Chapter

35

The next morning I woke to the worst bed head in history and the best surprise of my life. My grandfather stood at the edge of my bed, his arms crossed and a frown on his bearded face. Not a shackle in sight. “Girl,” he said, “is this how you run my business? Sleeping all day?”

“How …?” I rubbed my eyes, sure I was dreaming and Jack would disappear at any moment. When he didn’t, I jumped out of bed, throwing my arms around him. I held him tight, afraid he’d vanish into the ether if I let go. He’d lost weight, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. Not as bad as the pair I was sporting, but blackened nonetheless. “How did you get out?” I pulled back to smile at him. “Did you break out? Are you a fugitive on the run?”

He laughed, big and bold, like I remembered. “Not quite, Char girl.”

I stared at him for a long moment before saying, “I couldn’t make the bail, even if I put up the distillery as collateral. So who sprung you?”

“No clue,” he said, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. Jack was lying. But why?

“Are you sure?”

“Leave it alone, Char. The cops put this dang ankle monitor on,” he pointed to the object around his leg, “Then they opened the gate, and I left before someone changed their mind.”

“Really?”

“I’m a semi-free man.” He shot me a quick grin. “As long as I don’t go more than three hundred feet from the house, with the exception of any and all doctors’ appointments. Guess they don’t want me to die until I get Old Sparky.”

“That won’t happen.” My tone conveyed complete conviction. When he raised an eyebrow, I added, “They haven’t used Old Sparky since 2000.”

“Lucky me,” he said with a greater laugh. “I’ll get lethal injection then.”

“I won’t let that happen either.” I ran my finger up and over my heart, making a sign of the cross. “I promise. I’m close to figuring this mess out.”

His bushy eyebrow, badly in need of a trim, rose. “I can see that.” He motioned to the multiple bruises covering my arms and face. “Real close. I don’t want you involved in this anymore. Do you hear me, girl?”

I agreed with a nod, having absolutely no intention of listening to him. I patted his arm. The skin felt papery thin under my touch. “I’m going to let the professionals handle it from here on out.”

The suspicion fell away from his face, and he patted my shoulder lightly in return, as if afraid to add to my current collection of welts. “That’s a good girl. Now what do you say to a nice homemade breakfast?”

“Sure.” I smiled up at him brightly. “What will you be cooking us?”

We gorged on a breakfast of eggs and bacon—turkey bacon, much to Jack’s disgust, but seeing as I was the chef, he had little choice in the menu. We talked of inconsequential things. Never once did I mention the murder, his arrest, or the trouble at the distillery. Which left us with weather highlights and local gossip.

Oddly enough, Jack refused to believe the worst of Danny Gett, even though I’d witnessed Nancy Jeanne’s meltdown with my own eyes.

“Danny’s a lot of things, girl,” Jack said, slurping at a glass of orange juice I’d squeezed moments ago. “But that boy is nothing like his daddy.”

Danny and Brodie’s father, Big Paul Gett, had quite the love ’em and leave ’em reputation. All my life I’d heard whispered stories about his long line of mistresses and even a bastard or two. I’d even met one of his longtime mistresses once.

Danny and Brodie’s mother ignored the rumors, acting like a picture-perfect first family of Gett. I’d felt sorry for Danny and Brodie even as I did my best to steer clear of them. It had to be hard living in Paul’s reckless, womanizing shadow.

“I know,” I said to Jack. “But I saw her face. Nancy Jeanne was devastated by the gossip about Danny and three other women.”

A puzzle to be sure. But one I didn’t care about. Not unless it helped me find a killer.

After we finished eating and I cleared the dirty dishes, I grabbed the keys of his old pickup and drove to the Wicket Bouquet flower shop in Harker.

The Wickets were known to most people in Gett. June Wicket’s mother had been born and raised in our town limits. The only reason June had left Gett was to open the flower shop in a town large enough to support one. Not that Harker was all that big, population around 3,000.

The Wicket Bouquet was the only flower shop for fifty miles, therefore, the only one men used when in the doghouse with their wives. It was also the only shop in a fifty-mile radius to buy flowers for Roger’s memorial. I only hoped June would have something left in stock.

I opened the door of the shop, inhaling the warm and welcoming scents of jasmine, lilacs, and roses. My breathing instantly slowed, as did my pulse. Nothing like a flower shop to ease one’s stress. Vibrant colors, reds, yellows, and greens filled my eyes, almost too many for my brain to comprehend.

“How can I help …” June appeared from behind a large fern. “You.” She sneered the last word when she saw it was me, telling me that June still held a grudge. At the time of my unfortunate prank, June Wicket had been in charge of the town’s conservation committee. Which normally was a place for the town gossips to share notes. Until that fateful night.

I’d made June look bad and she wasn’t going to let me forget it.

“Hi June.” I gave her a friendly wave. “Lovely shop.”

“Thanks,” she muttered. “What is it you want?”

“I’m back in Gett,” I said, in case she didn’t know. A fact I doubted. “Helping Jack while he recuperates from his heart troubles. By the way, thank you for the beautiful get well displays sent to the house by Jack’s friends.” I pictured Jack among the bouquets. He’d hated them. Made me toss each one out as soon as they arrived. To Jack, flowers were for two things—courting and funerals. He’d declared he was too young to die and he wasn’t up to any courting just yet.

Or ever.

As far as I could remember, Jack had never brought a woman home. He’d loved and lost once. Never wishing to repeat it. My mind flashed on the stack of letters I’d found in Jack’s bedroom, but I shook it away. Whoever those letters were from was Jack’s business. I wouldn’t intrude. At least no more than I already had.

“Your grandfather is well liked,” June said, dragging me to the present. “Or he was until he, true to the Lucky nature, acted on his baser impulses.”