Moonshine Kiss (Bootleg Springs Book 3)

by Lucy Score

  She wrinkled her nose. “You’re hilarious. So funny.”

  “How’d you get in the backyard,” I asked her. “The gate’s locked.”

  She grinned, flashing a glimpse of the gap between her front teeth. “I jumped the fence.”

  Jonah snickered. “We’ve got models climbing fences to get to us, Bow. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all?”

  15

  Bowie

  I was cursing myself for not parking in the garage at the back of my lot last night. Now, thanks to Lazy-Ass Past Me, Present Me had to walk out my front door and back down the driveway into a small camera crew.

  Jonah, being annoyingly in shape and fueled by anger, had snuck out the back and jogged across town to meet his trail running group at the lake. I debated doing the same but didn’t want to spend the entire day with slush stains down the back of my Dockers. Teenagers were often assholes. As the unfortunate substitute teacher who’d accidentally sat on a chocolate pudding lid learned the hard way last year.

  I gave the ragtag news crew another look through the front window. Leah Mae was right. I was the easiest to get to. None of my other siblings had houses this accessible. Hell, Gibson was tucked away on some serious acreage on a mountain. Sneaky-ass reporters wouldn’t be able to get within a half-mile of his house.

  Well, I sure as shit wasn’t gonna let some half-assed news crew get me worked up or make me late for work.

  I let myself out the front door, locked it, and kept my head down as I hurried to my SUV.

  “Mr. Bodine! Did your father kill Callie Kendall?” the dumb motherfucker in the trench coat shouted at me.

  My middle finger flexed anxiously, begging to be called to duty. I pretended I hadn’t heard him and slid behind the wheel. I slammed the door on the idiot’s questions, swearing under my breath.

  The engine came to life, and I shifted into reverse. Easing down the drive came to an abrupt stop when the news crew crowded onto my driveway blocking my exit.

  Leah Mae and Jayme were not going to be happy with what I was about to do. Maybe if I rearranged this guy’s face news would travel and these turkey vultures would leave us alone…or at the very least, gawk at us from a respectable distance.

  I rolled my window down, deciding to give them one last chance to live. “Y’all are in my way.”

  The guy in the trench coat with the tiny microphone took that as an invitation. He jogged up the side of my vehicle and shoved the mic in my face.

  “Mr. Bodine, your father is a person of interest in the disappearance of Callie Kendall. What can you tell us about your father’s involvement with Callie? Were they having an affair? Has your father hurt other girls?”

  “Listen here, you piece of—”

  “Stop.”

  I was cut off by the very authoritative voice of a very peeved deputy. Cassidy—in full uniform—strode around my SUV and got within punching distance of Mr. Lois Lane. “You’re trespassing, sir. I’m going to have to ask all of you to step back onto the sidewalk and show me your IDs.”

  The guy with the mic was all smiles. “Officer, I’m just asking Mr. Bodine a few questions. The people have a right to know—”

  “The people have a right to back out of their driveways safely without someone tryin’ to crawl up their ass. Now, I’ll ask you again, very nicely, to step onto the sidewalk and let Mr. Bodine pass.”

  “Technically, with setbacks, I’m still on the public sidewalk,” the moron argued. Setbacks? Seriously? Did he think Cassidy was some redneck dummy? And was that a hairball on Cassidy’s pants?

  “Technically, you should do your research. Back about twelve years ago, when all of you press folks descended on Bootleg, a town ordinance went into effect stating that members of the media could only stand in the center of the public road and only during the hours of 11 p.m. to midnight. And only if they applied for the Press Access Permit to close said public road. Also only if they were very, very respectful and quiet. Now, I’d like to see your Press Access Permit and your ID. I won’t ask nicely again.”

  Microphone Man goggled at her and then scrambled away from my vehicle like it was filled with snakes.

  Cassidy gave me a cool glance. “Have a nice day, Mr. Bodine.” She brushed the hairball off her pant leg.

  God, I loved it when she was Unflappable Deputy.

  “You do the same, Deputy Tucker.” I threw her a salute and backed out of my driveway with a big ol’ smile on my face.

  I made it to the school without further incident and hustled in through a side door. The school hadn’t changed much since I’d attended. Still had the same industrial tile floors, the same rickety lunch tables on wheels that folded up for floor polishing. The bathrooms were still full of pimple-faced, anxiety-ridden teenagers trying to get through the awkward years.

  The library had seen some nice updates thanks to our fundraising. We now had e-readers the students could borrow and a huge online catalog. That, plus the air-conditioning and new reading chairs, made it a popular destination for students.

  I turned left after the library and ducked into the main office. This place hadn’t changed a lick since I’d been a student. The same long wooden bench squatted against one wall, waiting for kids in trouble. The wood had hosted the asses of generations of troubled students, including all of my siblings. Opposite it was a faded yellow countertop behind which two administrative assistants ran the show of getting eight hundred seventh- through twelfth-graders a decent education, hot meals, and an idea of what they were gonna do next.

  Both the admins were on the phone. Maribel Schilling, with her dyed black beehive, had been holding court in Bootleg Springs High School since my parents attended. No one had any idea how old she was, and most of us were too scared to ask. She was giving someone what for on the phone.

  Hung Kim was drumming a pencil on his desktop calendar as he repeatedly said “I’m sorry, no,” into his phone. He worked here twenty hours a week to supplement his drumming career.

  “No, you may not speak to Mr. Bodine, and no, we do not have a comment on the investigation. And if you use language like that with me again, I’ll wash your mouth out with goat soap, which tastes significantly worse than regular soap,” Maribel snapped into the phone.

  My stomach sank. Reporters camped out at my house, journalists lighting up the phones at school? I was so getting fired for this shit.

  I turned for my office, intending to either order lunch and flowers for the admins or draft my resignation when Dottie Leigh poked her head out of her door. “Got a minute, Bowie?” she asked.

  Ah, hell. I wasn’t even going to get a chance to resign.

  Dottie Leigh was the driving force behind a high school that consistently outperformed our neighboring districts. She believed in teaching methods that made learning accessible to everyone and constantly pushed our staff to be creative in their delivery of material. She suffered no fools and—despite topping out at five foot four—was an absolute shark on the basketball court.

  She was good people, and I doubted I’d be able to hold her firing me against her.

  “Sure, Dottie Leigh,” I said, tagging along behind her like a puppy.

  She gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk. I sat and scraped my palms over my knees. “I just wanted to say that I’ve really enjoyed working with you here,” I began.

  Dottie Leigh leaned on the corner of her desk and crossed her arms, a smile quirking her lips that were painted an almost purple. “Are you quittin’ on me?” she asked, amused.

  “No, ma’am. Just trying to thank you for the experience before you fire me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Bowie. I’m not firing you. I’m asking you how we can help you get through this.”

  I felt blind gratitude sweep through me. Leah Mae, Cassidy, Dottie Leigh. Each one of them had stepped up for me in a different way today, and I was grateful.

  “I’ll understand if I’m too much trouble,” I told her, wanting to make extra sure that
she was sure. I was the good guy. I didn’t cause a fuss. I didn’t demand special treatment. I didn’t bring my problems to work with me, ever. And I’d understand if this ugly business changed the way people saw me. If it reminded them of who I came from.

  “Bowie,” Dottie Leigh was exasperated now. “You’re not in trouble here. Nothing your father did or didn’t do is going to change your standing in this school.”

  That wasn’t entirely correct. I’d basically sat in my own version of a chocolate pudding lid, giving every hormonal smartass in the building a real good reason to mock me.

  “I appreciate that, Dottie Leigh,” I said, meeting her gaze. She had brown eyes that, depending on the situation, could make a person feel all warm and fuzzy inside or terrified for their lives. It was a warm and fuzzy instance, thankfully.

  “Maribel and Hung are under strict orders on the phones. No comment and nothing gets transferred to you unless it’s a parent or a board member,” she told me. “If there’s anything you or your family need, give a holler. Okay?”

  “Will do. Thank you again.” I was beyond grateful.

  “Good. Now get on back to work. We have a few hundred hormonal minds to influence today.”

  “On it.”

  She turned her back on me and pulled the paperwork out of her inbox. I was officially dismissed.

  I paused in the doorway and looked back. “Are you sure you don’t want to fire me?”

  She threw a wadded-up sticky note in my direction. “Get!” she said, shooing me from her office.

  “If one more blooger puts a microphone in my face—”

  “What’s a blooger?”

  “You know. One of them there people who types stuff on the internet.”

  “I think they’re called bloggers.”

  “Well, that’s just stupid.”

  16

  Cassidy

  Busting the three dumbasses camped out in front of my house this morning gave me a nice little buzz. So had the $200 fine I’d slapped them with for loitering without a permit.

  It was cause for celebration. I called in an order to The Brunch Club and swung by on my way to the station. Donuts might be the preferred pastry of choice for cops across the country, but here in Bootleg our palates were more refined.

  I tucked the box of fresh-from-the-oven bacon and egg pastries into the back seat of my car and cranked the volume on Mr. Garth Brooks as I cruised the two blocks to work.

  News would travel and the rest of the vultures would get the message, I thought with satisfaction. We did things differently here in Bootleg Springs.

  Turning the wheel, I pulled in to the back lot of the station. Dad had been sheriff for the better part of my lifetime, and the police station was as much home to me as the couch in my parents’ family room.

  I balanced the box of pastries and the stack of files that I’d taken home to peruse and flashed my key card under the reader. It was one of the visible signs of progress at the Bootleg PD. We were woefully behind on our technology. All case files prior to 2011 were still paper. I’d been pushing for an intern or two to tackle the scanning job. Dad was mulling it over.

  “Mornin’,” I greeted Fanny Sue Tomaschek, deputy sheriff and my father’s right hand. Fanny could trace her family back in Olamette County five generations. She was Bootleg Springs. It made her one of the best assets our little department had. She balanced somber professionalism with the kind of public relations that only comes from knowing every single person born and raised in town for the last forty years.

  She was fifty-eight, ran one marathon a year, and was the second-best shot in the department.

  I was the first. And I was gunning for her job when she retired in exactly four years. Not that I’d confessed my ambitions to anyone. Some things were best kept to myself. So until then I reviewed old case files, took online classes on public administration, and was the best damn deputy I could be.

  “Morning there, Cass. Heard you had some excitement this morning,” she said swiveling away from her ancient computer monitor.

  “News travels fast.”

  “Sure does, Deputy Obvious,” Fanny Sue smirked. “That’s $200 towards the Repave the Parking Lot fund.”

  “These snoopy weasels are probably gonna pay for the whole project before things blow over,” I predicted.

  I dumped the pastries on Fanny Sue’s desk and the files on my own. It was a green metal monstrosity, a dinosaur leftover from the 70s. Two of the drawers stuck unless punched at exactly the right spot. The flat screen monitor that didn’t flicker and flip had come out of my own pocket. Not having seizures or migraines was worth it in my mind.

  The phone was ringing off the hook, which was to be expected after Connelly’s little show last night. Bex, our tattooed, eyebrow-pierced organizational badass, fielded calls like it was her superpower. She worked out of the property room, where evidence and confiscated property was stored. There was a sliding glass window in one wall so she could deal with walk-ins and accept dog license fees and applications.

  Behind the property room, well out of public view, was the Summertimer Board. In an unofficial pool, we each identified potential troublemaking summertimers. At the end of the summer, the employee with the worst summertimer infraction won the pot. Fanny Sue—and her infallible instincts—remained undefeated.

  The board was currently blank and wouldn’t be filled again until June of next year.

  I booted up my computer, ignored the red blinking message light on my desk phone, and plated up two pastries.

  Dumping one on my own desk, I delivered the other one to Bex. She flashed me a grin and an eye-roll. “That does sound like something Detective Connelly would be interested in, Mrs. Varney,” she said into the phone.

  I snickered. Mrs. Varney was eighty-seven years old and dressed like every day was someone’s funeral. She introduced herself as “Mrs. Varney of the Bootleg Springs Varneys.” Her husband’s family had been in Bootleg for four generations, and Mrs. Varney considered herself to be local royalty.

  She was snooty, in a funny old-lady way. At least once a month, one of us deputies was dispatched to her home smack dab in the middle of town. Always under the guise of investigating a strange smell or sound. Every visit invariably ended with bitter tea and crunchy cookies and reminiscences of the good ol’ days.

  “How about I pencil you in for four o’clock today? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh, no, ma’am. I don’t think bringing your good pocket book would be too uppity. Great. We’ll see you then.”

  Bex hung up and dove on the pastry.

  “Mrs. Varney has a hot tip for Connelly?” I ventured.

  “She feels she would be remiss if she didn’t report that her little doggie, Cleveland, had a barking fit the night Callie Kendall disappeared,” Bex explained through a mouthful of puff pastry. “Claims Cleveland was a good boy and never barked at anything.”

  “Except the mailman, the UPS truck driver, anyone who walked past the house on the sidewalk, leaves blowing across the yard, and literally anything that ever moved in his line of vision,” I ticked them off on my fingers. I remembered the fluffy little bastard. He’d bitten about a hundred and fifty people in his fifteen years of ornery life. But, being four pounds two ounces, no one paid him much mind.

  “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to dump her on Detective Snappy Fingers.”

  Connelly had made the fatal error of snapping his fingers at Bex and ordering a coffee. She’d pointed him in the direction of the department’s ancient coffee maker and told him to pour his own damn coffee.

  I’d seen my dad’s mustache twitch at that. Harlan Tucker was the most diplomatic man I knew in this life. But I could tell that even he was rubbed the wrong way by the state police detective who had elbowed his way into the case and acted like the rest of us were his maids, cooks, and personal assistants.

  I did my best to follow my dad’s lead and treated the man with a cool respect.

  I was real good at hiding my feelings.
/>   “Is his highness in residence today?” I asked Bex.

  She nodded her head in the direction of the conference room. The door was closed.

  “He’s in there with the sheriff. I think your daddy dumped about sixty messages on him that came in after the press conference.”

  “Mmm.” I had a lot of things I wanted to say about that press conference, but like a good deputy, I bit my tongue. The phone rang again, and I backed out of the property room as Bex answered with her chipper “Bootleg Springs Police Department, how can we help?”

  I returned to my desk, casting a glance at the closed conference room door. Connelly had no idea the shitstorm he’d stirred up.

  There was nothing Bootleggers liked better than rehashing every detail of Callie Kendall’s disappearance. And what was more salacious than a break in a missing person case that had baffled authorities for twelve years? There was no way the Bodines would come out of this unscathed.

  I had a sticky feeling about that press conference. We’d no sooner gotten our first reporter calling in about the DNA results than Connelly was organizing a press conference.

  It was like he hadn’t been the least bit surprised that the news had leaked.

  My phone pinged from inside my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and unlocked the screen.

  Scarlett: Potluck takeout. Pick up Bow and Jonah and meet us at the Red House tonight.

  I felt something like unease skitter through my belly. With as public a stage as Bootleg had become, was it even okay for me, a law enforcement officer involved in the investigation, to be seen with the Bodines?

  My phone pinged again. This time it was a different Bodine.

  Bowie: Thanks again for the Stern Deputy routine this morning. I owe you one.