A shot of murder, p.5
A Shot of Murder, page 5
At long last, Danny faced me, his features hard. “We have enough evidence to hold Jack on suspicion of first degree murder. I suggest you find him a lawyer.” His face grew even grimmer. “A damn good one.”
Standing in our kitchen an hour later, now alone, I stared at the pile of bills I’d rummaged through after Danny left with my grandfather in handcuffs. Completely unnecessary. But Sheriff Danny, the vindictive jerk he was, had insisted. Jack’s gaze begged me to keep quiet as Danny led him away.
Wetness rose in my eyes, leaving salty streaks as tears rolled down my face. The truth about the distillery and Jack’s arrest had just about settled in. By my calculations, the Lucky family would, if something didn’t change and quick, lose the distillery.
We were broke.
And I had no idea why.
The distillery, which was normally in the black, had lost fifty thousand dollars in the last quarter. Was it due to Jack’s illness? Or something more? Hemorrhaging money like that would shut us down within the next six months. Sooner, since Jack needed a lawyer, an expensive one to boot.
I wasn’t about to risk the rest of his days on a pro bono attorney. Or Danny Gett’s investigational skills. After all, Danny had nothing to gain by finding Roger’s real killer. With Granddad out of the way, Lucky Whiskey would follow, and Rue Gett, Danny’s dear granny, would have what she always wanted.
Lucky Whiskey.
Over my cold corpse.
A knock sounded at the back door, causing me to jump, my hand flying to my throat. The violent reaction felt justified considering there was a killer still on the loose. My bets were still on Grodie Brodie having done the deed.
I opened the door, facing the very man in question. “What are you doing here?” I tried to keep the fear and suspicion from my tone. Why let him know I was on to him?
He raised an eyebrow. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
His lips curled into a dark smile, eyes sparkling. “Charms, for once in your life, don’t overthink it and let me in so we can talk.”
My own eyebrow arched, not nearly as effectively. “How about, hell no?”
“Do you want Jack out of jail or what?”
With a muffled curse, I stepped back and motioned him inside. Jack stashed weapons all over the house, if it turned out that I needed one. Though I had my doubts Brodie would drive over in his noticeably loud Jeep to kill me. Too many people would see him.
Of course, half the town, still annoyed about the water tower, might cheer my demise. “Please, come on in,” I said. “But don’t try any funny stuff.” I’d always wanted to say that. Too much TV as a child, I guessed.
He pushed by me, smelling of whiskey. And not the good stuff. Strolling to the living room, he plopped down in Jack’s chair like he owned the place. He even had the audacity to flip the recliner up and lean back. His long legs hung over the end.
My annoyance rose. I was sick of Getts, of the way they lorded over the rest of the town. Everywhere I went, the Gett name stood out. Most notably, as if mocking my return, on the damn water tower. “Why are you here?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
The side of his mouth lifted into that familiar smirk. Oddly, I remembered that smile most from the night I painted the tower. Not that I remembered the actual event, but I sure as hell knew Brodie had egged me on until I climbed up. In school—and now, it seemed—he took pleasure in pushing my buttons. His next words were a perfect example.
“And that concludes the polite portion of the evening. You didn’t even offer me a drink,” he said, and then went on before I could comment. “I wouldn’t say no to a whiskey, even if it’s Lucky.”
“You’re hilarious,” I said deadpan. “Now I repeat, what are you doing here?”
He let out a long, weary lament. “I take it your question isn’t a philosophical one,” he said. When I didn’t so much as laugh at his joke, he sighed again. Louder. “Guess you lost your sense of humor in La-La-Land. Happens to the best of them.”
“I happen to have a great sense of humor.” I added a nod for emphasis, which was sort of like saying I’m a nice person. “When something’s funny, of course,” I said. “Now tell me why you’re here or get out.”
“I kindly, out of the goodness of my heart, came to tell you Jack has a lawyer.” He smirked.
“What?”
“Yep, the best in the county, which isn’t saying much considering …” He paused as if letting the other shoe drop. “But I promise, nickname aside, William ‘The Killer’ Meir is good at what he does. So you don’t have to worry about finding Jack one.”
“We don’t take charity.” Particularly from a Gett. Jack would rather rot in a cell.
I was almost sure of it.
He rolled his eyes. “No charity involved. Jack knows Meir. They’ve worked together before.”
“All right.” I lowered my arms, making a sweeping motion with my hands. “If that’s all …”
He closed the recliner, rising from the chair. “Not quite. I heard you’ve been asking around about me. About the night Roger died.” His legs swallowed the distance between us in half a step. I had to look up at him, which wouldn’t do at all, so I took a large step back, unfortunately hitting the edge of the bookcase on the wall. Picture frames and other assorted knickknacks, untouched for the last forty years in the same exact spot my Grandma Jennie had put them, rattled. Brodie reached out to steady the case, all teasing gone from his face. “Son-of-a-bitch. You really think I had something to do with Roger’s death.”
The implication that I was an idiot to believe he was guilty raised my ire. “If you didn’t kill Roger”—I tilted my head—“why won’t you tell me about that night? What were the two of you arguing about?”
“I can’t say,” he said, voice tight. “Trust me, Charms, I would if I could.”
“That’s what I thought.” I waved to the door. “Thanks for dropping by, but I have things to do …”
He didn’t move. Just stood there like a big dumb rock. “Things like investigating Roger’s murder?” he asked, his tone quizzical.
Like it was his business what I did with my time.
I shrugged.
“This is a bad idea, Charms.” His face grew hard, intimidating in its coldness. I stifled the urge to shiver in the air-conditioned house. “A man is dead,” he said as if talking of the weather. He went on, like he was just an old pal giving friendly advice. “I get wanting to find out who did it, especially with Jack’s arrest, but what you’re doing is dangerous.”
I licked my suddenly dry lips. “Are you threatening me?”
His eyes went wide, practically glowing with pretend innocence. “Hell no. I’m giving you good advice, Charms.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Take it.”
Staring into his eyes, I inhaled, and then blew out a breath. “I can’t,” I said, echoing his earlier answer in the same affected tone. “Trust me, Grodie, I would if I could.”
He took another step forward, backing me against the bookcase. “I didn’t want to do this …”
“What?”
“I’m in.”
“In what?”
“Your investigation.” His smirk said he was doing me a favor. “I’m going to help you solve Roger’s murder.” The smile grew, even as it failed to reach his eyes. “You can thank me later.”
Chapter
9
My brow wrinkled as I stared at Brodie Gett’s muscular form, wondering what plan he was cooking up now. Did he honestly just offer to help a Lucky? My suspicion grew tenfold. Never trust a Gett bearing whiskey, Jack always said.
That lesson I’d learned the hard way. One day Brodie had offered to walk me home from school, through the heart of the Glades. I’d foolishly accepted, trusting him right up until he left me alone except for the monster alligators. We were eight years old.
I could still hear his laughter as he sprinted away. The memory caused my hands to sweat. Was this the same sort of thing? Would I find myself alone, battling my own fears, while Brodie stood to the side and laughed? With a shallow breath, I asked, “Why?”
“What?”
“Why would you want to help me?”
“For one thing, I’m your prime suspect.” He stopped as if waiting for me to deny it. Like I would. If he hadn’t outright killed Roger, I bet he knew who had. He shot me a frown when I remained silent. I stifled my smile at his disgruntled look. “Proving it wasn’t me sounds like enough of a reason,” he said, his tone even.
“And why would I, being a sane person, agree to this?”
A cutting laugh burst from his lips. “Let’s forego the obvious debate of your mental status for the moment.” His hand went to his chin, rubbing it as if thinking hard. “Instead,” he said, “let’s focus on the bigger issue. Like it or not, people in this town trust me.” That damn time-honored smirk returned. “Hell, I’d go as far as saying they love me.” He gestured my way. “Current company apparently excluded.”
“Is that so?”
He went on as if I hadn’t said a word. “You, on the other hand, painted their beloved water tower, embarrassing the entire town.” He emphasized the word entire. He hadn’t needed to. I understood exactly where he was coming from. On my visit to the Gett Bar & Grill, Willow Jones had ignored my questions about Roger right up until Brodie nodded his okay.
I was an outsider, though I’d lived here most of my life.
The town didn’t trust outsiders.
Damn, a Gett actually made sense for once.
Better to keep your enemies close, right? Knowing I was about to agree to a deal with the devil, I nodded slowly. “Fine. You can help me. But if you so much as make one funny move …”
“You’ll what, Charms?” He laughed, loud and long, too much so to be genuine. The jerk. “Act me to death?”
My ego rose nicely to his bait. “Hey, I’m a damn good actress.”
He snapped his fingers. “Right. I was totally convinced of your herpes outbreak.” I opened my mouth to let him have it, but before one f-word slipped out, he waved his hand at me. “Okay, sorry,” he said. “You are an amazing actor. Shakespearean in quality if not quantity.” He paused, as if awaiting my approval. I nodded, slightly mollified. “Now we can get on with solving Roger’s murder,” he said. “Where to start …”
I smiled without a bit of humor. “Let’s start by you telling me what happened after your argument with Roger.”
He sucked in a deep breath, and for a moment, I suspected he wouldn’t answer. My eyes widened when he did. “Roger was drunk. We argued, and he stumbled off toward here. I never saw him after that.” He stopped, his eyes hard on mine, as if willing me to believe him. To trust him. Like I was eight again.
“I swear to it, Charms,” he whispered.
I chose, for the moment, to buy his tale. “So how did he get from the Gett, alive, and end up dead in the Lucky Whiskey rackhouse?”
Brodie shook his head; his razor-sharp hair barely moved. The desire to run my hand over it took me off guard. “We need more information,” he said.
My mouth lifted to a one-sided grin as he’d walked neatly into my trap. The one person who would never give me anything, let alone information on an ongoing investigation, just might cough it up for Brodie. “Funny you should say that.”
“Why?” he asked quietly.
“I know just who to ask.”
His brow rose. “Is that so?”
“Your dear brother,” I said with glee, “the sheriff.”
His snort grated on my ears, but not nearly as much as his next words. “You want me to ask Danny about an ongoing investigation? One that he arrested a suspect in? Are you crazy?”
Tired of that question, I said, “You did want to help.”
He closed his eyes. “You’re going to owe me.”
If it got Jack out of jail, I’d willingly sell my soul. “Name your price.”
He shot me that familiar wicked smile. “We’ll discuss my terms later.”
As the sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the Glades, I followed Brodie’s black Jeep CJ-7 in my Prius. We headed across town, the Jeep’s small, close together headlights illuminating the way we both knew by heart.
Thankfully Brodie decided on taking the main, paved drag and not the more reckless four-wheel drive path that cut through the swamp, and only, in the end, cut the trip down by thirty or so seconds. The path most in the county knew as Moonshine Run had played a major role in breaking many interstate and federal liquor laws during the long Prohibition period. Lucky Whiskey had contributed to breaking said statutes as well, surreptitiously cooking up batches of whiskey for the outlaws to sell until Prohibition ended. The swamplands kept secrets better than Pastor Reeves, Gett’s lone holy man.
As a child, my friends and I would play cops and bootleggers. I, of course, was always a cop. One who more often than not ended up face down in the dirt. Jack would take one look at my muddy face and clothes, and shake his head.
But he never stopped our games.
I smiled at the memory.
Before we left the Lucky family property, Brodie had texted his brother, asking him to meet up at the Gett Diner, but not a mention as to why. Danny had asked, but Brodie didn’t respond. We both knew Danny would not agree if he had an inkling as to what Brodie wanted. What I wanted, really.
We arrived at the diner a few minutes later. I stepped out of my car, surprised by the fresh coat of light blue paint haphazardly splattered on the exterior walls of the single-story building. A neon sign in the window blinked the word OPEN in bright pink, at odd contrast to the newly blue facade.
But it was what was below the sign that shocked me most.
A large piece of cardboard boasted of the Best meatloaf in the county in handwritten black lettering. One look at the congealed greasy gravy on a nearby plate as Brodie and I entered, and I decided against risking it.
Cindy Mae, the once perky high school prom queen now pregnant with a fifth child, sat us at a table toward the back. She set down a glass of tap water in front of Brodie. “You’re looking good, sugar,” she said. Her blank gaze passed over me as if I was nothing more than Brodie’s latest conquest rather than a living, breathing, and thirsty woman. “Remember that time we—” she said with a giggle.
“Good to see you, Cindy Mae. How’s Colin?” Brodie asked after the father of three out of four of her children. The fifth was to be determined according to local gossip. “And the kids?”
She patted her round belly. “Afraid this one’s gonna fall out every time I bend over.”
He laughed but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. They stayed the same icy color. I wondered if he ever felt real emotion underneath his good ole boy façade. Serial killers didn’t. Was that what Grodie Brodie was? Had years of relentless female admiration as well as no teenaged acne warped him so? I smiled at the thought. If only …
“You want something stronger to drink?” she asked, waving to his water glass. Bits of something floated on the surface of the glass.
Maybe I would forgo a water as well.
She leaned down as far as her large belly would allow. “We got some Gett in the back.”
In the back was code around Gett for We ain’t paying the county for our God-given right to sell liquor.
The side of his mouth lifted, yet he only said, “To keep the peace, I’ll have a beer.”
Her eyes flickered over my body. “And you, hon?”
“Iced tea, please.”
“We only got sweet tea. None of those fancy California teas with fruit,” she sneered.
I’d wondered if she’d recognized me. Apparently so. And she didn’t look happy about it either. Not that we knew each other well during school. I was a bookish nerd while she dated the captain of the football team—the very man sitting across from me—until they broke up when he left to play for the University of Miami. “Sweet tea is fine.” I gave her a warm smile. “Thank you.”
She nodded, her gaze a little less hostile, but still wary, like my California ways might include stealing tarnished silverware. “Do you need a minute before you order?”
“Please,” Brodie said.
Again, she nodded, this time heading off to fill our drink order. I glanced around the diner. I hadn’t been there in years. Not since Jack brought me here for graduation. The very same night Gett became the town of Getting Lucky.
“What’s good here?” I asked, peeling the sticky, yellowed menu from the table.
“Nothing.” He finished his tap water in one drink, setting the glass down. “But the pork chop probably won’t kill you.”
“Better than the salad?”
“If you like your meal sans bacterial contingent.” He grinned. “In Afghanistan, I ate wild goat for three meals a day. Given the choice between yet another steaming goat dish and a Cobb, I’d eat three billys, and their gruff.”
I studied his face over the top of my menu. This was the first time he’d mentioned his time away. I wondered how long he’d been deployed, but decided against asking. The more I knew about Brodie personally, the harder it would be to be objective. And I needed to be as objective as possible. One wrong move and Jack would spend the rest of his days in prison garb. For this reason, I settled on a safer topic. “What did you do over there?”
He shrugged. “Advised. Mostly.”
“Un huh.” I tilted my head. “Are you done with the Army or will you be doing another tour?”
He reached his hand forward, fingers extended like they hoped mine would meet them. They didn’t. His tenderness was nothing more than a ploy to distract me. One that might’ve worked on a good portion of the population. Both male and female.
Nevertheless I’d learned long ago that charm was the actor’s best friend. If you charmed the audience, you could forget a line or two with no problem. If you failed to charm them, the reviewers would have your head.
