FOURTEEN

I parked in front of my new log home and waved at Eva, who seemed to be taking out her frustration by beating the front porch with a stiff broom. She stopped when she spotted me with an armload of groceries.

“Need help?” She smiled.

“No, thanks, got it.”

Had I not known better, her smile would have told me the broom therapy was working and everything was hunky-dory.

Eva checked her watch. “Better hustle. Not a lot of time before two hungry gents arrive on our doorstep. What are you cooking?”

Since Eva played it cool with no mention of the sheriff or search warrants, I did the same and rattled off my proposed menu. “Stuffed portabella mushrooms, asparagus-orange salad, spiced quinoa, and pumpkin brownies with coconut whipped cream. I had no time to bake bread, so I cheated. Bought a rosemary olive oil loaf at Dee’s Bakery. I’ll whip up pumpkin brownies first and get them in the oven.”

En route to the kitchen, I peeked in Eva’s bedroom. Neat and tidy. No sign of the sheriff’s frenzied dump-every-drawer search. A frilly comforter I’d never seen covered my aunt’s bed. Not her taste. And it didn’t exactly coordinate with the rifle resting against her chest of drawers. Where had the gun and the box of shells on her pillow come from? Should I ask?

Later. If she didn’t mention it first.

“I’ll leave the kitchen to you,” Aunt Eva said. “I set the table and straightened the cabin a bit. Now I have some dairy chores to finish. Yell if you can’t find something. I’ll be in the milking barn.”

I hummed as I started cooking. I loved everything about my profession. The road from banker to chef wasn’t exactly straight, but the rewards were awesome. I loved the colors and aromas. The textures and tastes. The chance to experiment. The immediate gratification when a perfectly browned entrée popped out of the oven.

Becoming a chef wasn’t a lifelong dream. When I graduated high school, I planned to follow in Mom’s footsteps, become a lawyer. Then I interned freshman summer with one of Mom’s attorney friends. Ugh. Research in musty county court offices proved mind-numbing. Searches of online databases involved less sneezing but equal tedium. As a lawyer, I figured I’d spend more time pushing paper than interacting with people, especially people I actually liked. So I switched to a business major and wound up at a bank, doubling-down on ugh.

As a chef, I had a smidgeon more control. I wasn’t forced to consort with dumb or vicious criminals, arrogant judges, or greedy developers.

Thinking about my stint as a legal intern and my years as a banker inspired me. I did know how to research, and I didn’t mind tackling a project when I had a clear-cut mission, one that meant something to me. With all this talk of Eva “stealing” Watson land, I wanted facts.

Though it might have zip legal bearing, it would be nice to prove her ingenuity and hard work were the sole reasons for Udderly’s profits. I bet I could prove Dad’s contention that the farm had been next to bankrupt when she inherited it. It would help erase one murder motive. Tomorrow I’d search deeds and tax records at the Ardon County courthouse.

Mom was on my mind when she phoned. With the help of the County Solicitor, the sheriff had been forced to return Eva’s address book and photo albums after copying items “of interest.”

“He was fishing,” Mom said. “I’m surprised the judge gave him so much latitude with the search warrant. Tell Eva I’ll bring the returned items back tonight. Why don’t your dad and I join you two for dinner? I can pick up a couple of pizzas, one vegan, of course.”

“Uh, sorry but Andy and Paint are coming to dinner at seven thirty,” I stammered. “You’re welcome to join us. I’m sure we have enough food.”

Mom chuckled. “No. We’ll pass. Though I wouldn’t mind seeing those young men compete to impress you. Should make for lively dinner conversation. How did you wind up with the two of them as dinner companions?”

I explained the overlapping invitations—me asking Paint, Eva inviting Andy. I didn’t say why Paint visited my flea market booth. I also skipped any mention of my encounter with Nancy Watson and the appearance of a new gun in Eva’s boudoir. No point compounding my parents’ worries. They’d just insist once more that we pack up and move in with them. Pointless. Eva wouldn’t budge.

“I’ll be by for breakfast,” Mom said. “Unless Eva tells me she needs something the sheriff carted off sooner.”

Good. A chance to pick Mom’s brain about my research project. She wouldn’t object to a paper chase.

  

Paint arrived first with two bottles of wine, one Chardonnay, one Zinfandel. “Didn’t know the menu so I brought white and red,” he said. “Of course, my moonshine goes with everything, but I figured we’d save it for dessert.”

Andy showed up five minutes later with his own dual wine supply.

“Guess I’d better find a wine opener.” Eva chuckled. “Don’t mean to insult either of you fine gentlemen, but this could be a spirited evening if we down all four bottles—one a piece.”

My aunt checked on the charcoal grill out back and reported the coals were perfect. “I’ll start the steaks. No point dillydallying. I’m starved. What’s your pleasure boys—rare, medium rare, or ruined?”

Paint and Andy answered “rare” in unison. Their true preferences or my aunt’s not-so-subtle nudge? Who knew?

When Eva exited to mind the steaks, I shooed our guests outdoors to keep her company. She greeted them with one of her favorite jokes.

“To a dedicated carnivore like me, there’s nothing like the smell of meat sizzling on a grill,” she began. “Always wonder if Brie’s stomach starts to rumble whenever I mow the lawn.”

Cheeses. I shook my head and closed the door, glad to have the small kitchen to myself as I plated my contributions and carried them to the table.

The dinner chatter started off light and teasing. Paint talked about the bearded dude he’d hired to play a moonshiner in a series of TV commercials. When the guy showed up for his audition in dirty bib overalls with what looked like sprigs of moss stuck in his whiskers, Paint was sold.

Andy entertained with his tales of daring-do, diagnosing an ailing pet python—his first serpent patient. “Give me a goat or pig any day.” He laughed. “It’s hard to feel warm and fuzzy about reptiles.”

No one mentioned skeletons, the sheriff, search warrants, or Eli Watson’s threats. A perfect escapist evening until Andy commented on my car’s early afternoon whereabouts.

“Brie, I saw your Prius parked in front of Hands On this afternoon.”

“My Prius?” A stupid question, but I was stalling.

“Sure, nobody could miss your ‘MeChef’ license plate. You didn’t run into Nancy Watson, did you? She works there.”

Eva dropped her knife mid-slice. It clattered on her plate. She gave me her evil stink eye. “Do tell, Brie. What were you doing at Hands On? I’ve never seen you with a manicure, and I don’t see one now. You knew that witch worked there. Mollye Camp told you.”

Uh-oh. Caught pink toe-nailed. I shrugged. “No biggie. Got a pedicure. Very relaxing.” Until Nancy figured out I was a Hooker.

Aunt Eva wasn’t about to end her beady-eyed interrogation. “Did you speak with Nancy?”

“Uh, yes. She did my pedicure.”

“And you just chatted about the Kardashian girls and traded recipes for cheese grits, right?” Eva sniped.

“If you must know, it was Lady Gaga and Pit Bull.”

“Come on, give, girl. What happened?”

I sent a pleading look toward our male dining companions, hoping they might run interference. The cowards left me on my own.

“My toenails really needed—”

“Don’t even.”

“Nothing worth mentioning. I wanted a firsthand look at the woman. Wanted to see if she seemed capable of killing and burying a two-hundred-pound man all by her lonesome.”

“And your conclusion?” Eva prodded.

“She has a hot temper and impressive, flinty strength for her size. I know Jed was murdered when she was decades younger, but she’d still have needed help putting him in the ground. She’s no dimwit. On her own, it would have taken her hours to bury his corpse. Even at night, playing lone gravedigger would have been a risky proposition with your cabin so close.”

“You’re making a bad assumption,” Eva said. “What if the cabin was empty, no one home? As soon as Jed took off on what would be his last fishing expedition, I hightailed it. Just wanted to get the hell away.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Jed drove off in his truck, but I had my old Fairlane. I rounded up our hound dog, Butch. Back then we grew cotton, so I didn’t have to worry about leaving any other animals. Didn’t know when I’d come back—if I’d come back.”

“How long were you gone?” Paint asked.

Eva closed her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t have more than a dollar or two. Stopped at a campground and slept in my car. Wasn’t eager for anyone to see me, what with a black eye and a swollen jaw. I was only gone the one night and didn’t speak to a soul. I was preoccupied, wondering the best way to go about divorcing Jed’s sorry butt.”

“Dang,” I said. “That could have been an alibi.”

She shrugged. “No one knows when Jed died, so there’s no such thing as an alibi. He could have been killed the day he went fishing. Or the next day or a month later.”

“Guess you’re right,” I agreed reluctantly. “It’s not like testing decades’ old bones can tell anyone precisely when they were buried.”

Eva sighed. “We don’t even know where he died. Maybe he tussled with his killer on the farm. Or maybe he was murdered on the river and his killer carted his body back here.”

Since the topic of Jed’s murder had been broached, I filled Paint and Andy in on the sheriff’s search of Udderly property.

“They took your shotgun, Eva?” Andy asked, alarm evident in his voice. “What if Mark decides to visit tonight?”

My pulse skyrocketed. “Mark?” Alarm made my voice go up an octave.

Eva laughed.

Then I remembered. “Oh, right, Mark’s that wily old coyote.”

My aunt nodded. “Yep. He haunts the creek along the edge of our property. Lilly named the critter Mark after the umpteenth time she heard me swear, ‘Mark my words, that coyote’s dead.’ In the past two years, he’s cost us four goats and one beautiful guard dog.”

We were seated boy-girl at the small dining table. Eva patted Andy’s hand. “Don’t you worry. Miss Brie wasn’t the only one to go on an afternoon walkabout. I stopped by a pawnshop. Got me a new—well, new to me—rifle, Ranch, Mini-14, stainless steel with a wooden stock, two twenty-round magazines and a fifty-round box of .223 shells. I can deliver twenty rounds as fast as I can pull the trigger. I’m ready for Mark or any two-legged critter that comes prowling ’round here.”

“Sure you don’t want me to spend the night?” Paint asked. “Be glad to sleep on the couch. I doubt Eli will bother you, but seeing my truck here would give him pause.”

“What?” Andy exclaimed. “Did Eli Watson threaten you?”

I gave a short replay of my flea market adventures.

Andy shook his head. “That is one sorry specimen. Eli keeps a pit bull chained in his yard. Dog’s hooked with a logging chain. Sheet of plywood for shelter. No water half the time. Keeps just enough weight on the animal to keep the Humane Society off his case. Not a blade of grass left from that poor animal’s frustrated prowling. Damn, I wish South Carolina would make it illegal to chain dogs, but I don’t have a lot of hope.”

Since we were well into the murder topic, I figured I might as well do some fishing of my own.

“You two grew up here.” I looked at Andy, then turned to Paint. “That gives you both a leg up on knowing Ardon County bad seeds—male and female. Who would you nominate as Jed’s killer?”

Eva smiled. “Feel free to name anyone but me, boys.”

Andy glanced at Paint, who nodded. “Sure, we’ve talked about it. Asked our dads what they thought. Consensus is the killer was either some pissed-off Watson kin, one of the buddies Jed boozed, gambled and whored with, or a jilted hussy he made promises to with no intention of keeping a one of them.” He stopped, bit his lip, and looked down. “Pardon me, Eva.”

“No pardon needed, Andy. I found out what Jed did, who he really was, a few months after I married him. A few months too late.”

“Any hussies—besides Nancy—would have the same problems with body disposal,” I said. “Who were Jed’s boozing buddies?”

“Dad only remembers two of them,” Paint said. “One is Bubba Deacon. He’s serving a thirty-year stretch in Broad River prison for felony murder. Store clerk got killed in the shoot-out. Then there’s Aaron West. He’s a deputy, probably tagged along with Sheriff Jones when he searched your place today. Skinny, balding, crooked teeth. See him?”

I was about to answer when flashes of blue light painted the window beside our table. Crap. Had to be the sheriff or his flunkies. Why was he back?

Eva left the table and opened the front door before Sheriff Jones finished stomping up the stairs. The scrawny guy standing behind him fit Paint’s description of Deputy West, though he hadn’t mentioned how scary those crooked yellow teeth looked when the man bit his lip.

Paint, Andy, and I took up positions flanking my aunt. We weren’t about to let the lawmen bully her.

Sheriff Jones pushed in. “I need to speak to Brie Hooker.”

Huh? I swallowed. What could the sheriff want with me? That third glass of wine—one beyond my usual limit—suddenly felt warm and accusing in my stomach. I felt a tad tipsy and light-headed.

“Come in,” Eva said. “State your business and let’s get this over with.”

The sheriff stared at me. “You’re Brie Hooker, right? You need to answer some questions. Where were you this afternoon?”

“Why is it any of your business?” Andy jumped in.

“She doesn’t have to answer,” Paint added. “You know, the right to remain silent and all.”

I appreciated the moral support, but I had nothing to hide. My guess was Nancy Watson had concocted some phony baloney story that I’d threatened her. Might as well answer his stupid questions and get the jerk out of Eva’s hair.

I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. “I had an uneventful afternoon, Sheriff. I left Udderly about two thirty and drove to the Hands On salon for a pedicure. A three o’clock appointment. Afterward, I shopped for groceries at Publix in Clemson and stopped at Dee’s Bakery for a loaf of bread. I arrived back on the farm about six.”

“The Hands On receptionist says you gave a fake name. Pretended to be someone else. Why?”

Spam in a Can. “No harm, no foul. Just didn’t want to stir up unnecessary trouble. I’d heard Nancy wasn’t on the best of terms with Eva, and I saw no reason to announce I was kin.”

“But she found out, didn’t she? You had a heated argument with Nancy Watson outside Hands On.”

I shrugged. “Not exactly an argument. Mrs. Watson did all the yelling. I just listened. Why?”

I hazarded a glance at the deputy, wondering if his expression would give me any clues. Deputy Snaggletooth was staring at my boobs.

“Nancy Watson is dead. Poisoned by the look of it. Autopsy will give us a definite answer. I hear tell your father, Howard Hooker, keeps some fancy garden on this farm, one filled with poisonous plants. Is that true?”

My mouth gaped open like a steamed clam. I couldn’t quite get enough oxygen. Mom’s words of wisdom swirled through my brain—“only idiots talk to police without a lawyer and help dig their own graves.” I felt the shovel in my hands.

I’d shut my trap. Not another word.

Eva stepped between Sheriff Jones and me. Ramrod straight, she looked ready to sock him. “Sheriff, my niece has nothing to do with whatever happened to that trash. Sounds like you’re leaping to mighty stupid conclusions. The floozy probably overdosed. Wouldn’t doubt she did drugs. You should leave. Now. Any more questions, contact our lawyer, Iris Hooker.”

Thank you, Aunt Eva—though it might have been better if she hadn’t called the deceased a floozy and the sheriff stupid. Too bad I couldn’t manage to suck in enough air to tell off Jones myself.

The sheriff’s smile chilled me. “We’ll be in touch with Miss Hooker’s lawyer,” he drawled. His eyes narrowed as he attempted to stare down my aunt. “I was about to ask your whereabouts this afternoon. But I have the feeling you won’t answer. You’ll hide behind your mouthpiece, too. Believe me, you’ll both answer eventually. Answer for everything.”

Deputy West trailed the sheriff. He glanced back over his shoulder long enough for his creepy gaze to rove over my body. His lips curled back imprinting the sorry image of his crisscrossed choppers on my brain. Eva slammed the door. Relief.

My aunt sank into the nearest chair. “Aren’t you boys glad you stayed for the floor show? Normally, we charge extra for the entertainment, and it doesn’t start until after dessert’s served. You made dessert, right, Brie?” Trembling hands betrayed her brave words.

If Aunt Eva could pretend she was fearless, so could I. “Pumpkin brownies coming up,” I said. “Who wants coffee?”

As if any of us would need caffeine to stay awake tonight.

Who killed Nancy Watson? And why?

Tomorrow I’d quiz Eva, try to find out more about Jed’s possible enemies.