Chapter

38

“Danny said you found a tape of Roger right before he died.” Brodie drank deeply from a chipped mug Cindy Mae had set down in front of him a few minutes earlier.

When Brodie suggested coffee, I’d figured he’d meant at the nearby Harker coffee shop. Not so. He had followed me all the way back into town, right into the Gett Diner’s dirt parking lot, as if he worried I wouldn’t make it on my own. More likely, he’d followed me to make sure I didn’t backtrack to June’s flower shop and find out what she planned on revealing before he had rudely interrupted us.

With my mouth full of the bourbon-soaked fruit from the Drunken Apple Pie Cindy Mae declared a must-have, I nodded rather than fully form an answer. After all, Jack had instilled some manners in me. But perhaps not sense, considering Brodie was obviously pumping me for information, and I was letting him.

A girl will do many things for a handsome guy bearing pie, even if he is sort of the devil.

“Said you couldn’t make out the driver though.” He stopped, tilting his head. “Any luck there?”

I chewed, swallowing my last bite and sat back with a smile. “Possibly.”

“What’s that mean?”

“On a scale of absolutely to impossibly, it falls somewhere in the middle.” I laughed at my own joke. “Didn’t they teach you anything at the University of Miami?”

“Keep making jokes and I’ll make you pay for your own pie.”

I winced, remembering the lone two dollars in my wallet. The last thing I wanted Brodie to know was my current financial straits.

Or more to the point, Lucky Whiskey’s.

Rue would surely swoop in then.

“Hey,” he said, his eyes on mine. “I was kidding. Don’t look so sad.”

“Sad?” I gave a phony laugh. The same one I used on stage a time or two. The key was, don’t overplay it, think of something fun but not necessarily funny. “You’re kidding, right? I am this close”—I held my fingers together for emphasis—“to catching the real killer. And I suckered you into buying me pie when you only offered coffee. I’d say I’m ahead of the game.”

“Who are your suspects? Maybe I can help.” He leaned in, his voice soft, full of warmth and yearning. As fake as my laugh had been. I knew this nicey-nice routine, and it always ended badly for me. Brodie was interrogating me, buttering me up. But for what reason? Was he worried I knew too much? Or was he merely doing his brother, the sheriff, a favor?

“I don’t think so,” I said quietly.

His eyebrow rose. “Still don’t trust me, huh?”

For once, I went with total honesty. “I wish I could. It would be so much easier.” Brodie had been surprisingly kind to me the last week or so. Whether or not that was because he’d killed Lucky Whiskey’s only distiller and at the very least help shove Roger’s corpse into a cask was yet to be determined.

“You can,” he said with conviction. “Trust me, that is.”

I laughed. For real this time. Right in his gorgeous face.

He jerked back like I’d slapped him. “Hey,” he said. “I was being sincere.”

My own eyebrow lifted. “Are you sure you know what sincere means? I’ll let you borrow a dictionary if not.” Not that I owned one. Jack had refused to buy one, even when my homework required it. He said I could learn all the words I wanted from his collection of pulp novels. Any of the other words could be learned at the Harker library. After my second fifteen-mile bike ride, one way, to the library I’d reevaluated Jack’s collection.

And today I was thankful I had.

While I wouldn’t suggest giving pulp novels to many children, they’d offered me an escape from the sadness and loss of my parents’ deaths. In those pages my love for drama and, some would say, melodrama grew.

“You always were a smart-ass,” Brodie said, as if that quality was less than endearing. I knew better. Everyone loved sarcasm. Really.

“And you always pushed my buttons on purpose,” I said quickly, “trying to make me lose my good sense. Like the incident at the water tower. Last thing I remember was you daring me to do it, paint bucket in your hands.” I set my fork down and crossed my arms over my chest. “It’s not going to work this time.”

“Charms,” he drawled softly though his face creased with guilt, “we all know you were born under a bad sign, but sweetheart, I didn’t think you were also born without a lick of sense. I am trying to help you!”

His words hung in the air, greeted by my silence.

He shifted but his hard gaze never left mine.

After a while, I licked my lips, saying one simple word: “Why?”

He dropped his empty coffee cup on the table, the bang of it ricocheting around the diner. Cindy Mae gave us a worried glance, as did a few other patrons. Brodie lowered his voice as not to be overheard by prying ears. “Why do I bother?” he hissed. “You’re so damn oblivious.” He threw up his arms. “Fine, have it your way. But don’t come running to me when it blows up in your face.”

With that, he scooted out of the booth, shot me one last glare, and left the diner.

Without paying the damn bill!

Tears burned the back of my eyelids. Had I made yet another mistake? Had Brodie truly wanted only to help me?

I doubted it. Getts lived and died for Getts. Not Luckys.

We stood alone. Always would.

I was so tired of being alone.

Cindy Mae came over, patting my shoulder. She leaned down to take the check, her big belly brushing my arm. “On me, hon.” She frowned after Brodie’s retreating backside. “I know better than anyone what it feels like to be dumped by a Gett boy.” Before I could argue about my relationship status with Brodie, she added wistfully, “It’ll stick with ya for years to come.”