Chapter

6

Following what sounded too much like a threat for me to ignore, Brodie snatched my whiskey from the bar, drained it with a grimace, and walked away with a simple, “Later, Charms.”

I sat, stunned. My mouth hanging open.

“That’ll be seven bucks,” Willow said.

“What?”

She motioned to my empty glass. “Seven bucks for the whiskey.” A grin washed over her face, taking me back to the girl who had followed Danny Gett around like a lost puppy. “You did want the good stuff.”

“But I didn’t even drink it. Brodie did.”

She shrugged, softening the blow by widening her smile. “Still seven bucks.”

“I put ten on the bar!”

Her shoulders shifted again. “That was for answering your questions when Danny expressly said to keep quiet while he investigates, not the booze.”

“But … I … ah hell with it.” I threw a five and two ones on the bar, unwilling to give her a penny more.

She scooped the cash up, ringing the transaction up in a prehistoric cash register, the kind with typewriter buttons. As I slide from the bar stool, her words stopped me. “You should give Brodie a break.”

“What?”

“Brodie.” She waved to the door he’d departed moments ago. “He’s a good man. Better than most, in truth.”

Was Willow giving me advice about men? The world shifted under my feet. “To you, maybe,” I said. “To me, he’s a pain in the ass.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “I didn’t say he wasn’t a Gett.”

We shared a brief smile. Just two women bemoaning their Gett-related state.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

Her eyebrow rose. “Depends.”

“What are you and Brodie hiding?”

Her features grew hard, shaping her already angular face. “Nothing.”

I didn’t believe her for a second. Both knew more about Roger’s death than they were saying. But how much more?

“Have it your way,” I said, holding my head up high as I stormed out of the Gett Bar.

And straight across the street to the Get-it Saloon less than a hundred and fifty feet away.

The Get-it Saloon was once named the Gett Saloon, until a lawsuit filed by the owner of the Gett Bar forced a name change. In a fit of drunken rage after the verdict, the owner of the Gett Saloon, Billy James, climbed a ladder with a can of spray paint, adding a small dotted i between the ts, making it—Getit.

The hyphen came later.

No one knew why. Except Billy James, but he refused to say a word.

Both bars were the same. Too-high barstools. Floor coated in stale beer. And the aroma of desperation with a hint of whiskey. I avoided such places after my fair share of desperate, whiskey-soaked nights, thankfully sans blackout-drunk spray-paint hijinks.

“Well, well,” Billy James said, holding his large arms wide as I strolled inside. He looked much the same as he had years ago. Dark hair, tanned skin, and a wide open smile. “If it ain’t Gett’s most famous resident.”

I winced. “When will people forgive me for painting the water tower?”

He frowned at the reminder of my vandalism.

Crap. “Oh, you meant my TV appearances,” I said. My acting career might not have set the world on fire, but I had been on TV twice. I always knew which time someone had seen by his or her expression. If they smirked, then I knew they’d seen my stint as murderous Navy lieutenant on NCIS. If they avoided my gaze and made an excuse to get as far away from me as possible, they’d seen my role as victim #2 on a national STD prescription medication commercial.

Like STDs were catchy.

“How’s Jack?” Billy asked as I crawled on top of the four-foot stool.

“Good.” I smiled as he poured me two fingers of Lucky Whiskey. “He’s driving poor Jayme crazy.”

He waved off the ten-dollar bill I placed on the bar. “I know,” he said with a grin. “She tells me all about it every night before we turn in. I’m thinking about buying ear plugs if he don’t get better soon.”

Billy and Jayme had lived in sin, according to the townsfolk, for the last three years. Billy had asked Jayme to marry him repeatedly, but she always refused, which drove Billy mad. I think she just didn’t want to be Jayme James.

“So what brings you by?” he asked. “Besides my company?”

“I wanted to ask about Roger.”

His eyebrow rose. “Best distiller around.”

“He’s dead.”

Billy snorted. “I know that, girl. I was taught not to speak ill of the dead. And you shouldn’t neither.”

If only it was that simple. “Did you see him the night he died?” I asked.

“Why are you interested?” Gazing down, he ran his finger over the top of the beer in his hand. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“I know … it’s just …” I began. How could I explain? Roger’s dead-eye stare flickered in my head. That vision wasn’t something likely to fade anytime soon. “Someone shot him, in my rackhouse. I can’t just let that go.”

Dipping his head, he took a long pull off the bottle of beer. When he pulled away, a beer-bubble mustache clung to his own whiskery lip. “Yeah, I saw Roger that night.” He wiped the bubbles away with his bare arm. “Saw him drunk, in the parking lot, arguing with someone.”

“Who?”

He shrugged.

“Come on, Billy.” I leaned in. “You know everyone in town. Who was Roger was arguing with?”

He lowered his voice to a scant whisper. “Brodie Gett.”