Wearing a nightgown, Lula Mae was brushing her hair in the master bathroom when she saw her husband sitting at the foot of the bed, putting on his boots. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to drive by the water factory one more time.”
“But it’s so late.”
“That’s the point, Lula Mae. All the thefts occurred at night.”
“I thought you already knew who the thief was.”
“I’m rethinking that. I’m positive they pointed the finger at the wrong guy, which means whoever it is, he’s still out there.” He stood and gave her a kiss. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Be careful, Nick.”
Jeff was cleaning off his kitchen counter when his phone rang. He walked to the coffee table to answer it, glancing at Bobbie as he passed by her sleeping on the couch. “Hello. Hi August.” He grabbed a pen from his desk and wrote notes on a legal pad. “What’s the license number? Okay, I’ll see what I can find out.” Seconds after the conversation with one of his regular clients ended, his doorbell rang. He looked out the window and saw Emory below standing in front of the door to Mourning Dove Investigations.
A moment after Emory rang the doorbell to Mourning Dove Investigations, Jeff opened the office door. “What do you want?”
Still wearing the clothes from his former home, Emory blurted out, “I’m sorry.” The expression on Jeff’s face, however, refused to change. “I’ve never broken into a place or anything like that. It stressed me out.”
“So stress turns you into an ass?”
Emory tilted his head and raised his right shoulder. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
“Are you stressed now?”
“A little bit. Honestly.”
“Then we better get you something to calm your nerves.” Jeff waved him inside to the reception area. As he headed toward the bookshelf door to his office, he asked, “What kind of man are you?”
What kind of question is that? Emory followed him through the door. “What do you mean?”
“Vodka? Gin? Whiskey?”
Jeff stepped in front of the bookshelf beside his desk and pulled on the Nancy Drew book, The Secret in the Old Attic. The bookshelf was another hidden door that led to a narrow room with two copper staircases. One staircase spiraled up to a second floor, while the other went down, Emory presumed, to a basement.
“Gin.”
Jeff ascended the nearer staircase. “That stuff’s nasty.”
“What is this space?”
“This place used to be a speakeasy. When I bought it, this part was hidden behind a five-foot-tall painting that opened like a door. He pointed to the other stairs. “That leads to where the bar was.” He pointed up. “And this is where the prostitutes did their business. Now, that one goes to our storeroom, and this one goes to the living room in my apartment.”
Emory followed him into his apartment. “It’s really an amazing place.”
Jeff smiled at last. “Thank you. I’ve gone into major debt getting it the way I want, but I had a clear vision in my head, and I wasn’t about to compromise.” He made a beeline for the kitchen. “Martini or with tonic?”
“Tonic.”
Jeff mixed drinks for them both. “So tell me you didn’t hitch.”
“What?”
“From Barter Ridge.”
Emory shook his head. “Bus.”
Jeff handed him a gin and tonic and clinked the glass with his own vodka cranberry. “Cheers.”
After taking a sip, Emory coughed and sputtered, prompting Jeff to ask, “Are you okay?”
“That’s a strong drink.”
“Sorry. I like them that way.” Jeff focused his laser-green gaze on Emory’s seared brown eyes. With cranberry-wet lips, Jeff said, “I forgive you.”
Emory’s vocal cords knotted within the binds of Jeff’s stare. When he finally opened his mouth, he could only wiggle them free enough to utter, “I…” He gulped his drink for lubrication and ended up choking again.
Jeff took the drink from him and placed it on the counter beside them. “Let’s go out.”
Freed once Jeff looked away, Emory asked, “What?”
“It’s Friday night, and we both need to blow off some steam. When’s the last time you went to a club?”
“I’m not into the bar scene.”
“I know a place you’ll love. It’s not like the others.” He looked down at Emory’s clothes. “First, we need to fix what you’re wearing.”
“We can swing by my place so I can change.”
“No need.” Jeff stepped within a few inches of Emory and compared their bodies. “We’re the same size, basically. I have plenty of cool clothes you can wear.”
Emory faced down to avoid Jeff’s eyes. “I couldn’t do that.”
“It’s no problem.” Jeff headed into the bedroom. “I’ll find you something.”
Emory reached for his gin and tonic but opted against taking another sip of the powerful drink. “You have any water?”
From the bedroom, Jeff told him, “There’s some cold water in the fridge.”
Emory preferred room temperature, so when he saw a couple of unopened bottles on Jeff’s desk, he decided to take one. He flipped open the top and took a giant gulp.
Jeff returned from the bedroom carrying a pair of designer black jeans and a jersey-knit rust-colored shirt with long sleeves. “What do you think of this look?”
Emory frowned at the selection. “It’s not really my style.”
“I know. It’s perfect.” Jeff placed them on the couch for him. “I also have a pair of great boots for you and a jacket.”
“Sounds…good. Oh, I forgot to tell you that I started looking into your problem with the TSA.”
“You did?” Jeff gave Emory his undivided attention. “What did you find out?”
Seeing how delighted Jeff was that he had followed through on his request made telling him that he didn’t have much to report even more difficult. “Your name is on the no-fly list, but the reason for it was redacted.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen that before. You have no idea why you’re on it? No connection with any person or organization that could have ties to terrorism?”
“Nothing.” Jeff held up his right hand. “I swear.”
“Don’t worry then. I have some friends in the Tennessee Homeland Security office. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Thank you.” Jeff flashed him a warm smile. “We better get ready. I’ll dress in the bedroom if you’re okay changing in here.”
“Sounds great to me.” Once Jeff disappeared behind the bedroom door, Emory changed clothes and transferred his wallet and pill bottle into the pocket of the pants he was wearing. He piled his old clothes onto the couch, hiding his keys and his holstered gun underneath them.
Jeff opened the door and stepped out holding a pair of black boots and a navy linen jacket, which he placed on the coffee table. “You look great. I knew that combo would work for you.”
Emory didn’t even look down at his own attire, as his gaze was locked on Jeff. He was wearing a clover-green polo shirt that made his eyes pop, like a pair of lightning bugs hovering on a windless summer night. The elastic bands of the short sleeves squeezed against his striated biceps in a lopsided battle to maintain their shape and, although not meant to be tight, his dark jeans couldn’t conceal the sculpted contours of his muscular legs.
“Damn,” Emory thought, and then he realized he said it out loud. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Jeff pointed. “Right in there.”
Emory retreated to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He dug out his anti-anxiety medicine from his pocket and took one pill, downing it with the rest of the bottled water.
Sheriff Rome turned his truck onto the driveway of the Algarotti Smoky Mountain Springs factory. He killed the headlights, depending instead on the diffuse amber glow from the staggered lampposts to guide him. He drove around to the back of the building, past the natural spring and to the loading dock – just a quick round before he went home to crawl into bed with Lula Mae. When he turned the back corner, however, he noticed something alarming.
A black van was parked at the dock, and the rollup door in the building was open maybe two feet. The sheriff shifted into reverse and parked his truck out of the line of sight. He exited the vehicle and turned the volume down on the radio attached to his belt. Drawing his gun from its holster, he crept toward the rollup door.
Peering inside, he could see no one except a man lying face-down on the floor about thirty feet in front of him. Sheriff Rome squeezed under the door and hurried to the man. He turned him onto his back and realized it was the foreman. He touched his neck for a pulse. It was faint but there. On the ground next to him rested a broken coffee cup. Did he have a heart attack? He reached for his radio, but a powerful jolt arced his back and curled his arms.
The sheriff fell onto his side and rolled onto his back, his muscles convulsing. He saw someone wearing a black ski mask standing above him, holding a stun gun.
Placing the weapon on the floor, the stranger picked up a bottle of purplish water with an open sport top, which he forced between the paralyzed sheriff’s lips. The bottle’s contents gushed down his throat.
Once the bottle was empty, the man again hit the sheriff with the stun gun. As he convulsed, the back of his head banged against the floor in rapid succession until he lost consciousness.