. It opened before they reached it.

  Light spilled out, silhouetting a tall, gangly figure.

  Jason Lafoote, hotelier. The object of Carl’s animosity the night before he died. What the hell was he doing here?

  Maggie turned her head to murmur in Brax’s ear. No chicken whisper, the sound chilled his bones. “That man did it. He pushed Carl. I know it. I feel it. It’s all because of him.”

  She was calm. She was sure. Her voice was damn scary. The level of menace in her tone churned in his belly.

  Lafoote stepped forward with the most abject look of sorrow and sympathy that had ever graced a Hollywood screen. Ariana Chandler couldn’t have done better.

  “Maggie, my poor, dear woman.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “I had to rush over and offer my condolences. This is the most terrible of terrible t
hings.”

  Maggie let him touch her without recoiling, but Brax felt the instinctive flexing in her arm.

  His own instinct told him to drag her away from the sallow, scarecrowlike man.

  The observer in him held back. And watched. He didn’t like himself, was in fact starting to hate the part of him that could so callously analyze his sister’s reactions.

  He’d never know what she’d been about to do because Chloe pulled her away and shot Lafoote a look. “This isn’t the time, Jason. Go away.”

  “But—”

  “I said go.”

  When Madame Chloe meant business, few men disobeyed, Brax was sure, and Lafoote wasn’t one of the brave few who might. He scuttled to his car.

  “Take Maggie inside,” Brax told Chloe, then went after the weasel. He had questions he wanted answers to.

  “Hold on, partner.” He stopped Lafoote before he could throw himself into the front seat and escape.

  Lafoote matched him in height, but Brax was almost twice as wide. The man protected himself in the vee of the car, holding the door in front of him like a shield. “I’m very sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “I apologize for my sister. She’s not thinking clearly.” The best tactic was non-confrontational—until Brax was ready for the slam.

  Lafoote bobbed his head. “Carl’s death is terrible, just terrible. I don’t hold her anger against her.”

  “Yeah. And with Sheriff Teesdale calling it murder, Maggie’s beside herself.”

  “The sheriff thinks Carl was murdered?”

  Brax could have wished for better lighting, but as it was, Lafoote showed appropriate surprise. He could almost see the man’s mind digesting that. “Yep. Pretty damn sure foul play was involved. Course, I had to tell the sheriff about that disagreement I witnessed the other night.”

  Lafoote cocked his head. “What disagreement?”

  Again, the reaction seemed fitting. Either the man was one hell of an actor, or he didn’t remember. “At The Dartboard. Thought you and Carl might knock each other’s blocks off.”

  It registered. Lafoote blinked. “Well, that was just a friendly game. I’m surprised you’d call it a disagreement.”

  “Carl seemed to think you were pissed as hell at him for not backing you on getting that resort open. Pissed. As. Hell.” He wanted Lafoote off-kilter. “Had to tell the sheriff it seemed like more than a mere disagreement.”

  “Well, well—” Lafoote sputtered.

  Brax waved him off. “Didn’t seem too friendly to me, but I’m sure Sheriff Teesdale will ask you all about it tomorrow.” He scratched his neck. “What’s got him really curious is why you and Carl were at the bank together yesterday. Right before Carl got himself killed.” It was a long shot, but there was nothing that said a cop couldn’t make up a few stories to rattle a suspect’s cage.

  Lafoote took a long time answering. Another telltale sign. Sometimes, a suspect had to really think about his answer. Innocent, confused people usually blurted out, Huh?

  “I really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  An inconclusive answer. “You weren’t with Carl yesterday?”

  Lafoote blinked over extraordinarily black eyes. “No.”

  “Where were you then?”

  Another pause. Too long. Maybe he couldn’t remember a day ago. Then: “I was in my office mostly. I had a lot of calls to make.”

  “Hmm,” Brax muttered, then stared the other man down for several seconds. “I’m sure the sheriff will talk to you about that tomorrow, too. So you might want to get hold of some phone records to prove it.”

  Lafoote jangled his keys. “Of course, I’d be more than happy to talk to the sheriff. And answer any questions he has which might help find the dastardly culprit. If Carl really was murdered. I’ll let you get back to Maggie.”

  That was a funny thing. Most people would have asked why the sheriff was interested in what they’d been doing when Carl died. Lafoote just wanted out. Interesting.

  Watching Lafoote’s car disappear at the bottom of the hill, Brax’s instinct was to follow, see what he got up to. But Brax had deserted Maggie one too many times tonight, with disastrous results. Tomorrow, Mom would be here and Maggie could be in no better hands.

  Besides, he’d set the stage for Teesdale to do a little probing tomorrow. If Lafoote had anything to do with Carl’s death, he’d be a stark raving lunatic by the morning wondering what the sheriff had on him.

  He found Della, Chloe and his sister in the living room.

  Della tipped Maggie’s chin. “Drink your tea, sweetie.” The woman had found her backbone once more.

  “What did Lafoote really want?” Brax needed to know.

  Della patted Maggie’s back as she spoke over her head. “What he said. Condolences. Even Jason Lafoote will at least wait until tomorrow to try to turn this to his advantage.”

  Brax had a gut feeling Lafoote wanted something far more. Maybe to hide his own complicity by visiting his victim’s widow?

  “Someone murdered Carl, Della.” Maggie hiccupped.

  “Nonsense, honey. Carl fell.”

  “Elwood doesn’t think so.”

  Della jerked her head to look at Chloe. “Why not?”

  Chloe pointedly flashed her gaze to Maggie’s tearstained, ravaged face. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  The Elvis clock hit the midnight mark, bursting into a shortened, tinny rendition of “Viva Las Vegas.” Brax was suddenly so damn tired. He’d never been so glad to have two women hovering around his sister as he was when the worst day of Maggie’s life finally gave up the ghost.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You okay?”

  As soon as she’d heard Brax’s voice, Simone took the portable phone into the bathroom, locked herself in, and sat on her fluffy chenille toilet seat cover.

  “I’m fine. How’s Maggie?”

  “Not so good. Mom should be here tomorrow. She’ll know the right thing to say.”

  Simone ached inside for the weary sound of his voice. If she could have wrapped his pain up in her arms and made it all better, she would have. Honest to God. She didn’t know any more than he did how to fix things for Maggie.

  “Don’t let your mother give you any crap,” he said.

  Give her crap? Her mother? “Never.”

  “You’re beautiful just the way you are.”

  She appreciated the sentiment, but it was like saying, I accept you with all your faults. She didn’t want him to think she had any faults. Even though she did.

  “You’re beautiful and desirable, and the way you smile turns me inside out.” His voice was a sweet purr in her ear. “And you’re gorgeous without a speck of makeup.”

  She put a hand to her bare cheek, then her lips. “Not even lipstick?”

  “Perfect without it, like I said. But lipstick does have its uses for appropriate activities.”

  “Like what?” Lipstick on the dipstick? Or the ice-cream cone? Or...

  “I’ll have to show you. Some things require demonstration.”

  Oh my. She had her own vision right there across the phone line.

  “I need to give you a heads-up.” His voice changed, from softly seductive to no-nonsense sheriff.

  She felt a twinge in her chest. Bad news cometh.

  “It’s going to be all over town tomorrow that I believe Carl was murdered.”

  She’d forgotten. Well, not forgotten, but she’d put that slip of time they’d talked about Carl in a corner of her mind where she didn’t have to look at it. Or think about it.

  “Tomorrow Teesdale and I are going up to the spot where Carl allegedly fell. So I won’t be around to take any of the fallout off your shoulders.”

  “Fallout from what?”

  “Your mother.”

  Oh, he was sweet. Thinking about her at a time like this, when his sister’s husband had been murdered. Tears oozed at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll be fine. Brax, I—”

 
; “Yeah?”

  She’d been about to blurt the unblurtable. That she loved him. Silly. It wasn’t the time. And he’d think it was some post-traumatic stress thing anyway. “I’m really sorry about Maggie and Carl. But thanks for everything tonight.”

  He chuckled. “You don’t have to thank me for giving you two great orgasms. The pleasure was all mine. Not to mention the one you gave me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Even with distance between them, her cheeks flamed, because she had meant that, among other things. “I was talking about, well, you know, how you sort of defended me. When my mother arrived.”

  “There’s nothing to defend. Remember that, okay.” His voice grated with a hard edge. “You’re perfect.”

  Just the way I am? She managed not to beg to hear it again. “I’ll remember.”

  “Goodnight, Simone.”

  He was gone before she even had time to say goodbye. She blew him a kiss anyway.

  Then someone pounded on the thin bathroom door. “Simone. How can you have only one bathroom in this place? It’s uncivilized. I have to remove my makeup and perform my nightly regimen.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute, MOTHER.” Simone didn’t have a nightly regimen. Besides, as her mother had pointed out, her makeup was already gone.

  She quickly took care of necessities, washed her hands, then brushed her teeth. Over two minutes before she opened the door. Her mother stood outside, tapping the toe of her feather-trimmed mule. She’d already changed into an elaborate golden robe that cascaded down her figure and swirled at her ankles. She should have been a forties starlet.

  “All yours.” Simone smiled brightly.

  “Is there any mold in the shower?”

  “I squirted it down before you came. Should all be dead as a doornail by now.”

  “That is not funny, Simone,” her mother said, closing the door.

  “I thought it was.” Kingston laughed heartily from the living room as he shook out a sheet with which to cover her ratty couch. “Jackie, since you did such a good job making your mother’s bed, why don’t you help me?”

  “I’ll do it, Kingston,” Simone offered. Jackie was a guest, after all, not a servant. And her sister had already had to put the extra-thread-count sheets on the master bed.