by Lucy Score
It was just dinner with friends, I rationalized. Of course I should go. A cop couldn’t be separate from the community they served, not in a town this small. Not when I knew about every resident.
“Cassidy? You’re on Mrs. Varney pickup for her very important meeting,” Bex said poking her head out of the property room.
Ah, hell. With that, I got to work.
17
Cassidy
I couldn’t figure out what had Bubba Rayhill, our third full-time deputy, giggling like a junior high sleepover until I swiveled my chair around.
Bowie and Jonah had arrived at the station to pick me up. In disguise.
Thank God Connelly had bugged out. Jonah was wearing an inconspicuous black down jacket and a beret. Bowie had gone for a fedora and high school letterman’s jacket.
“Is this a Halloween dinner?” I asked.
Bowie shucked the hat off his head. “You try being chased by a pack of rabid photographers for an hour after school and see how you like it.”
“Sallie Mae Brickman scared them off with an umbrella and a muzzleloader. Then she gave us these disguises,” Jonah explained.
I’d seen first-hand the mess the “newsies” were making all over town. They were clumping in public areas demanding interviews from every passerby. They blocked streets with news vans, surrounded citizens like they were Meltdown-in-Progress Britney Spears, and hogged up all the Wi-Fi at Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee. It was already a nightmare, and they’d been here for only twenty-four hours.
As far as I could tell, not a single Bootlegger had stepped up to the microphone. My town might be torn over whether or not Jonah Bodine Sr. was guilty, but one thing we all could agree on was that no outsider was going to make fools of us.
“We ditched my car on Rum Runner Avenue,” Bowie told me. “So you’re probably gonna have to drive us unless you don’t mind having a dozen reporters jogging next to you asking if any of your family members are killers.”
He was having a rough day. So I cut him some slack on the snark. Besides, he looked pretty cute in that letterman’s jacket.
“All right, boys. Let me get my coat. Did y’all call in the takeout orders?”
Twenty minutes later, loaded down with Thai food and a mixed assortment of subs and two six-packs of beer, I pulled onto a long, winding drive on the outskirts of town. The Red House was on the opposite end of town from the fancy lake houses summertimers rented for a month at a time. It was also conveniently tucked away on a private lane with a scrap of lakefront beyond its front porch.
“Why are we having dinner here?” I asked, putting my car in park.
“Last minute cancellation,” Bowie explained from the passenger seat. Our elbows were almost touching on the console that separated us. Scarlett was a mini real estate mogul in Bootleg Springs. She had a handful of rental properties that gave her a very nice cash flow during the spring, summer, and fall. “Scarlett figured we’d have less of a chance of attracting attention if we all met here instead of one of our houses.”
It was a good plan. If all the Bodines had descended on Bowie’s house, they would have attracted every journalist in town. I probably would have had to shoot someone or at least tase several of them.
We pulled around the front of the house where the rest of the Bodine vehicles were parked on the lawn. Lugging the food and beer with us, we trudged up the front steps. Bowie didn’t bother knocking. He opened the door and gestured for me to enter first.
The Red House was on the tiny side. I’d thought Scarlett was crazy when she bought it two years ago. It had been a heap of rotting wood under a holey roof at the time. But she’d redone it into a cute little cottage perfect for a couple’s getaway.
“There y’all are! I thought you got swallowed up by a horde of reporters,” Scarlett chirped from the kitchen. She was helping Devlin arrange their contribution to the meal—pepperoni rolls and potato chips—on the counter.
Gibson was flipping channels on the TV in the living room. I guessed he was the one who brought the hot wings from The Lookout. Jameson and Leah Mae unpacked bags of paper plates and napkins, followed by a bucket of fried chicken.
Jonah added our spoils to the buffet and slapped a spring roll out of Devlin’s hand. “We’re adding muscle, not food bloat.”
Devlin moped and moved on to the grilled chicken salad some joker had brought.
“I invited June Bug, but she’s pouting over some fantasy football player’s injury,” Scarlett told me.
I nodded. “GT Thompson.” My sister had been an avid fan of the guy since his NFL career began ten years ago. She was taking his injury as a personal affront, claiming he’d ruined her entire season.
Gibson wandered in, big and broody. He reached over and ruffled my hair. “How’s it goin’, deputy?”
“Oh, you know. Another day in paradise.”
Plates were distributed, and food was shoveled onto them. We crowded around the table and spilled into the living room. Bowie sat next to me on the floor. His knee was brushing mine.
“We still good?” he asked quietly. Even surrounded by his family, it still felt like we were in our own little bubble.
“Uh, sure. Yeah.” I bobbed my head like one of those weird drinking bird toys. I liked being mad at Bowie better. The feelings were easier to manage, and I didn’t have to worry about, you know, talking to him.
“So, who got asked the dumbest question today?” Leah Mae asked cheerfully.
There was a collective groan.
“One of those jackwagons caught me at the Pop In and asked me if I thought it was my daddy or my brothers who murdered Callie Kendall. Then they started in on poor Opal on account of her last name,” Scarlett said.
“They caught us outside Leah Mae’s storefront,” Jameson said. Leah Mae had changed gears from model to shopkeeper. She was hoping to open a fashion boutique sometime in the spring with a little help from my sister the investor. At least she would if June would stop haggling the building owner to death over rent and utilities.
“Yeah, they wanted to know if I was marrying into a family of homicidal maniacs and if so, would there be a reality show?” Leah Mae chimed in.
“I had six reporters and photographers show up for the trail run this morning,” Jonah complained. He cracked a grin. “Too bad it was such a fast crew. Some of ‘em are probably still trying to find their way out of the woods.”
I snorted in appreciation.
“They say anything about your name?” Bowie asked.
“Just wanted to know if homicidal tendencies were genetic.”
“What a bunch of dumbasses,” Scarlett said succinctly.
We all grunted in general agreement.
“Cassidy got to play hero this morning,” Bowie told everyone. He recounted the morning’s driveway incident, and I was given an enthusiastic round of applause by all present.
“I get the feeling news organizations aren’t really sending their best people,” Jameson said. “These folks seem like they’re a special kind of stupid.”
Devlin cleared his throat. “I had a few calls and messages today from some contacts back in Annapolis and D.C. If this story gets any bigger we might be facing more than a few dozen dumbasses,” he warned.
“Good Lord,” I muttered. “What about you, Gibson?” I asked him.
All eyes turned to him and he glanced up from his plate.
He shrugged. “You’d be surprised at how many people leave you alone when you hang a couple of rifles in the back window of your pickup,” he deadpanned.
The Bodines thought that was hilarious.
I, however, had the sinking feeling that I’d be arresting one of them before this whole mess was over.
No longer hungry, I leaned back against the couch and found Bowie’s arm resting there. He didn’t move and neither did I. I thought about my cats.
“Enough about this mess,” Scarlett said, sliding onto Devlin’s lap. She had a piece of gauze poking out of the sleeve of her f
lannel shirt. “Did y’all hear that Bowie and Cassidy showed up dressed all fancy at The Lookout and shared a slow dance?”
“Ooooooh!” the crowd collectively cooed.
“Very funny.” I threw the heel of my bread in Scarlett’s direction. “Why are you bandaged up?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Kitten Jedediah was just having some fun. Anyway, as I was sayin’, some folks are calling for a recount on that Least Likely To poll. Y’all might have edged out Reverend Duane and Misty Lynn,” she said with a wink.
Bowie’s fingers brushed my shoulder. Back and forth in a steady, soothing kind of motion. The effects of the touch were anything but soothing. Secret touches from Bowie Bodine? Had I accidentally ripped a hole in time and space, taking me back to my high school yearnings?
Cats. I was a mother to cats. I needed to remember that. I had given up. I was committed to life as a single cat lady.
“All right. Enough with the bullshitting,” Gibson said. “Let’s get down to why we’re really here. We need to make sure we’re on the same page with this investigation shitstorm.”
“Party pooper,” Scarlett hissed in his direction.
Bowie tensed next to me. His fingers stopped their gentle strokes. “No offense, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for Cassidy to be here.”
Offense taken. I whipped my head around so fast my neck cracked. I felt wounded. I’d always been considered a Bodine as much as the Bodines had been considered honorary Tuckers.
Eyes were popping out of heads all over the place.
Bowie turned to me. “Cass, I don’t want you feeling like you have divided loyalties over this mess. We don’t want to jeopardize your job.”
He was punishing me over the DNA results again.
I rose abruptly. “Yeah. Got it. I’ll go.” I was shockingly hurt. Like arrow to the chest, knife to the back hurt. Why did I keep letting this man close enough to hurt me?
I was going to throw the used kitty litter onto his back porch tonight.
“We can drive Jonah and Bowie back,” Jameson volunteered, giving me an apologetic look.
I nodded briskly, not making eye contact with any of them. “Yep. Thanks for dinner, y’all.”
I pushed my way out the front door to a chorus of “Cass, don’t be like that.”
I felt like the front door was slamming shut on a lifetime of friendship. I wasn’t one of them. They didn’t trust me. And that fucking hurt.
18
Bowie
I caught her as she was yanking her car door open.
“Cass.” I stopped her with a hand on her arm. She turned on me, ice in her eyes. That was Cassidy, more ice than fire when she was mad. She never lost control, always kept her emotions buttoned up.
Sometimes I wondered what would happen if she ever let that leash slip.
“What?” she asked crisply.
“It’s for your own good,” I told her.
“I don’t need you looking out for me. I haven’t in a long time.”
It was my turn for pissed off. “You don’t get to tell me to stop caring.”
“I’m not your little sister,” she snapped at me.
I was crowding her against the door of the car, but I had enough room to give her the once-over. “I’m well aware.”
Her breath was coming in pants, little silvery clouds that hung in the night air between us.
“Are you?” she demanded. “I’m not your little sister and I’m not some teenage wild child who needs you to take care of her.”
“Cassidy.” I was exasperated. “What do you want from me? You want to sit in on a Bodine pow-wow so we can figure out how not to let an investigation that you’re helping with ruin our lives? Do you want to be in a position to have to answer questions from that outsider detective about your involvement with my family? You already made it clear your job and our friendship are separate entities. I’m tryin’ to respect that.”
Oh, that fire in her green eyes. It warmed me straight through, chasing the winter out of my bones.
My hand had a mind of its own, reaching out to tuck that stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear. She closed her eyes for a second as if she was melting into my touch. And then the moment was gone.
“Respect? It looks like you’re trying to make a point.”
“I’m a Bodine, Cass. We aren’t a subtle people. If I was trying to say something, I’d say it.”
She gave a humorless laugh. “That doesn’t explain the decade of mixed signals.”
I wished I didn’t know what she was talking about. No matter how hard I tried to hide them, those true feelings bled through, staining everything.
“What are you sayin’?” I asked, knowing perfectly well exactly what she was saying.
She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m not saying anything. Neither are you. That’s the way it’s always been. The way it will always be.”
“What the hell do you want me to do, Cassidy?” Frustration and desire were simmering beneath my words. But if she told me. If she wanted me, would I be able to keep the promise I’d made all those years ago? When I gave my word, I meant it. Take it to the bank. If I said it, it was the God’s honest truth. Except this.
Our relationship was a lie. Me pretending I felt nothing but brotherly love toward her.
I knew that if she said the words. If she asked me the question, I’d crumble. I’d put my hands on her like I’d longed to. I would kiss her until everything else in the world disappeared. All she had to do was give me a definitive sign. Tell me she wanted me. Ask me to show her how I really felt.
She gave me one more long look and shook her head. Was that disappointment I saw on her pretty face?
Disappointing her crushed me.
“I’ll see you around, Bowie,” she said in her flat, professional tone. She got in her car, feathers still ruffled, and I watched her drive away.
I wished for a lot of things in that moment. That the situation were different. That Dad hadn’t once again screwed things up for us or that he could be here to answer the questions. That I was good enough for what I wanted most in this world. I picked up a rock out of the gravel driveway and hurled it into the lake. It was too dark to see it, but I heard the splash. I knew the ripples were spreading out and out and out, ruining the glassy surface.
I turned my back on the water and went inside.
“Was that absolutely necessary?” Scarlett demanded.
“Yeah. It was,” I snapped.
“She’s family,” Scarlett argued.
“No. She’s not. In this situation, Cassidy Tucker is a cop investigating our father. We can dance around it all you want, but y’all better remember that she’s a cop first and a friend of the family second. She’s already chosen between us once.”
“Let’s table that discussion for now,” Devlin suggested, slipping into attorney mode. “Leah Mae, why don’t you explain what we’re all doing here.”
Still glaring at me, Scarlett flopped down on the chair next to Dev. I wisely chose a seat on the couch, out of punching distance.
Leah Mae stood. “Right. So, y’all are in a sticky situation and I think it’s important that we have a game plan for dealing with both the investigation and the media,” she began, addressing all of us. “Now, what are your objectives?”
“Talk plain, Leah Mae,” Jameson teased her, looking up at her like a puppy to his master.
She winked at him. “What do you all want to get out of this situation?”
“Get rid of the reporters hounding us all day and night,” Jonah said.
“Prove Dad’s innocence,” Scarlett chimed in.
“Do you really think he didn’t have anything to do with it?” Gibson asked Scarlett. It was a source of tension in their otherwise fiercely loyal relationship. Gibson hated the fact that our sister always tried to see the best in Dad.
Gibs had it the worst out of all of us. I’d at least had a tenuous connection with the man over baseball. But Gibson ha
d been the reason why our parents never pursued their dreams of music and travel.
“Don’t start again,” Scarlett cautioned him, baring her teeth.
I tossed a pillow off the couch, breaking their stare down. “We’re on the same team,” I reminded them.
“Bowie’s right,” Devlin put in. “You don’t have to agree to have the same objectives. What’s best for all of you is to present a united front. You need each other now more than ever.”
“Fine,” Scarlett said, reluctantly giving up the fight.
Gibson grunted.
“Then let’s talk game plan,” Jameson sighed. “What do we do about the press?”
“I put together a packet of acceptable responses and suggestions on avoiding being cornered by them,” Devlin said, handed out spiral bound copies.
I felt the corner of my mouth lift. Who would have guessed that Scarlett would fall for a law nerd?
“I ran all of this by Jayme and she approved it. Especially the part where none of you get arrested for beating the hell out of a blogger or photographer,” Devlin added.
He ran through the points one by one, and we agreed to a general strategy. Basically, don’t give them anything to report.
“Remember, this only works if we don’t give them a weak link,” Leah Mae said pointedly.
I shot a look at Gibson.
“Why’s everyone starin’ at me and Gibs?” Scarlett demanded.
“Because you two are the most reactive,” I told her.
“I can control my temper,” Scarlett scoffed.
Gibson grunted again.
The rest of us cracked up. “Neither of you have any more control than a three-year-old comin’ down from a sugar high,” Jameson pointed out.
“Fuck off,” Gibson shot back.
“Point proven.”
“There’s something else I’d like to bring up if you two can put your bitchin’ aside for a minute,” I told them.
They all looked at me expectantly.
“I feel like this Detective Connelly is convinced Dad did this. I don’t know if we can trust him to do a thorough examination of the facts, especially if those facts don’t line up with his theory.”