Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t grabbed me.” Roxanne resorted back to whispering as if every person in the funeral home wasn’t straining to hear, wasn’t leaning toward them like palm trees caught in a hurricane wind.

  “Just because you didn’t get your way—” Malcolm glanced around the filled-to-capacity- foyer, then shook his head. “Never mind.” He took hold of her arm once again and dragged her toward the door. The sooner he got her out of here the better.

  “Wait.” Roxanne planted the rubber soles of her combat boots on the old yellow carpet.

  Malcolm stopped. “What now?”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that the state arranged such a fine funeral for a man with no family or background?”

  “How do you know Valentine had no family?”

  “I read the sheriff’s report, remember? Harlow did a thorough background check on Valentine the day he set foot in Jefferson County. But that still doesn’t answer my question. Don’t you think it’s strange he has such an expensive send off?”

  A muscle in his jaw clenched, but Malcolm managed, by some miracle, to keep his calm. “It’s just our way.”

  “Don’t feed me that southern hospitality crap. I’ve already eaten.” She jerked free of his grasp and darted down the narrow hallway.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She turned around, but continued to walk backwards. “To get to the bottom of this.” She turned again, then disappeared into one of the offices.

  “Roxanne! Wait!” Malcolm was behind her in a second, following her to the office of John Fulton, owner and director of the Fulton Family Funeral Home. Leave it to Roxanne to go straight to the top.

  Fulton was a small man with thick, dark-rimmed glasses and a red, green, and gold striped tie as faded and ugly as last year’s Christmas wrapping paper. He stared pale-faced at a creased business card—no doubt forced upon him by Roxanne—as Malcolm entered the office.

  Fulton looked up with his incredibly magnified eyes as Malcolm barged into his office.

  “Malcolm.” Fulton nodded politely, then belatedly remembering his manners, he stood.

  “John,” Malcolm greeted in return, then took Roxanne by the arm once again. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  When he would have propelled her back out of the office, Roxanne dug in her heels once again and refused to budge. Damn her and those rubber soled boots.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” she asked.

  Fulton swallowed hard.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Malcolm said before the smaller man could answer. Once again he pressed Roxanne toward the door.

  “Does the state usually provide such elaborate funerals for common drifters?”

  “Roxanne.” Malcolm had had just about enough of playing Colombo meets the Three Stooges. He needed to get her out of there before she disrupted not only this service but any other one in the works. He managed to dislodge her boots and herded her toward the door.

  “Who really paid to bury Jamie Valentine, Mr. Fulton?”

  “John.” Malcolm nodded at the director.

  “Malcolm.”

  Still keeping one hand firmly locked around Roxanne’s arm, Malcolm shut the office door behind them.

  “This is starting to become an annoying habit of yours.” Roxanne looked pointedly at Malcolm’s fingers as he paraded her down the hall. “I was just starting to get some answers.”

  “He looked like he thought you were going to shoot him.”

  She frowned her disagreement at him. “All I needed was a little time. I could have warmed him to the prospect of an interview. But you don’t want me to know, do you?”

  “Don’t want you to know what?” he stalled.

  “Don’t play stupid. You don’t want me to know who paid for Valentine’s going away party. But you know, don’t you?”

  He thought it best not to answer that one.

  “And you’ll never tell me.”

  “What difference does it make who paid for the funeral?”

  “A lot, maybe. What if the killer paid for the funeral? Say, because he felt guilty.”

  Malcolm shot her a look he hoped would squelch any more of her crazy ideas.

  “It’s possible.” She paused, he suspected purely for effect. “And of course, the more you don’t say, the more it looks like you have something to hide.”

  Malcolm stopped. Enough was enough. He had had it up to his ears with her insinuations and theories. “Truman Silverstone paid for the funeral, but he did not kill Jamie Valentine.”

  “Then why is he footing the bill?”

  Malcolm shrugged and started to walk once again. “Valentine did some work for him this spring.”

  “Funerals are expensive. Why would Silverstone spend his own money to bury Valentine if not out of guilt?”

  “Roxanne, you have a lot to learn about the south. First of all, money’s not the king around here; Elvis is, and Truman’s got plenty of that less-than-royal riches to spend however he chooses.”

  “Old money?”

  “You reporters never give up do you?”

  Her lips curled upward and despite his anger, he felt himself melting at the genuine warmth and mischievous honesty of her smile. “Never.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Truman is a former governor of Tennessee,” Malcolm said as they reached the glass doors that led to the outside. “He’s in his seventies. He has no motive.”

  “Malcolm.”

  He turned to see Della, Truman’s wife, walking toward them. The willowy ash blonde looked to be the quintessential wife of a politician in her two piece designer suit with big gold buttons and earrings to match. Her hair was swept back out of her perfectly shaped, perfectly made up oval face and artfully pinned into an elegant French twist.

  These days Della was looking even better than usual. She had recently fought and won a bout with depression. Since those unhappy months, she had put on a few extra pounds and seemed much more at peace than she had in a long time.

  Della leaned forward and extended her hands, kissing Malcolm at the corner of his mouth, a little too near for proper public decorum, but far enough away to keep up appearances.

  “Della,” Malcolm said, taking her hands into his own. “I didn’t expect to see you around town today. I thought you’d be at home planning for the big weekend.”

  “Last minute details, you know.”

  Malcolm nodded. “The weather man over in Jackson said the hurricane is supposed to hit the coast tonight. It’s going to rain for sure.”

  “We’ll have clear skies by the time the party starts. I absolutely refuse for it to rain out Truman’s birthday party.” She looked at Roxanne, unasked questions forming in her hazel eyes.

  “Della, I’d like you to meet Roxanne Ackerman. She’s a reporter from Chicago.”

  Della paled beautifully. In fact, she did everything beautifully. “Chicago?”

  “Roxanne, this is Della Silverstone.”

  “Silverstone? As in Truman Silverstone? As in the daughter of the man who paid for Jamie Valentine’s send off?”

  Della smiled beautifully—if not a bit indulgently. “Wife,” she corrected. “It was the least we could do.” She turned her attention back to Malcolm. “You are coming early on Saturday, aren’t you? Truman’s expecting you for supper. The other guests won’t be arriving until eight, and he’s looking forward to your own private celebration.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t forget,” Della chided, playfully wagging her finger at him. “Seven o’clock sharp.”

  “I won’t,” he promised. “See you then.”

  “Chummy,” Roxanne muttered as Della walked away. “Any reason you get the VIP treatment?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Ackerman.”

  “You’ve got lipstick on your face, Daniels.”

  Funny thing. To Malcolm, Roxanne sounded almost jealous. Then her ton
e changed entirely. “Malcolm, that’s the car. From the service station. Della’s getting into the Cadillac that was at the Gas and Stop yesterday.”

  Malcolm folded his lipstick-stained handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket. “I know.”

  “You know? What do you mean, you know?”

  “There are three Cadillacs in Jefferson County, Roxanne, and all of them belong to Truman Silverstone.”

  Della waved and turned out of the parking lot.

  “I take it she does too.”

  There was that jealous edge again.

  “Watch yourself and your big city ways. That’s my stepmother.”

  “Yeah?” Roxanne shot him a disbelieving look. “She looks young enough to be your lover.”

  “Not really.”

  “Any younger and you’d be going to jail, my friend.”

  “She’s not really my stepmother,” Malcolm clarified.

  “Now that makes sense.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Roxanne looked up and down the almost deserted street.

  Two old men chewing tobacco, whittling and playing dominoes in the town square. Gus Harlow’s ancient bird dog ambling along. The big pothole in front of the old courthouse that Lester Voyles called home. Jefferson County probably seemed like a death sentence to her after the hustle and bustle of Chicago.

  But to his surprise, Roxanne smiled and tucked her arm in the crook of his. She batted her eyelashes and said in a horrible southern belle drawl, “Ah have nuttin’ but time, sugga’. Why don’t y’all buy me a mint julep and tell me all about it?”

  Chapter Five

  One-Eyed Jack’s didn’t serve mint juleps, but according to Daniels they served the coldest beer in Jefferson County. In fact, they served the only beer in Jefferson County.

  The small building sat on the edge of town and was enclosed in white aluminum siding and decorated with multi-colored strands of leftover Christmas lights. The inside was primarily lit with the neon beer signs that flashed behind the bar and the dim bulbs covered with colored-plastic, Tiffany-styled shades that hung over the pool tables. Toby Keith crooned “Who’s Your Daddy” from the jukebox that sat in one corner and a square pole with a dart board attached to one side bisected the middle of the postage-stamp dance floor. There were only a few people in Jack’s at this early hour, but Roxanne was certain the atmosphere in the small bar would pick up a little later.

  “So tell me how Della Silverstone is not really your stepmother,” she prompted after the bleached blonde waitress popped the cap off their beers. Daniels grabbed the bottles by their necks then directed Roxanne toward the far table. The chairs were mismatched, and the table rocked back and forth as he set down their drinks. “You’re not Truman’s illegitimate love child, are you?”

  “You know, you sound suspiciously like a tabloid reporter.”

  “Sorry.” She shrugged and took a drink. “Old habits and all. I was only trying to make small talk. So how are you and Silverstone related?”

  “No comment.”

  “You know, you sound suspiciously like a politician.”

  “Then we’re even.”

  He took a drink of his beer, and Roxanne wondered if he was always this uptight. It was after five, and his tie was still knotted tightly around his throat. Despite the unbearable humidity, his shirt still appeared crisp and well-starched, his dark gray slacks still finely creased. He had taken off his suit coat when they were in his office, but that was as informal as he had gotten. He probably never relaxed. God, he was so much like Pierce. Both men took life so seriously that they forgot to live. Then why was she so attracted to him?

  She needed to put a stop to those thoughts right now and get down to business. If she was going to prove she didn’t kill Jamie Valentine, then two things needed to happen. First, she had to forget how handsome her southern counsel was and second, said counsel was going to have to give her some information on her number one suspect: Truman Silverstone.

  Break the ice. Get them talking about themselves, and it’ll take a bucket to hold all of the information that’ll spew from them. That’s what Newland always said.

  Roxanne eased back in her chair and tried to appear nonchalant. “Have you ever been married, Daniels?”

  He raised a brow at her personal question, his brown eyes hooded behind those lawyerly specs. “No comment.”

  “Ever want to be married?”

  “No comment.”

  “Wanna go outside and have kinky sex on the hood of your car?”

  Even as she said the words she wished she could call them back. The image of them locked together—naked … half-naked … semi-naked … whatever—on the hood of his boring gray sedan flashed through her mind—and stayed. Damn. She had just meant to shake him up a bit. Instead, she’d almost given herself a heart attack.

  He took a quick drink of his beer. “No comment.”

  Wiping all traces of the sedate German make from her mind, she gave a frustrated, yet exaggerated sigh as she braced her elbows against the chipped Formica tabletop.

  “You know, I thought you were different,” Roxanne said. “You walked into my cell this afternoon wearing your perfectly pressed suit, and I thought to myself, ‘Roxanne, your butt is saved. This man is going to help you.’ But you’re no different than the rest.” She gestured vaguely toward the other, very few patrons of Jack’s.

  “I assume this is where I’m supposed to ask, ‘Just what do you mean by that, Roxanne?’”

  “It would be nice.” She nodded.

  “Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath, then pasted a falsely bright, totally innocent look on his face. “Just what do you mean by that, Roxanne?”

  “You didn’t hear how quiet the bar got when we walked in? Everyone in this place is whispering and wondering, but no one would actually dare to talk to the ‘murderess.’ Now you’re not even talking to me. ‘No comment.’ Jeez.”

  “I don’t want to be interviewed,” he said, then took another drink.

  She shot him her best Innocent Bystander look. “Interviewed?”

  “You want information about Truman, and I’m not willing to give it to you.”

  “C’mon, Daniels, what does your marital status have to do with Truman?”

  “I know the routine. However, let’s-get-to-know-each-other-and-while-you’re-at-it-spill-your-guts techniques do not work on me.”

  Roxanne tried to look offended. “Is that what you think I was trying to do? Well, you’re wrong. I was just trying to make small talk.”

  “And in fear of repeating myself I must tell you that you’re a terrible liar.”

  He was right. She was a bad liar and now that he had seen through this ploy, she had to think of another approach and fast.

  “You think you’re being interviewed? Then, you ask the questions.”

  “Is this some new technique?”

  “I just want to relax and talk. Surely there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Right.” Daniels leaned back in his hard-backed chair and crossed his arms in front of him.

  Evidently now was not the time to gain any answers. She would have to wait, be patient, and maybe soon her chance to question him would come. If not, maybe a chance to escape him would arrive instead.

  She swallowed a long pull of her beer and watched as her ultra-conservative attorney followed suit. Then to her surprise, he loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  Roxanne leaned back in her chair and felt the cold brew go to work erasing her tension, or at least some of it. She wished—or was it the beer? Maybe it was stress—that the man across from her would continue his innocent little strip tease. Ease his suspenders down, completely remove his tie, unbutton those dark slacks and reveal … boxer shorts. Malcolm B. Daniels IV probably wore silk boxer shorts that matched his tie. The thought was disturbingly erotic.

  “Let’s talk,” Roxanne croaked and took another drink.

  “About what?” He ga
ve her a look that clearly said, you know the rules.

  “You’re my attorney. Let’s talk about my case.”

  “We have a prelim on Monday. What else is there for me to say?”

  “Tell me you’ll help me find the real murderer.”

  He took a deep breath as if preparing to give her the same spiel all over again. “Roxanne, this is not Perry Mason. I’m a lawyer, not an investigator.”

  “But it’s the only way—”

  “No, it’s not. The system works. You’ll see. I talked to the manager of the convenience store. The employee who was working the night you stopped there has Fridays and Saturdays off. His manager gave me his personal phone numbers, but he has yet to answer. I’ve left him a message, and I’ll call him back tomorrow. Once I talk to him, we’ll establish the time you weren’t in Jefferson County and therefore could not have killed Jamie Valentine. All we have to do is be patient and wait.”

  “And how are you going to explain the fact that I had possession of the murder weapon?”

  “That’s all the state has, Roxanne.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Patience,” he repeated.

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s been punt kicked onto the set of Deliverance.”

  Whether or not the system actually worked was a moot point as far as she was concerned. It might work for some of the people some of the time, but Roxanne couldn’t imagine the good citizens of Jefferson County letting her—the Yankee with a gun—just walk away scot-free. Daniels could be Perry Mason and Matlock all rolled into one, but she was going to jail. She just knew it. Her only hope was to find the real killer and prove her innocence. It sure beat the hell out of just taking it lying down. And as an added bonus, she might just come out of this with one peach of a story.

  She leaned forward across the table, toward Daniels. “What would you say if I told you I know who killed Jamie Valentine?”

  “I would say you’ve had one beer too many, and it’s time for us to leave.” He acted as if he were about to do just that, but Roxanne stopped him, reaching across the small table and catching his hand in her own.