A shot of murder, p.6
A Shot of Murder, page 6
On a pointed pen pike.
I winced, thinking of my first Hollywood review, for a reimagining of Cinderella. It hadn’t gone well. I’d played the ugly stepsister for three whole nights until the musical closed. Thanks in part to what Jack declared my rotgut vocals. The reviewer had crueler words. Suffice it to say, the only singing I did nowadays was in the shower.
Humanity deserved as much.
“Why don’t we talk about you?” His voice, like a good single malt, swirled around me.
“How about we talk about what you’re doing with my prime suspect’s granddaughter?” Danny Gett, his cheerless eyes burning, stood over his brother’s shoulder, the glower on his face as dark as the food coloring added to the cheapest of bourbon.
Brodie turned. Unlike his brother, his face was devoid of emotion. Had Brodie mastered this skill during his work in Afghanistan? He gestured to his older brother to join us with a simple wave. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
With an angry grunt, Danny did, pushing me to the far inside of the booth. He faced Brodie, his eyes vowing revenge. His younger brother didn’t seem to care though. That alone apparently made Danny madder. “I told you to stay away from her and out of this,” he barked.
Brodie dipped his head. “You did.”
“So what the hell, Brodie?”
I chimed in. “Her has a name.”
Both men turned their glares on me, equal in intensity and looks. Had I not been annoyed by each brother, for a variety of reasons, I might’ve appreciated the strong, handsome Gett genetics. One thing the Getts didn’t lack was attractiveness.
Just morals. And in Danny’s case, brains.
“She does.” A long pause. “Unlucky,” they growled in unison.
I exaggerated an eye roll. “Funny. But I didn’t come here for the comedy or the best meatloaf in the county.” I pointed at Danny, stabbing my finger at the innocent air in front of him. “You arrested Jack.”
“I did.”
“I want to know why. I deserve to know why. What evidence do you have against him?”
The elder Gett laughed. Not that his mirth held an ounce of real humor. “You expect me to tell you?” he snorted. “The time in the Holly-weird sun must’ve rotted your brain.”
“I don’t expect you to tell me anything.” I made sure I had his attention before I added, “But I have no doubt that you’ll tell your brother.”
The laughter fell off his face. “Brodie, do you see what’s happening here? It’s high school all over again, with Charlotte leading you by your johnson. Wake up before she gets you in real trouble like”—a blush ran up Danny’s cheeks—“the last time.”
“What?” I asked with a loud, unladylike snort. “You think I led Brodie around? He taunted me, for years. I was the one who got in real trouble because of him. He was always daring me to do stupid stunts.” I looked at Brodie, at the gleam in his eyes, and the truth hit me like a cut-rate whiskey, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “Stunts just like this.”
“Take it easy, Charms,” Brodie said.
I threw down my napkin. “I’m so dumb to have fallen for it again. You have no desire to help me. You’re just playing some game, like always.”
“Now hold on—” he said.
I waved him off, rising hastily. In my desire to leave I knocked Danny out of the booth. The good sheriff fell on the floor. The other patrons tried to cover their laughs, but soon the entire diner was filled with humor at the sheriff’s expense. Danny’s face grew redder and I knew he wouldn’t be of help anytime soon.
Not that I needed him or his brother.
But Jack did.
Crap.
I sat back down. Danny was now on his feet, his stance rigid. Anger radiated off him in waves, all directed at little ole me. I shot him my most apologetic smile. The same smile I’d used in the STD commercial on my fake boyfriend, also a herpes sufferer thanks to my character’s poor choices.
Unlike in the commercial, Danny didn’t give me a forgiving kiss. Instead he continued to glower. One thing Getts hated, besides coming in second best to Lucky whiskey, was looking like a fool. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled his gun and shot me dead.
“Danny,” Brodie whispered, his gaze darting around. “Sit down before you cause more of a scene.”
Face still flaming, Danny thankfully listened to his brother, this time opting for Brodie’s side of the booth. A good choice, all in all. Cindy Mae reluctantly came back to take our order, for everyone in town knew the famed Gett temper. Their bark was just as bad as their bite. A bite that sometimes destroyed livelihoods if not lives. “What can I get ya?” she asked quietly.
“I’m good,” he bit out.
“It’s on me,” I said as a way of apology.
He turned his heated glare my way. “In that case, hell no.”
“Danny …” Brodie warned.
Danny’s face loosened some, and he qualified his statement. “I can’t accept Charlotte’s”—he paused—“gracious offer if I decide to share information about Roger’s case.”
I drew back, surprised. But before I could, very likely, stick my foot in my mouth, Brodie spoke up. “What makes you think Jack killed Roger? You know Jack.” A smile touched his lips. “He’s all bluster, no real bite unless you mess with his kin.” Brodie’s eyes met mine, and a shiver caused by more than the overly air-conditioned diner ran through me.
“Exactly,” Danny said, leaning back in the booth with a smug smile. A smile I wanted to smack off his face. I refrained. But just barely. Had it grown an inch wider, who knows what I might’ve done.
“Exactly what?” I growled with more than enough bite. “You think Jack killed Roger because Roger was some kind of threat to me?”
Danny’s lips curved into a frown, but he shook his head.
“Not to you,” Brodie said what his brother obviously wouldn’t.
I tilted my head, confused. “Then who?”
“Evan.”
Chapter
10
Considering I’d seen the check Jack wrote to Roger to cover Evan’s debt, Danny’s supposed evidence against Jack didn’t surprise me overmuch. “So Jack paid Evan’s debt off.” I shrugged as if five thousand dollars didn’t mean squat to the Luckys. “Why does that make Jack your prime suspect rather than Evan? He was the one who owed the cash.” I licked my lips. “If you ask me, he should be in jail for this, not Jack.” Way to throw cousin Evan under the proverbial bus. Given the choice between Jack’s freedom and Evan’s, there wasn’t one. I’d save Jack every time.
“Yes, Jack paid Roger off.” Danny’s face grew even smugger. So much so my fist now ached to slap it rather than just fantasizing about such. Luckily for me—and our bank account, for we couldn’t afford the bail for assaulting the sheriff—I stopped myself in time. Instead, I stabbed the table with a fork. The bail for vandalism had to be less, right?
“Jack also threatened to toss Roger’s body into a cask and throw it into the swamp,” Danny said, his tone as arrogant as a bad actor during their Oscar acceptance speech. “Guess he never got around to the swamp part.” He chewed on his bottom lip. “Makes sense given his condition.”
I snorted. “Not likely. Jack would’ve made good on his threat, no matter his health status. And why would he threaten Roger? He treated the guy like a son.”
Danny was far from finished. “Roger wasn’t Jack’s only intended victim.”
This time I outright laughed. “You’re crazy.”
“Come on, Danny,” Brodie said in an equally disbelieving voice. “Jack’s far from a serial killer.”
Danny scowled at me and then turned it on his brother. “You said it yourself. Jack wouldn’t kill unless it was to protect those he loves.”
I outwardly shrugged, but a chill blanketed me. Danny wasn’t wrong. Jack loved harder than most, even if he didn’t always show it. Great loss did that to a person. “He’s not overly fond of Evan,” I lied, “so that’s where your theory goes amiss.”
Danny grunted. “But Jack is very fond of his whiskey.”
Brodie took a long pull from the beer Cindy Mae had set in front of him. “Are you implying Jack was drunk and accidently killed Roger?”
“No, no. You misunderstand.”
“Then explain what you mean,” Brodie snarled at his sibling. “I’m hungry and tired, and the sooner you cut the crap, the sooner I can enjoy my meal.” Brodie looked down at the plate Cindy had also placed in his sights. The food swam in grease. Even the still-half-frozen vegetables. “Though enjoy might be the wrong word.”
Danny stroked the stubble on his chin, a hint of humor in his eyes. “Roger had threatened to break Evan’s hands if he didn’t pay off the debt.”
“So?” Brodie frowned.
“So—”
“Evan is our cooper,” I said to cut Danny off. “One of the best in the country. His hands are our livelihood.” A surprise to most, but the cask was the most important part of distilling. Use the wrong piece of wood or have the slightest gap in a barrel and the end result tasted of battery acid mixed with cheap kerosene.
Danny wasn’t wrong. Besides me, Jack would kill for only one other thing—Lucky Whiskey.
But he hadn’t done this.
“Jack took that threat to Evans hands very serious.” Danny grabbed the fork I’d jabbed into the table, stabbing one of Brodie’s pork chops. He bit into it and chewed. And chewed.
And chewed some more.
That sounded just like something Jack would say. I smiled. Brodie raised an eyebrow. My grin faded. “How do you know what Jack said?”
Danny’s smug face loosened—as did his back molars, I’d guess. “That’s confidential,” he said around the pork chop.
Brodie tilted his head as if sniffing out the scent like a bloodhound. “You don’t know, do you? Someone gave an anonymous tip. And you rushed in to arrest Jack.”
“Damn it, Brodie.” Danny’s face grew molten. For a minute I worried the sheriff might stroke out. When he regained his composure, I took a relieved breath. “I took a dangerous killer off the streets,” he whispered. “Who cares how we got the tip.” He chomped down on the pork chop again, talking with his mouth full. “Besides, Boone confirmed it.”
“Boone Daniels?” I shivered at the name and the vile memories it held. “What does that degenerate know?”
“He knows that your granddad threatened him too.” Danny wiped his mouth with Brodie’s napkin. “At the same time, in fact.”
My heart in my throat, I ventured, “Evan owed Boone money too?”
“Owes, sweetheart,” Danny said with obvious glee.
Crap. I winced as the implication hit. We couldn’t afford another payoff. Damn Evan
Danny wasn’t finished delivering the bad news, in a gloating tone. “And Jack’s no longer around to bail Evan out. Just who do you think Boone’s gonna come looking for if he can’t find cousin Evan?”
Chapter
11
“Don’t even think it, Charms,” Brodie said after Danny left with yet another stern warning to stay out of the investigation, along with a slice of Cindy Mae’s cherry pie, charged to our bill. “I mean it,” Brodie said to me. “Do not.”
“What?” I asked with complete, albeit affected innocence, the sort of innocence that won golden statues of undressed men. Too bad the academy would never know of my brilliant performance.
“Boone is not the kind of guy you mess around with.” Brodie hesitated before adding, “You know that as well as I do.”
I did. The day of my sixteenth birthday was my first date with an older guy named Boone who hung around our high school, though he’d dropped out the year before. He wore black and sneered at everyone and everything. At the time, I’d equated this with the soul of a poet.
A big mistake, like drinking anything but Lucky.
Our “date” turned out to be an attempted rape in the back of his pickup truck off the side road teenagers probably still used for parking. Had Brodie Gett not stepped in when he did, surely the attempted part of the equation would’ve changed to outright rape. Brodie had pulled Boone off me, punching him until Boone lost consciousness. He then held me until my tears dried, and rage took over. I added a few bruises to Boone’s ribs with the heel of my boot.
After that, we’d left Boone slumped over the back of his truck. Brodie gave me a sweatshirt with University of Miami emblazoned over the chest to cover up my tattered dress so Jack, if he was up, wouldn’t see the damage. Nothing could’ve stopped him from outright murder if he learned of the assault.
His own date long gone, Brodie kindly drove me home, lecturing me on the evils of all guys. Besides himself, of course. For the barest of seconds, I thought for sure he’d try and kiss me. But he didn’t, leaving me oddly disappointed.
The next day we never spoke of it again.
We went back to our old ways, him pissing me off to no end with pranks and taunts and me doing my best to ignore his childish antics.
Somewhere I still had that sweatshirt.
According to gossip I’d heard since my return, Boone Daniels hadn’t aged gracefully, and was now even more of a scumbag than before. He lived in the trailer park on what, in a town as small and generally poor as ours, was deemed the wrong side of the tracks.
It was swampland for one thing. Gators roamed as if they owned it, much like Gator Alley. I shivered remembering the beady-eyed creature lying in wait below me from Mary’s patio.
According to that same gossip, Boone made his living dealing drugs to high schoolers, selling illegal guns to rednecks with poor impulse control (not that Florida law looked down on such actions), and generally making life hell for the good people stuck living check to check in the trailer park.
Danny had reportedly arrested him a time or two, but nothing more than a six-month jail stint stuck.
Boone was bad, bad news.
And I planned on confronting him about a murder.
But Boone had made the anonymous call to the sheriff. I was somehow sure of it. The question was, why? Boone wasn’t the good neighbor type. The only way he’d have made such a call to law enforcement was if there was something in it for him.
I had to find out what.
With or without Brodie Gett’s help.
By the way Brodie watched me, I suspected I just might be going it alone. Fear tingled along my nerves, but my spine and resolved stiffened. Jack’s life was at stake. Like grandfather like granddaughter.
I would kill or be killed for one reason and one only—Jack Lucky.
The humor of such a dire sentiment eased some of the tension in my body. Boone wouldn’t kill me.
I was eighty-five percent sure of it.
Ninety if one factored in the bottle of Lucky I planned to offer him.
“Damn it, Charms.” Brodie crossed his arms over his chest. “If you get me shot I’m going to be real pissed.”
I laughed and immediately sobered when Brodie didn’t join in. “Oh, don’t be such a drama queen.” I motioned to the swamp beyond the greasy window of the diner. “You’re far more likely to get eaten by a gator.”
Oddly enough, I wasn’t wrong about the gator. The next morning Brodie picked me up in his Jeep and we drove the short distance to the Wrong Side of the Tracks Trailer & RV Park. Like I said, Gett wasn’t all that imaginative when it came to names.
The trailer park hadn’t changed much since I’d left. A dilapidated sign in the front as old as Jack announced, Don’t Feed the Gators.
Or rather it once had.
Someone had changed the feed to another f-word. Seeing as I had my own graffiti past, I forgave the vandal for their lack of creativity.
Rows and rows of run-down trailers sat on three-foot stilts. A few of the renters had tried to liven up their space, planting yellow and pink flowers in foot-long patches of dirt. Rather than pretty up the place, the flowers made it look sadder somehow.
Kids on Salvation Army–purchased bikes, spokes missing from the wheels, rode hell bent around the swampland. A lone dirt pile had turned into a playground for the youths, bikes flying through the air with little regard for their safety.
There was a lesson in there somewhere, but I ignored the knowing glint in Brodie’s eyes.
Once we pulled into the parking area—or rather, dirt patch—in front of Boone’s trailer, Brodie jumped down from the driver’s seat of his Jeep. Boone lived in a derelict trailer that had seen better days, at least a decade ago. The windows, or what used to be windows, were blacked out. And the door hung on one single hinge.
As Brodie landed on the muddy ground next to his Jeep, a brown muscular gator launched itself up on tiny but fast legs, dashing from the nearby mangroves and into the murkier waters a few feet away. The bright morning sunlight sparkled on its wet flesh like diamonds.
Brodie, to his credit, didn’t scream like I would have. Instead he leapt up, at least three feet into the air, before diving back into the Jeep. His head landed in my lap in the passenger seat, breath hot on my bare thighs. I was immensely glad I’d opted for shorts rather than a sundress for today’s adventure. “Son-of-a—” he yelped.
Seconds later, a round of buckshot peppered the Jeep, hitting the roll bar just above our heads. Flecks of black paint rained down as the air filled with the harsh scent of gun powder. A scent a small-town girl never forgot.
“Get down,” Brodie ordered, scrambling to keep low while opening his glovebox. The cold, black steel of a gun glimmered in the light. But Brodie never pulled it free. He never had a chance. The crack of another shell of buckshot loaded into a shotgun stalled his hand.
