Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

“Hear me out.”

  He looked down at their entwined fingers. “All right. Who killed Jamie Valentine?”

  “Truman Silverstone.”

  Daniels jerked his hand from hers. “Roxanne, I don’t have the time or the stomach for this nonsense.”

  “How do you explain his Caddy at the service station the morning the gun was planted in my car?”

  “He was buying gas.”

  The words came at Roxanne through clenched teeth, but she pressed on. “And while he was at the pumps and no one else was around, he just happened to shove a hot .357 under my seat.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But—”

  “Truman has no motive.” He slapped his palm against the rickety table. “Let’s get something straight right now. If it hadn’t been for Truman Silverstone, I would have ended up in foster care. For the first time in years, he’s happy. So I’m happy too, you got that?”

  “Yeah, everybody’s happy. But I have this feeling ... ”

  “Feeling?” he snorted. “Great careers—great lives—have been ruined because some two-bit reporter had a feeling.”

  “A good reporter always follows her hunches.”

  “Truman has no motive,” Daniels said again. The words held such conviction that Roxanne wondered if he was trying to convince her, or himself.

  She propped her chin in her hand and met angry brown eyes. She shouldn’t have mentioned her suspicions. Daniels was too intimately involved with the Silverstones. She had gone too far. That had always been her problem—according to her father. She didn’t know when to quit and that separated her from the “real reporters.” Or at least that was what he’d told her the last time they’d argued … er, talked. And that was why she couldn’t get a “real job” and had to work for a “rag.”

  She pushed those thoughts away. She had more important things to worry about right now rather than the same ol’, same ol’ with her father. There was still the little problem of getting the charges dropped. If her own lawyer didn’t believe her, how would she be able to convince a judge? Or, God forbid, a jury?

  “I’m sunk, aren’t I?”

  “You’re not sunk. The charges will be dismissed on Monday.”

  Roxanne wished she had his confidence. But what if this was how her trouble-causing days came to a screeching halt? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust his legal expertise. But the way the books were written and the way small towns operated were worlds apart.

  Roxanne took a drink of her beer as Malcolm sat in silence, peeling the label off his own bottle.

  “Listen, Roxanne. Due to the glaring incompetence of our local deputy, you and I are stuck with each other until Monday morning. It’s going to be a long four days if you don’t drop your Agatha Christie routine and just wait this time out. That is, unless you want to spend the weekend in Lester Voyles’s basement?”

  The buzz of a chain saw and scenes from B-movies flickered across her mind’s eye. “Fine,” she grumped. “You won’t hear another word from me about Jamie Valentine.”

  “I’ll count on that.”

  Roxanne propped her chin in her hand and tried to think of her best plan of action. Of course, she had lied to Malcolm about not talking about Jamie Valentine. But that was neither here nor there as far as she was concerned. After all, it was her freedom at stake, and she had to do whatever she could to protect it. Surely a lawyer wouldn’t begrudge her a teeny-weeny white lie. But for now, alienating her attorney was not her smartest move.

  “Friends?” She extended her hand toward him, fighting the grin that twitched at the corners of her mouth.

  “You’re my client.”

  “Clients can’t be friends? It must get pretty lonely here in JC.”

  He hesitated a full two minutes. “Friends.” Almost reluctantly, he accepted her unspoken challenge and reached out to take her hand.

  His fingers were warm, barely callused as if he did just enough work to remind himself that he was from a simple place with simple values. His hand was strong and secure, making Roxanne wish he could take all of her into his grasp and keep her safe. No. That wasn’t it at all. It was just the stress of being arrested for murder. He was too much like her father and way too much like Pierce. She had to keep that in mind.

  Roxanne pulled her hand from his, then tried to devise a plan—any plan—that might help her find out more about the murder. There had to be some way she could gain the information she needed. She wasn’t about to go down without a fight. And if she didn’t do something, she was on her way up the river, or wherever it was they took dangerous female prisoners in Tennessee.

  She glanced around the bar. Would this be the place they celebrated her last days before they hauled her off to prison? Would One-Eyed Jack’s, Jefferson County, Tennessee, be among her last memories of the outside? God, she hoped not. She hated this little town and everything she had seen in it thus far.

  Please, if there is a God in heaven, don’t let me have to stay here. And if there’s not …

  “Have faith, Roxanne,” Daniels said as if he could read her thoughts.

  The music from the jukebox turned soft, the new song a slow, R&B ballad. A sudden wave of homesickness washed over Roxanne. Chicago: home of the Cubs, brats, and the Blues. Suddenly—more than she ever had since she’d entered this godforsaken town—Roxanne felt vulnerable, helpless, and lonely. She glanced across the table to study her southern counselor. He was her only friend in the town and if all went well on Monday, he would also be her savior. But if it didn’t …

  “Dance with me, Malcolm,” she softly invited.

  He visibly swallowed, then shook his head.

  “Why not? We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends can surely dance.”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m going to dance without you.” Roxanne drained the rest of her beer and stood. She moved toward the dance floor, glanced back at him once, then lifted her arms toward the ceiling. Her eyes drifted closed as she moved her hips with the slow beat, barely shuffling her feet in time with the sad guitars. She forgot about the dartboard, and the fact that she was alone on the dance floor in a podunk bar in Western Tennessee.

  Monday could find her back in the county jail—or worse. She still had right now, and right now she wanted to dance.

  • • •

  Malcolm tried to tear his eyes away from Roxanne’s slim swaying hips and the long length of her slender legs, but he couldn’t. He tried to tell himself that she had disappeared one too many times for him to even think about taking his eyes off of her now. And he believed it too … for a while. But deep down, he wanted to watch her. Just what was it about this Yankee reporter that made him feel like he was sixteen again? Even something as simple as his Christian name on her lips stirred feelings inside him. Ones he hadn’t felt in years. Not since Amanda had died.

  Roxanne continued to dance looking gracefully erotic even while wearing those hideous boots, and his sanity began to wane. For the first time since he had known he was to become president—a decision that had been made for him when he was in the cradle—Malcolm dreamed about something other than the White House.

  Suddenly the life that he had known would be his began to fade, and all he could think about was Roxanne and her quick wit and sharp blue eyes.

  But any attraction he felt toward her could not be acted upon. Occupations and murder trials aside, he was damned near engaged. To his perfect match. Lila. A woman who didn’t set his teeth on edge and didn’t wear combat boots. A woman who knew the score and would make the perfect accessory as he entered his career into national politics.

  So why aren’t you officially engaged? an evil little voice whispered. Malcolm ignored it and instead concentrated on his client. She really should have more faith. Once he talked to the attendant at the gas station in Carbondale and her editor, her alibi would be set and the charges would be dismissed. The hard part was surviving Roxanne until Monday morning. He wished he’d given bailing her out of
jail a little more thought, but the Elizabeths would have come back from the dead and haunted him for the rest of his life if he had let the sheriff lock her up in Lester’s basement. It was too late to turn back now.

  If she was a grateful ward, she wouldn’t be running away every chance she got. If the afternoon was any indication on how their evening would progress, they were going to have to sleep tied together.

  Now that was an image he didn’t need. He had no idea where she was going to sleep. Maybe he could put her in his bed—another image he could have lived without—and he could take the couch. Maybe he could get some of Miss Beulah’s knitting yarn and booby trap his apartment so Roxanne couldn’t slip way, and he could rest easy. Maybe they should just forgo sleep and stay out until the sun came up. It sounded like a pretty good plan, but Malcolm didn’t think it would work for three nights. He still had a court appearance Monday morning, and lack of sleep would not work in their favor.

  Maybe after another couple of beers Roxanne would lose interest in finding Valentine’s murderer. Yeah, and maybe pigs would get their pilot’s licenses.

  As Malcolm sorted through evolution and sleeping arrangements, Eric Cameron, a local construction worker who spent more time in the unemployment line than he did on a dozer, approached Roxanne. Malcolm had known Cameron all of his life. They had graduated high school together. Eric was usually a straight up guy, but not tonight. It was Friday, the official start to the weekend, and the local had already had one too many. He was walking trouble.

  Cameron interrupted Roxanne’s dance, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into a hard embrace.

  “Let me go!” she shouted, pushing at Eric’s barrel chest to free herself. But the big man didn’t budge. He had been a guard for the Jefferson County Rebels, then gone on to Auburn on a full ride football scholarship. As fate would have it, he’d blown out his knee his sophomore year and come back to Jefferson County to lick his wounds and relive the glory days. He’d been a sore head ever since.

  Malcolm was on his feet in a matter of seconds.

  • • •

  “I said, let me go.” Roxanne pushed against the overgrown bully, but she was at a total disadvantage. She hadn’t even seen the attack coming. She had closed her eyes while she danced, letting the music flow through her and back out again in the form of her movements.

  As she moved to the bluesy beat, she had enjoyed herself for the first time since entering Jefferson County. The dance smoothed away her tensions and allowed her to briefly forget her problems. Ever so briefly.

  The dartboard should have warned her that dancing wasn’t a popular pastime here, and inevitably her dance would draw attention. She just hadn’t counted on arousing the interest of the biggest, rudest, smelliest redneck in the county.

  “So help me,” she gritted through her teeth. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll—” She didn’t finish, but it didn’t matter. The big brute ignored her.

  He turned her around still holding her wrist in his beefy grasp. “Come on, pretty lady. Surely you don’t want your dance to be wasted. I liked it.” He winked. “I liked it a lot. Whaddya say you and me go back to my place for a while? We could have a little fun, just you and me.”

  He lowered his head and for one fleeting, gut-wrenching, disgusting moment, Roxanne thought he might kiss her.

  “She said let her go.”

  The redneck looked up. “Ain’t none of your business, Daniels.”

  “It is my business, Eric.” Roxanne was sure Daniels used that tone in the courtroom. “The lady’s with me.”

  “Well, now she’s with me. Ain’t that right, sugar?”

  “I am not your sugar.” Roxanne tried to pry his thick fingers off her.

  “You heard the lady. Turn her loose.”

  “The way you turned loose that construction bill.”

  “That’s a different story altogether, Eric. Call my office on Monday. My secretary will be happy to send you a memo on why I voted against it. Now let the lady go.”

  The redneck and the lawyer stood face to face, gaze boring into gaze. Heavy minutes ticked by before Eric shoved Roxanne’s arm away.

  She rubbed her wrist where he had grabbed her as Malcolm took her other arm and hauled her from the dance floor.

  “What were you trying to do up there?” he asked, his voice strained and angry.

  Roxanne didn’t have time to answer.

  “Malcolm! Look out!”

  The waitress’s warning came just in time. Malcolm dodged to one side like a professional running back as the redneck descended upon him, chrome bar stool raised high above his head. The stool crashed to the floor missing Malcolm by inches.

  The lawyer whirled around, his hands up in front of him palms out, in the classic pose of now-hold-on-just-a-minute.

  “Now hold on just a minute, Cameron. I don’t want any trouble with you. Why don’t you just go home and sleep this off?”

  Cameron circled around him, as if searching for his next move of attack. “No way,” he growled. “It’s time guys like you realize you can’t have everything.”

  Roxanne didn’t know what he meant by that, but this fight was her fault—or at least she felt responsible for it—and therefore she had to do something about it. She was sure Vanderbilt hadn’t prepared Malcolm for this. She took a hesitant step toward the pair.

  “Punch him out, Malcolm!” The shout stopped her mid-stride. Roxanne turned to the waitress who cheered and gestured as if both would insure Malcolm’s victory.

  “Don’t you think we should stop this?” Roxanne asked.

  “Nah.” She shook her head. “A fight’s always good for business. It gives the boys a chance to unwind.”

  Roxanne opened her mouth to protest, then closed it and nodded thoughtfully. If there was one thing Malcolm needed, it was a good unwinding. And yet …

  “Besides,” she continued. “Malcolm’s a big boy. Ned,” she yelled to the man behind the bar. “Start some popcorn. This ought to be good.”

  Ned, who resembled a Weeble in a dirty apron, punched the appropriate buttons on the microwave, and Roxanne turned her attention back to the pair on the dance floor. Cameron and Malcolm circled each other like wild cats in a neon jungle.

  Malcolm was trying to talk his way out of the inevitable physical confrontation. “A rider had been attached to that bill. If it had passed it would have allowed for state funded daycare to be cut by thirty percent. Eric, you have children. What would Darla do with the girls if they shut down the Toddler Academy?”

  “Darla took the girls and went to her mother’s.” His voice was low and menacing.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Not half as sorry as you’re gonna be.”

  “Honey, you want another beer?” the waitress asked.

  Roxanne ignored the question, her eyes and attention never leaving Malcolm. “Not much happens around here, huh?” She hoped they unwound soon. All this relaxing was starting to make her nervous.

  The microwave dinged as if to signify the end of round one, but neither contestant was paying attention to such formalities.

  “Not much,” the waitress agreed. She straightened the up-ended barstool and sat. “I’m Rita.” She stuck out her hand.

  “Roxanne Ackerman,” Roxanne supplied with a token shake to the proffered hand.

  “The Yankee.”

  “That’s me.”

  “You sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  Roxanne shook her head. “He wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, would he?”

  Just then, Cameron lunged forward and swung, clipping Malcolm just below his mouth, splitting his skin and surely rattling his teeth.

  Evidently he would.

  Roxanne was on her feet in a split-second. This had gone on long enough. It wasn’t that Malcolm was physically unable to hold his own with the redneck. He looked to be in good shape to her—real good shape. But the legal eagle wasn’t fighting back. As entertaining as everyo
ne around her found this confrontation, the small detail had Roxanne worried. She had almost reached the pair when Cameron punched again, this time to the ribs. She winced as the breath left Malcolm’s body in an airy whoosh.

  Then everything went still as Sheriff Harlow walked through the door.

  • • •

  “You ain’t got no prior record.” Sheriff Harlow adjusted his belt in what Roxanne considered his favorite gesture, then he sat in the swivel chair behind his desk. “Witnesses claim you didn’t start the fight, but I have to tell you, son, the only reason I’m letting you off is Truman. That old man’s heart ain’t what it used to be, and I don’t want him to have to come down here and get you.”

  “Yes, sir. Much obliged.”

  “You don’t have a record?” Roxanne looked to Malcolm. “Not even a speeding ticket?”

  He gingerly shook his head, still holding a bloody bar rag to his chin.

  “No raided fraternity parties?”

  He shook his head again, even slower this time.

  “Shop lifting pranks? Littering? Jaywalking?”

  “Some of us have careers to think about,” Malcolm replied dryly.

  “Are you human?”

  He winced as he took the rag from his chin and looked at the blood that stained both it and his shirt. “Very much so.”

  “So why didn’t you fight back against that guy?”

  “He was drunk, Roxanne.”

  “But—”

  He turned those oh-so brown eyes to her. “How would it look to my constituents if I’d beaten up a drunk, unemployed man whose wife had just left him?”

  Roxanne didn’t have the words to answer.

  “You’re free to go, son,” the sheriff said. “I suggest you go to the hospital first. That cut’ll probably need stitches.”

  • • •

  The Jefferson County Memorial Hospital sat on the opposite end of town from Jack’s and directly across the street from the cemetery. Roxanne considered its location a bad sign.

  The three story red brick building with elaborate white trim looked as if it had been built around the turn of the century. A new helicopter pad had been installed in the back obviously for when emergencies dictated that a critical patient be flown to Memphis or Jackson for more extensive care. To Roxanne, the inside had the same look and smell as every hospital in every town in the nation. Hard-backed chairs covered in faded fabrics that didn’t quite match the floors or the walls. The actual colors changed from place to place, but the smell of medicine was universal.