by Lucy Score
This was Thanksgiving. This was family. And damn if it wasn’t just about perfect.
I squeezed Bowie’s leg under the table. “Wanna go upstairs to my old room and make out?” I whispered so no one else could hear me.
“As many times as I’ve had that particular fantasy, you’re gonna have to give me about an hour so I can definitely be sure that I won’t throw up on you,” he teased.
“Always a gentleman,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him.
“Get you another beer, Bow?” My dad laid a hand on Bowie’s shoulder, and I jumped away from him like I’d been caught with forbidden candy in my bedroom.
They both looked at me like I’d lost my dang mind, and I turned my attention back to my mashed potatoes. As nice as it would be to tell everyone that Bowie and I were seeing each other, to celebrate with everyone, the secrecy was vital. I wanted it all. My job, Bowie, Connelly’s respect. And I had to be strategic about getting it.
So for now, to all eyes and ears, I was Bowie’s next-door neighbor.
“Psst, Gibs. What’s the score?” Dad asked, leaning over the table.
“What are you doin’ in there, Harlan Tucker?” my mother called from the dining room.
“Just takin’ drink orders, my pearl.”
During the half-time we took between meal and dessert, I headed out to the garage to help my dad bring a new case of beer inside. Alcohol was required for appropriate digestion on Thanksgiving. We needed to prime our systems for the Moonshine Tasting tonight.
I was halfway between back porch and garage when I heard the next-door neighbor back out of his driveway in his very shiny Corvette—a thirty-year anniversary gift from his wife—and peeled out on the street. I shook my head as I picked my way to the garage. The dumbass never went anywhere under the speed limit. Fanny Sue had doled out three points on his last ticket as an incentive to slow the hell down.
I froze mid-step. And then ran around to the driveway. There were tire tracks in a swervy little line pointing down the street.
That’s what I’d been missing.
Dad was in the garage digging into a fresh case of beer.
“Connie Bodine’s accident,” I said without preamble.
I saw the guarded look come over his face when he closed the refrigerator door. “What about it?” Connie’s entire family—including the man I was sleeping with—was a few dozen feet away, and here I was bringing up the accident that killed her. But I had questions.
“I had the file to scan into the database. And something was bothering me about the pictures. Was it raining when she crashed?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Far as I know, the rains came after,” Dad said carefully.
“Then where were the skid marks? She was going what? Thirty-five maybe? Why wasn’t there any evidence of her braking hard, swerving?”
Dad looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here having this conversation with me. “Because she didn’t,” he said finally.
“You think she did it on purpose?” I asked, leaning against the hood of Mom’s SUV, mulling it over.
“Could have. Could have been an accident. It’s a tough road on a sunny day. The fog was probably a factor. Maybe she was distracted?”
“But you don’t think so.” I connected the dots. “Why would Connie have killed herself?”
“Didn’t say she did. What I do know is those kids did not need a mother who decided to abandon them. Jonah was a full-fledged drunk by then. Money was tight. They didn’t need a mom who gave up, too.”
“Say it wasn’t an accident. Why then?” I asked. Something was bubbling up and it scared me. “It was almost a year after Callie disappeared.”
My dad’s mustache twitched.
“You don’t think Jonah had something to do with it and Connie found out? Do you?” I was aghast. In my heart of hearts, I’d never believed that Jonah Bodine had killed Callie.
“You can’t be jumping to conclusions like that, Cassidy,” my dad said wearily. “Your job is to fit the pieces together, not make up an answer and try to prove it.”
“The pieces don’t make any sense. Mrs. Kendall is adamant that Callie killed herself. But Jonah disappeared for four days after Callie went missing and no one knows where he went except for knowing that he wasn’t where he said he’d be. Now, we’ve got an accident that could have been a suicide. Nothing fits.”
My dad sighed, his shoulders slumping with the breath. “I don’t think Jonah Bodine killed Callie Kendall,” he said finally.
“Why?” I felt the same way, but I didn’t have any facts backing it up. “What do you know that isn’t in any report?”
Dad put the beer down on the pristine workbench behind him and crossed his arms. “Connie was his alibi. He’d gotten himself shit-faced drunk the night Callie disappeared. Passed out cold on the couch.”
“Could Connie have been lying?”
“Could have been. But why? Jonah was no homicidal maniac. He was an alcoholic son of an alcoholic. He wasn’t the best father or husband in the world. But he was never physical. It didn’t fit that he’d go wandering out into the night and murder some girl.”
“Okay, and I do agree with you. But what if it wasn’t murder? What if it was vehicular manslaughter?” What if it was Connie and not Jonah who had hit Callie on some dark road that night? It would have meant jail time. An investigation. Most likely a lawsuit. It would have ruined the Bodines.
Dad nodded slowly. “A better possibility. One I considered seriously. The day after Callie disappeared, I stopped by the Bodine house. I did a walkaround of both their vehicles. No new dents, scratches, broken headlights. And he was alibied tight.”
Frustrated, I paced the concrete floor. “Nothing about this case feels right.”
“Sometimes we don’t get the answers we want, Cass,” Dad said.
“How are we supposed to live with that?” I asked. How were we supposed to live with the unknown, accept that we’d never know everything we needed to? Hell, I’d become a cop because it was a job that demanded the truth be discovered.
He picked up the beer and pointed it toward the door where half a dozen people were laughing loud and long in the backyard. “Family. Friends. Food. We put one foot in front of the other and stay thankful for the answers we do have.”
The conversation was officially over. Though my feelings about it were anything but resolved.
It was ironic. One family in Bootleg Springs that desperately wanted to believe their daughter chose to leave. Another was comforted by believing their mother had been taken.
50
Bowie
Thomas and Geneva McCallister were wasted on pumpkin pie moonshine along with the better part of Bootleg Springs.
The Annual Bootleg Moonshine Tasting was in full swing in the town square. We had twenty-six bootleggers who had set up their folding tables on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse to peddle their doctored concoctions.
The Banjo Trio, made up of Mrs. Morganson, Mayor Hornsbladt, and Sheriff Tucker, were stirring things up with a rousing rendition of “Dear Ol’ Dixie” with guest star Gibson Bodine on guitar. People were alternately dancing and drinking, some both at the same time. The cold that had gripped us seemed to dissipate for the night. Though that might be due to the alcohol everyone was indulging in.
I was pacing myself, as always. Devlin was covering his laughter with a coughing fit as Thomas and Geneva treated Sierra Hayes’s Cinnamon Blueberry Shine like a high-end cabernet at a tasting. Except they should have been doing a lot more spitting.
Bootleggers trained all year for the Moonshine Tasting, and we all still felt like shit the next day. But it was worth it.
“What am I looking at?” Jonah asked, closing one eye and tilting his head. Health food junkies were notorious lightweights and succumbed quickly to the ‘shine.
“That would be the Bootleg Seniors table,” I explained. Gram-Gram, Devlin’s Granny Louisa, and her girlfriend Estelle, were manni
ng a table lined with shots of dark purple liquid.
Jonah picked up a glass and sniffed.
“Mystery ‘Shine, sonny,” Granny Louisa said before returning her attention to her knitting.
“Smells like cough syrup,” Jonah frowned.
“It’s mostly just for the color,” Gram-Gram assured him. “This here’s medicinal moonshine.”
I winced as Jonah downed his grape flavored cough suppressant.
“This town is pretty great,” he said, picking up another sample off Wade Zirkel’s table.
“Maybe we better visit the pepperoni roll stand,” I suggested, leading my inebriated half-brother in the direction of the carbs he’d disapprove of in the morning. “You’re still doing that Black Friday boot camp at the high school right?”
“Shyeah. It’ll be awesome. Burn those calories,” he said, pumping his arms like he was running. “Am I going anywhere?”
“Uh. No. But eat this pepperoni roll. Otherwise you won’t get out of bed for your boot camp.”
Jonah obliged, shoving half of it in his mouth. “Umm. Carbs. They get a bad rap, you know?”
At least. That’s what I thought he said. His mouth was too full to be sure.
“Hey, where’s Cass-i-deee?” he sang.
I shoved another pepperoni roll in his mouth. “Keep it quiet on the Deputy Tucker questions,” I warned him. “We’re playing it cool. No one’s supposed to know that we’re dating. Remember?”
Jonah snorted. “Like you could keep a secret in this town.”
“We’re gonna try. That Detective Connelly doesn’t take kindly to Cassidy fraternizing with murder suspects’ families.”
“That’s bullshit. That’s sexist bullshit. Bet he’s not sayin’ that to Sheriff Tucker or Bubba,” Jonah pointed out.
“Moonshine makes you wise,” I quipped. Sexist bullshit or not, I didn’t want Cassidy to suffer for dating me. How would I get the girl to marry me if just fraternizing with me cost her the job she’d been dreaming about since she was fourteen?
“Psst.” Cassidy strolled past me, pretty in a garnet sweater and navy vest. “Meet me by Mona Lisa’s coop in ten.” Her lips didn’t move, and she wasn’t making eye contact. She took the secrecy part of our relationship to extremes, like she was a teenager sneaking out of the house to meet her boyfriend.
I had to admit. It was hot.
“Hi, Deputy Tucker,” Jonah shouted.
Cassidy turned around and grinned. “Ten minutes,” she mouthed.
I needed to ditch Jonah immediately.
Gibson was still playing. Scarlett was babysitting Devlin’s parents and didn’t need another drunkard to run herd on. That left Jameson and Leah Mae. They were canoodled up against one of the outdoor heaters, starin’ into each other’s eyes like they were glued at the face. I grabbed a bottle of water and another pepperoni roll and towed Jonah in their direction.
“Jonah bet that he could do more push-ups than you,” I told Jameson.
I handed the food and water over to Leah Mae. “Feed him and water him.”
“Where are you going?” Jameson asked as Jonah obligingly dropped down to the sidewalk and started busting out push-ups.
“One. Two. Four…”
“Important vice principal business,” I lied. Jameson caught my drift and gave me the thumbs-up.
I was early and eager. But I’d thought about nothing but touching her all day long.
I paced back and forth in front of the chicken condo and wondered if Mona Lisa was in residence or if she was out enjoying the festivities.
I heard footsteps, and when I saw that flash of red sweater, I reached out and grabbed her.
Cassidy let out a little gasp of surprise that I devoured with my mouth. I’d been so close to her all day. Elbow-to-elbow and yet I couldn’t touch her the way I wanted to. We’d make up for it here in this cozy alley.
I pressed her against the cold brick of the building and kissed her like a man obsessed. She tasted like peach moonshine and starlight, and I wanted more.
Her hands were in my hair, running under my jacket, streaking under my shirt, seeking skin, contact. We’d been deprived for so long. And now we were loved. Whole. Real.
“I love you,” I murmured against her mouth.
“I’m starting to believe you,” she breathed before dragging me down for another kiss.
I leaned into her, holding her against the brick with my hips.
“This is my new favorite position,” she said on a laugh and a sigh.
“Mine, too. Whatever position you’re in is my favorite.”
I shoved my hands under her sweater and found her skin warm and welcoming. She was so smooth and soft. I had trouble believing she was real.
“I used to dream that you’d do this. That I’d walk by and you’d reach out and grab me. Drag me into the dark. Have your way with me,” she whispered.
“Honey, believe me. I thought about it more than a time or two,” I confessed, pressing a kiss to her neck.
I wanted to bite her, taste her, mark her.
“Don’t you dare leave a hickey,” she hissed, reading my mind.
We’d known each other for so long, sometimes I couldn’t separate her thoughts from mine.
She kissed me again with a desperation that drove me insane. So familiar and so new.
“What do you say we go on home?” Cassidy asked, her eyes glassy with need.
“You don’t mind missing the tree decorating?”
She snickered. The Moonshine Tasting always ended with tasters drunkenly decorating the bottom six feet of the twenty-foot spruce on the square in front of the bank. Tomorrow town maintenance workers would undo the mess and decorate it the right way. But for one shining night, Bootleg Springs proudly wore its mess.
“I think I can skip a year,” Cassidy said, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth before pulling on my bottom lip with her teeth.
“If you don’t walk away right now, we won’t make it home. It’ll be in an alley with a chicken as a witness,” I warned her.
I was so hard I was going to have a zipper imprint on my dick.
Her eyes sparkled at me, and I realized I’d never seen a prettier girl in all my life. Lust and love coiled deep in my gut and bloomed like a fucking rose. With Cassidy, I had it all.
“Let’s go home,” she said, taking my hand and pulling me toward the mouth of the alley.
“Oh, excuse me. Sorry!” Cassidy stopped suddenly, and I rammed into her back, knocking her right into Judge Kendall’s arms.
51
Bowie
I could feel Cassidy’s panic when she jumped back, yanking her hand free from mine. Judge and Mrs. Kendall looked back and forth between us. It was odd knowing that both our families were so tied up in each other. But given the circumstances, both sides had done their best to avoid each other since the news of the sweater broke.
“Mr. Bodine,” Judge Kendall said formally. “It’s nice to see you.”
“You too, sir,” I said, offering my hand for a shake.
“And Deputy Tucker.” His gaze flicked back to Cassidy. Calculating as if distantly interested. “My wife told me she shared those photos with you.”
Cassidy swallowed audibly. “Yes, sir.”
“I certainly hope you’ll be able to finally put this ugliness behind us. I’m sure Mr. Bodine and the rest of his family would agree.”
What in the hell was going on?
“The investigating officer was very interested in the photos,” Cassidy said. The tips of her ears were bright pink, but she managed a professional tone.
Mrs. Kendall let out a shuddery breath. “It’s time we let this matter rest. Mr. Bodine,” she said, addressing me. “Bowie. I’m truly sorry for the pain and suffering the selfish actions of my daughter caused your family. I don’t believe I ever met either of your parents. But I feel as though I owe them an apology as well.”
I had no idea what to say to that. The parents of the girl my fathe
r was suspected of murdering were telling me no hard feelings. Our lawyer Jayme would murder me if she caught wind of me talking to the Kendalls.
“Thank you for the kind words,” I said lamely.
Judge Kendall cleared his throat as if he were about to make a big speech. “I think both our families are ready for a fresh start,” he said. “And we’d both be served best by a swift resolution to this baseless investigation.”
“Yes, sir.” I had no idea what in the hell the man was talking about. But in West Virginia, you just nodded real polite and sir-ed or ma’am-ed your way out of the conversation.
“Deputy, I hope we can count on you to do what’s necessary, what’s best for both the Kendalls and the Bodines,” Judge Kendall said. The look he gave her seemed like it carried a message with it. But it was indecipherable to me.
Cassidy made some noise about telling them to enjoy their evening. The Kendalls turned away from the festivities and walked on into the night.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” She paced the mouth of the alley.
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“What are the odds the Kendalls aren’t going to tell Detective Connelly the next time he pays them a visit that they saw me making out with you?”
“Cassidy, this is Bootleg Springs. If the cops recused themselves from every case involving someone they know there’d be no one left to investigate anything.”
“I know that and you know that. But Connelly doesn’t know that!”
“The judge mentioned pictures. What was that about?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s not public knowledge.”
“Does it affect me and my family?” I pressed, getting the distinct impression that my girlfriend was hiding behind her badge again.
“Bowie, I can’t share case details with you. We have bigger fish to fry!”
“Do we, Cassidy?”
It wasn’t exactly fair of me to compare her worries about her job with the effects her investigation was having on my family. But I didn’t like that we were days into our trial relationship and Cassidy was right back where she started, keeping things from me.