“My name is Trixie Montgomery, and this is my assistant Dee Dee Lamont.” If I kept referring to her as my assistant, Dee Dee was going to demand a paycheck pretty soon. “I’m a writer, working on a story.”
“So what’s that got to do with me or Tatum?” He scratched in a place that wasn’t very gentlemanly.
This wasn’t getting us anywhere. Dee Dee shuffle closer to the porch, and the Dobermans went wild. She stepped back, hands up in surrender. “Look, Mr. Hawkins; the truth is, I’ve been questioned about John Tatum’s murder. I didn’t do it, and we’re trying to find out who did. The story around town is that you’ve had it in for Tatum ever since he shot and killed your brother, Tubby. Were you in town Friday evening?”
I took a deep intake of breath, “Are you nuts, Dee Dee?” Backwoods Bob spoke through the doorway, “Martha, get my gun!”
In an instant, the ugliest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on appeared in the doorway. She stood at least six feet tall, and was built like a University of Georgia linebacker. The maroon hair was no doubt a dye job gone wrong. Overalls completed the package.
Martha must have been standing right by the door, for she instantly handed Tommy a shotgun. Dee Dee went running, and I limped towards the car. Shots rang out. We slammed the doors as fast as we could. I turned the ignition. Nothing!
“Start the car, Trixie!” Dee Dee yelled.
“What do you think I’m trying to do? It won’t start,” I shouted right back.
I jumped when the phone rang. “Grab that,” I yelled.
“Harv, it’s me Dee Dee! We’re being shot at. Trixie can’t get her car to start. She’ll call you later.” I could hear Harv’s voice coming through the phone. Dee Dee disconnected. “My, he sure has a colorful vocabulary.”
Oh, boy. Harv was going to be upset about this. But right now, his anger paled in comparison to gunshots.
I continued to turn the key with such force it was a wonder it didn’t break. Still nothing!
Suddenly, Dee Dee shrieked.
I looked over at her, face corpse-white. She pointed a finger, and I hazarded a glimpse out my window, fully expecting the barrel of Tommy Hawkins’ shotgun to be the last thing I ever saw.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Instead of double barrels, Sheriff Wheeler stood, nose to glass, outside my driver’s side window. “Sheriff Wheeler!” I sputtered, and rolled it down.
“Oh my goodness, are we glad to see you! That man tried to kill us!”
I couldn’t believe he was laughing. “If he’d wanted to kill you, Trixie, he wouldn’t have shot over your head.” He turned toward the porch and the pack of dogs. “Tommy, put that gun down. Now! I don’t want to have to run you in.”
“Aw, Sheriff, I warn’t going to hurt ‘em. Them two were askin’ me questions about Tatum’s killin’. Then they started askin’ me ‘bout Tubby’s death. It ain’t none of their business.”
“I’ll take care of them. You go on back in the house,” the sheriff ordered. Stretched to his tallest height, he stood in a pose that meant business. He made a formidable sight.
Tommy scratched his protruding stomach. Much to my relief, he turned and went in the house. Martha followed.
Sheriff Wheeler leaned down and stuck his head in the window. He was so close, I could see his eyelashes.
“Hello, Dee Dee.” He backed up and looked me in the eyes. He wasn’t laughing anymore. “I suppose this was your idea to come out here and question Tommy?” Before I could answer, he started lecturing me.
“I thought I told you to keep your nose out of where it doesn’t belong. You could have gotten hurt. You might not care about yourself, but you could have been responsible for putting your friend in danger.”
“Well, since you put it that way—”
“You’re lucky I was here to help. It might have turned out a lot worse.”
I quickly made a decision to forego my guilt for the time being. “Well, it turned out all right.”
“Because I showed up,” he cautioned. “What were you going to do if you couldn’t start your car?”
I didn’t want to say that I would have probably called 9-1-1. “How did you know we were here, anyway?”
“I went by the Dahlonega Inn to find you. Joyce told me you came out here. I had a feeling you might be in trouble. Tommy Hawkins doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Heck,” he pushed his hat up on his head. “Tommy doesn’t take kindly to anybody.”
Dee Dee leaned towards the window. “Well, I for one am glad to see you. That maniac was trying to kill us. When Trixie’s car wouldn’t start, I pictured us shot full of holes.”
“Traitor,” I muttered under my breath, then turned back to my reluctant hero. “Well, Sheriff, why were you looking for us?”
“Let’s get your car started first so we can go back and talk in my office.” He raised the hood on my archaic Jeep. I’m not sure what he did, but in the shake of a sheep’s tail, she was purring like a kitten. I looked up to the heavens and whispered, Thank you, then stuck my head out of the window to peer where he slammed the hood.“How did you do that?”
He sauntered back and placed his hands on the doorframe of the open window. “Well, Ms. Montgomery, if you’d clean off the battery cables once in a while, you’d stand a much better chance of it starting when you get yourself in trouble.”
If I didn’t consider myself a lady I’d have smacked that devilish grin right off his face. Then again, maybe not. I wouldn’t want to mar that gorgeous mug. I rolled up the window, defining a clear barrier between us.
I was still shaking as we followed him the long drive back to town. Dee Dee sat beside me, arms crossed, muttering how I almost got her killed and how she was now about to be arrested. I felt a wee bit guilty that I hadn’t heeded everyone’s warnings, but I had Dee Dee’s welfare in mind. “Don’t be so sure; if he were going to arrest you, he would have done it on the spot.”
“Then why not just tell us whatever he had to say.”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad to be putting distance between us and the Hawkins.”
We arrived at the station and Dee Dee asked first thing, “Where’s the bathroom?”
I wasn’t surprised. I had to admit, after our harrowing morning, I needed a potty break, too.
After necessaries were taken care of, an officer escorted us to Jake’s office. The dilapidated chairs were obviously used for interrogating prisoners. When I plopped down, it was as hard as frozen ground. The stuffing had flattened out in all the strategic places. No matter how I adjusted my bottom, I couldn’t get comfortable.
Pictures of past sheriffs, dating back to the late 1800’s, covered the walls. The décor could have been called Early American Male. No bright or cheerful colors enlivened the room. The furniture, including the desk, was purely for functional purposes. Aesthetics had not been taken into consideration during the decorating.
Sheriff Wheeler’s desktop was covered in papers, making it impossible to see what it looked like. Either he was a busy man with a lot of work, or a man who did little work. The bright sun through dusty blinds illuminated him from behind. He leaned back in his desk chair and clasped his hands behind his head.
“I told you I’d find out who killed Tatum if it wasn’t Dee Dee.” He grinned from ear to ear.
Did this mean what I thought it meant?
“Who was it?”
“Was it Miranda Tatum or Sueleigh Dalton?” Dee Dee and I asked questions in unison, both of us on the edge of our seats with excitement.
“What makes you think it was either one of them?” Sheriff Wheeler asked.
“They both had a motive. A woman scorned makes for one angry woman.”