This was where I was to say, “Oh, I’m not married,” which would provoke an invitation to dinner at the very least. Given Brent’s confident manner, perhaps his invite would hold a little something extra, like a chance to see the backroom where “the magic” happened. Why not forgo the inevitable? “Jones,” I responded. “Mrs. Jones.”

  His brow wrinkled, sending his glasses farther down his nose. He pushed them back in place with a single finger. “Do I know you?” he asked, tilting his head like an owl. “You look very familiar. Are you from around here?”

  Crap. I knew what was coming, but still his next words made me flinch. “Oh, that’s it!” he said. “I saw you on TV. A commercial.” His grin turned into a leer, the kind normally associated with my STD fame. His eyes fell on my breasts. “You do good work.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. “Brent, listen, I need your help with a little problem.”

  “Anything for a star,” he said, and sadly meant it. I imagined much of his life was spent in front of the TV, fantasizing about scantily clad women and dreaming of being a hero. The angel on my shoulder told me to leave it alone, but the devil won out in the end.

  I blinked my eyes up at him. “Thank you. You’re my hero.”

  And just like that Brent turned into one.

  He walked me through what RFID was, explained how it worked and the different types. Basically it boiled down to this: the decal on the vehicles held a tiny electronic chip that used radio frequencies to do various things, like indicate when someone walked out of a store without paying for an item.

  “What would it be used for on a car windshield?” I asked, though I had a fairly good idea. Transponders. The kind used on HOV lanes of the highway in the richer counties like Miami-Dade. A plain ridiculous notion in Gett. So why did Brodie and the killer’s vehicle have them?

  “They could have plenty of uses.” He pulled out a small RFID tag from a stack on the shelf next to us. “For example, a business could use them to track an employee coming and going.” He picked up another sticker, larger than the first. “Or even use the chip to unlock a gate or open a garage door.”

  I frowned, remembering my brief trip to Gett Whiskey a week ago. A week that seemed much like a lifetime ago. At the time I’d wondered about the lack of a guard at the gate, and yet, an armed one roaming the grounds. But what if Gett used an RFID system to unlock the gate?

  Hope faded as my list of suspects went from a few to anyone who worked at Gett or had worked there in the recent past. The pool of suspects was now as wide as the mouth of Lake Immokalee.

  Disappointment stiffened my tone. “Is there any way to know what or who a sticker belongs to?”

  “By sight?” He shook his head. “No. Unless it’s labeled of course.”

  “Of course.”

  His fingers rubbed his chin, much like an evil genius. “Thatv is, unless you have an RFID reader.”

  “Show me,” I said, following him to a rack of what looked much like all the other computer equipment. Plastic boxes in different colors filled with circuits and wires. Not one piece of equipment looked familiar. I felt oddly out of my element. Thankfully Brent knew everything about each piece.

  “Voila,” he said, pointing. “You said it’s on a car, right?” he asked. “Must have a high frequency.”

  I shrugged.

  He smiled, knowingly. “What you need is an ultra-high frequency RFID reader.”

  If he said so. “How much do they run?”

  “Six hundred,” he said. “But you’re in luck. I have a refurbished Juno handheld for three forty-six.”

  I grimaced, remembering my near-empty bank account and a distillery barely producing small batch whiskies. “Can I rent it? I only need it for a couple of days.”

  “I wish I could …”

  “Please,” I added a husky plea to my tone. The very one that won me the STD commercial in the first place. “I really do need it.”

  “How about you buy it and then bring it back for a full refund in a few days?” he whispered. “Maybe then, we can grab a drink?” When I didn’t respond, he said, “A coffee?” His voice hopeful.

  I hated to break his nerdy heart, and he had helped me. “Sure,” I said. Then I noticed he was staring at my breasts again. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Coffee only.”

  “You got it, babe.” He handed me a device that looked like a fat TV remote with a red laser on the front. “Looking forward to our date,” he said louder than needed.

  “Right,” I said. “Can you show me how to use this?”

  “My pleasure.” He took a step forward, too close for comfort. His breath smelled of coffee and that chemical fragrance of spray mint breath freshener. Not the most pleasant of scents. Ever so slowly, he offered instructions for the reader. All of which amounted to: point the red laser at the decal and press the green button. Supposedly the owner or other info would show on the small screen.

  Not rocket science but from the look in his eyes, much too much for a woman with my small brain to handle. I wanted to stomp on his foot, but refrained. After all, he was much less likely to let me borrow the reader if I did so. Then again, he might like it. That thought kept me far from his foot, let alone his thin body.

  What felt like an eternity later, I left the store with the reader tucked firmly in my purse.

  Soon I would have the answers I needed. A shiver ran through me despite the warmth of the Florida sunshine.

  Chapter

  32

  Armed with an RFID reader and a rusted-out pickup, I made my way back to town with only a brief stop at Starbucks. The vanilla iced latte went down much too smoothly. Before I even hit the highway, I was sucking on the ice cubes with regret. I’d never been one to savor anything but a fine whiskey. Savoring took time. And time, it felt like, was the one thing none of us genuinely had.

  Now that I found myself in possession of an RFID reader, I needed an RFID sticker to test. The one vehicle, besides the killer’s, that had just what I needed was Brodie’s Jeep.

  Considering I saw the Jeep parked at the Gett Bar & Grill more often than not, I detoured toward the watering hole.

  Surprisingly Brodie’s Jeep was not in the parking lot.

  And just as unfortunate for me, Willow Jones was.

  She leaned against the brick, one jean-clad foot kicked over the other. She held up her hand in a small wave as I drove by. In order not to raise suspicion, or rumors I was stalking Brodie, I parked the truck and got out.

  “Hot out,” I said, inanely.

  She nodded, a small smile flickering over her face.

  “Slow day?” I motioned to the empty parking lot.

  A single shoulder lifted.

  I frowned as a single tear ran down her pale cheek. “Are you all right?”

  She swiped at the wetness. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She snorted. “I’ve done nothing with the last ten years of my life. Spent it waiting around here, while I should’ve been exploring the world. Today was the last straw. I’m done with Gett. For good.”

  I knew how she felt. As a teen, I’d longed to be free of Gett, and the Getts. But I learned an important lesson upon my return. The things that had drove me away, the broken pieces inside me, hadn’t magically glued themselves back together once I stepped beyond the town limits. I wanted to tell Willow as much, but she’d disappeared back inside the bar.

  I stood staring at the door of the bar.

  Then I turned back to the pickup to find the one Gett who might free Jack from prison.

  Or rather, his Jeep. I’d gladly avoid the man.

  Frustration filled me when I pulled up to my house. Brodie’s Jeep wasn’t in the drive. Yet noises from the distillery drew me. Maybe Brodie had parked around the back? I headed inside Lucky Whiskey, inhaling deeply as I did every time. My blood warmed and my body relaxed just being there. Workers smiled and nodded as they passed. It was good to be up and running. They knew it as much as I did, probably more.

  Longtime foreman Remy Ray gave me a wave, his hand shaking slightly from Parkinson’s disease. Remy had been the foreman for as long as I could remember. Jack’s right hand, many times. “How’s it going, girl?” he asked with a wide smile, showing off two missing front teeth.

  I swallowed back a retort at the blatant sexism. The whiskey business was not what anyone with the ability to see or hear would call progressive. Plenty of men were shocked to see a woman drink whiskey, let alone know enough about it to run a distillery. Not that I did. Yet.

  Nonetheless, Remy didn’t mean any harm by his words. The old-timers all called me girl. Why wouldn’t they when my very own grandfather did the same? “What’s going on, Remy?” I asked, waving around the rackhouse. “Things getting back to normal?”

  His grin grew. “The wort’s cooling as we speak.”

  “That’s great news,” I said with excitement. The wort process was the most delicate step in making a smooth whiskey. The mash was stirred for hours, sucking down the sugars that were eventually fermented in large steel tanks called washbacks. Sixty-seven hours later, the vapors collected in the fermentation process were placed in the copper stills. The process was repeated twice more until the finest whiskey was born. “Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

  He looked me up and down slowly, his grin quickly changing to a familiar frown. “You should rest.”

  His words sounded much like Brodie’s, which reminded me of the question I wanted to ask. “I’m fine. But thank you for your concern.” I bit my lip. If I posed the question wrong, I’d tip the killer off for sure as well as piss off a large contingent of the town. “You used to work at Gett, right?”

  He shrugged. “I sometimes moonlight when Rue asks. Jack doesn’t mind,” he added, as if I might. “He says it’s good to know the competition.”

  “It is. For sure.” I patted his arm. Tremors rippled just underneath his skin. “What I wanted to ask about is Rue.”

  His stern features grew more so, bushy gray eyebrows near swallowing his face. “What about her?”

  “How’s she getting along these days?”

  Remy’s shoulders lifted into another shrug. “She’s getting up there. Celebrated her eightieth a few months ago.” His smile was back. “Hell of a party.”

  Rue Gett, though she might not be an outright killer, knew how to throw a killer party. Everyone in town was invited to her yearly birthday bash, and they came, stomachs and livers ready to enjoy the finest spread in five counties. The whiskey served wasn’t bad either. Not Lucky, though; Rue made a point of that. Though, surprisingly, she did invite the Luckys every year. Jack’s name was always written in her scrawl on invitations.

  I thought back to the letter’s I’d found in the box in the back of Jack’s closet and frowned. Was it the same scrawled writing? Take away the ravages of age, and just maybe …

  Ridiculous. Rue and Jack? That was crazy. They hated each other. Competed at everything. They were far from star-crossed lovers. The very idea sent a laugh bubbling from my throat. “Did Roger go to Rue’s birthday party?” I asked once I regained my sanity.

  “Sure. Everyone in town went.” His smile dimmed somewhat. “Even her youngest grandson. I remember because he and Roger had a bit of a dust-up.”

  “Brodie?”

  “That’s the one. Fighting over a girl or something.” He shook his head, as if a woman didn’t rank high enough to merit fighting over. “Rue put a stop to it. Smacked that boy right upside the head. The two men shook hands and parted ways.”

  “And that was that?”

  He snorted. “You know better than that, girl. Roger wasn’t one to let anything go that easy. Remember how he pestered you after you caught him with that other girl?”

  I nodded. For a few weeks, he refused to let me alone. Then suddenly, he stopped bugging me. Simply gave up. Or had he? Had Jack had a hand in it? I’d always wondered, but never asked.

  Remy rubbed his whiskery chin. “Given the chance, Kerrick would’ve caused that Gett boy some pain.” He stared at me for a long pause. “You watch out, girl.”

  I blinked at the quick turn in conversation. “For what?”

  “You don’t want to be on the Getts’ bad side either.”

  “I’m not …”

  He placed his weathered hand over mine. “Keep it that way.”

  Chapter

  33

  A few hours later, after dealing with a long list of distillery business, I found my way once again to the Gett Bar & Grill. More precisely, to the dirt parking lot just off to the side, to repeat my earlier attempt at reading Brodie’s RFID sticker. If the decal came back registered to Gett Whiskey, I’d bring my evidence to the state’s attorney with the help of Jack’s lawyer. Let’s see Danny Gett try and bury it then.

  Unless Danny had already destroyed the tape.

  Damn. No way around it. I had to find the killer’s car. The same one on the tape. Emmett could swear, under oath, he’d seen it on the tape.

  Luck was on my side at this moment. Brodie’s Jeep was parked in the spot closest to the bar. I snorted. Not hard to find good parking when it was barely eleven in the morning. Maybe Brodie was having a harder time adjusting to life outside the military than some? Or maybe I was just projecting my own career crossroads. One day soon I’d have to decide if I wanted back in the limelight. But not today. Today I was playing the role of homicide detective. A role I was far from born to play.

  I parked Jack’s pickup, jumped out, and readied the RFID reader in my hand. Moment of truth. If this decal was from Gett Whiskey, I had proof that someone closer to Gett Whiskey had killed Roger, and not my grandfather. I took a deep breath.

  And my phone in my pocket buzzed to life.

  I practically jumped out of my skin as I dropped the reader in the dirt. I scrambled to pick it up while quieting my phone. Was the ringer always this loud? My heart slammed in my chest as the bar door opened. I ran back to the pickup as fast as my battered muscles could carry me. My cell gave another shrill screech. I glanced down to see who had ruined my plans. The caller ID shocked me to my core.

  Rue Gett.

  Was she some kind of witch who could see the future? Or perhaps she had someone following me? My eyes danced around the landscape, spotting no one out of the ordinary. I answered slowly, unsure. “Hello?”

  “Charlotte,” her voice warmed the airwaves, “how are you, dear?”

  She hadn’t even bothered to introduce herself. I looked even harder for a tail. Seeing none, I focused on the phone. “Rue. Good to hear from you,” I lied. Considering she’d never contacted me personally before, the hairs on my neck rose in warning.

  “Dear,” she said, voice shaking, “I hope you’ll do me the honor of joining me for dinner tomorrow night after Roger is laid to rest.”

  What the hell? My frown deepened. Dinner with Rue? I’d expect Grodie Brodie to ask me on a dinner date far sooner than his eighty-year-old grandmother. I wasn’t sure I’d have a better answer for him than the one I gave Rue. “Ummm,” I mumbled.

  “Please.” She sounded strangely weak, as if age had caught up with her.

  I didn’t buy it for a moment.

  Rue used her advanced age as leverage. She always had, though she hadn’t always been in her eighties. Then again, maybe she was sick and Brodie hadn’t told me. At least that would explain why he was home in Gett with seemingly nothing really to do.

  “Sure,” I said, unable to think of a genuine reason to decline. Other than her being an outright murderer intent on doing me in too. I grinned at the thought. I was far more likely to die outside the Gett estate than in it.

  Unless Rue planned on cooking dinner.

  Her kitchen exploits were the stuff of legends around Gett. Some claim her husband died so he didn’t have to endure another Rue-cooked meal. As soon as Gett Whiskey turned a profit, Rue had hired a cook, a no-no in the decade before bra-burning.

  “What time would you like me there?” I asked softly.

  “Oh, dear, I’ll have a car pick you up.”

  I shook my head, realizing too late she couldn’t see me. Heat stained my cheeks. “No, that’s all right.” I didn’t want to be trapped at the Gett estate. Plus, I’d have a better opportunity to look around for clues if I walked there. Not sure what I expected to find, but I knew there was something there. Had to be. Every cell in my body screamed the Getts were somehow involved.

  “If that’s what you want …” She trailed off. “Shall we say eight o’clock?”

  “Sounds good,” I said, though I would’ve preferred a thief to the eye. Unwillingly, the image of Roger’s head, stabbed multiple times by my own thief, came to mind. Okay, so maybe not. “See you soon.” I hung up, unable to believe my continued bad luck.

  When would I catch a break?

  “Hey Charms,” Brodie said. “You’re looking a little better than the last time I saw you.”

  My head whipped up, surprised to see him standing in front of me, a hesitant smile on his face. “Um, hi,” I said. What did he mean a little better? Was that an insult? I patted my shaggy hairdo. I really needed a haircut.

  His eyebrow rose. “What are you doing here?”

  My back straightened. Like it was any of his business where I went. “I wanted a drink.”

  “Go home,” he said in no uncertain terms.

  “What?!”

  He leaned in, all six-foot of him. “I said, go home. This is no place for you.”

  Rather than intimidate me, his gravely tone pissed me off. I laughed without humor. “Who made you boss?”

 

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