“My son lived there some years. He was a police detective. Brooks Gleason.”
“Can’t say I know the name, but I try to stay out of trouble.”
She grinned along with him. “That’s good, because he’s chief of police here now.”
“It feels like a nice town. I hope he doesn’t stay too busy.”
“Oh, well, there’s always this and that. Where are you staying?”
“I’m splurging, since I’ll do a lot of camping on the second part of this trip. I’m at the Inn of the Ozarks.”
“Couldn’t do better; it’s one of the brightest jewels in Bickford’s treasure box. We had some trouble there a few days ago, as it happens. Town troublemaker and a couple of his minions tore up the Ozarks Suite.”
“Is that what it is? I’m on that floor, and they told me there’d be some noise. Repairs going on.”
“A lot of them. You may want to get yourself on another floor.”
“Oh, I don’t mind it. I can sleep through anything.” Casual and friendly, he let his camera dangle by its strap. “I’m sorry to hear about the trouble, though. It’s a really beautiful hotel. The architecture, the furnishings. It has the feel of a family home—with benefits. Why’d they tear it up?”
“Some people just like to break things, I guess.”
“That’s a shame. I guess even nice little towns have troublemakers. I’ll try to steer clear of him while I’m here.”
“He’s in jail, and likely to be there awhile. You’ll find most people who live here are friendly. We depend on tourists, and artists like yourself. That’s a serious camera you’ve got there.”
“My baby.” He tapped it. He really wanted the pictures, nearly as much as the information she so breezily passed on. “I still do film now and then, but digital’s my primary choice.”
“If you get anything you want to sell, you can take it into Shop Street Gallery. They buy a lot of local photography.”
“I appreciate the tip. A couple sales’ll keep me in hot dogs and beans for the next few weeks.”
He chatted with her for a few more minutes, then walked back toward the center of town. If Sunny O’Hara was anything to go by, Roland thought, the client wasn’t going to be pleased with the report.
He headed for the diner. Diners and waitresses were usually good information sources. He chose a booth with a good view of the comings and goings, set his camera carefully on the tabletop.
He was tempted to take a picture of the waitress—he really did love saturating himself in the persona, and she had a good, interesting face.
“Coffee, please.”
“How about some pie to go with it? Cherry’s especially good today.”
“Cherry pie?” He thought of encroaching middle-age paunch. So he’d do fifty extra crunches tonight. “I don’t think I can say no.”
“Warmed up? Vanilla-bean ice cream?”
Okay, seventy-five extra crunches. “Yes, ma’am. I don’t know anybody strong enough to say no to that. If it’s as good as it sounds, I’m going to be in here every day while I’m in town.”
“It is. Visiting?” she said, in nearly the same easy tone as Sunny.
He gave her the same cover, even showed her a few pictures he’d taken of the mural house.
“You never know what she’ll paint on it next. Those are right nice pictures, too.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll put your order in.”
He doctored his coffee while he waited, studied his guidebook like a good tourist. She brought back a generous wedge of pie with ice cream gently melting on the laced crust. “Sounds good, looks good.” Roland forked off a bite. “Tastes even better. Thanks, Kim.”
“You enjoy, now.” She glanced over, and so did he, as Brooks walked in. “Hey there, Chief.” When she gestured to the booth directly in front of him, Roland decided to double her tip.
“Just coffee.”
“You ain’t heard about the cherry pie à la mode. I got it on good authority nobody can say no.” She sent Roland a wink as she spoke, and he toasted her with a forkful.
“It’d be wasted on me right now. Lawyers.”
“Well, sweetie, that calls for two scoops of vanilla-bean on the pie.”
“Next time. I just came in for a decent cup of coffee, and some breathing room to review my notes.”
“All right, then. Blake’s lawyers?” she asked, as she poured the coffee.
“New ones. Harry got the ax, and between you and me, I think he’s doing a dance of joy at the firing. Blake hired on a firm from up north.”
“Yankee lawyers?” Kim’s mouth twisted in derision. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Armani suits and Louis Vuitton briefcases, at least according to the paralegal Big John Simpson’s got doing research on the case. They’ve got motions on top of motions. Want a change of venue for one thing. The judge doesn’t like them, so that’s something.”
“Want to get him away from here, away from where people know what a nasty piece of work that Blake boy is.”
“Can’t say I blame them. But here or on Pluto, fact’s fact. The trouble is facts aren’t always enough in a courtroom.”
On one step back she slapped both fists on her hips. “You don’t think he’ll get off? Not after what he did.”
“I’m not going to think it, because if he gets out of this whistling, the next time, I know in my gut, he’s likely to kill somebody.”
“Well, my Jesus, Brooks.”
“Sorry.” Brooks rubbed at his tired eyes. “I should’ve taken my crappy mood to my office.”
“You sit right there and have your coffee, and you don’t let all this weigh on you.” She leaned down, kissed the top of his head. “You did your job, and everybody knows it. You can’t do more than your job.”
“Feels like I ought to. Anyway … just the coffee.”
“You holler if you want anything else.” Shaking her head, she walked away, topping off Roland’s coffee as she went.
Roland sat, mulling. Nothing the cop said struck him as false. He despised the “nasty piece of work” himself. But as the wise and wonderful Kim had said, you couldn’t do more than your job.
His was to find anything that might tip the scales in the client’s favor.
He nearly choked on his pie when the vision walked in.
He knew small southern towns could produce some beauties, and in his personal opinion, southern women had a way of nurturing that beauty like hothouse roses. Maybe it was the weather, the air, the chance to wear all those thin summer dresses like the one the vision wore now. Maybe it was the slower pace or some secret mothers passed to daughters.
Whatever it was, it worked.
He loved his wife, and had never in their twelve years together—ten-plus with rings on the finger—strayed. But a man was entitled to a little fantasy now and then when possibly the sexiest woman ever created sashayed into his line of sight.
She hip-swayed right up to Gleason’s booth, slid in, like melted butter on warm toast.
“Not a good time, Sylbie.”
In Roland’s world, it was always a good time for Sylbie.
“I just have a question. I’m not going to try to get you back or anything like that. I learned my lesson back in March.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s a bad time right here and now.”
“You look tense and tired and out of sorts. I’m sorry about that. We were friends once.”
When he didn’t speak, she looked away, let out a breath that had her delectable breasts rising, falling.
“I guess we weren’t friends, and maybe that’s my fault. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I humiliated myself for your benefit.”
“Let’s not go there.”
“It’s easy for you to say, since you weren’t the one standing there naked.”
Roland felt himself going hard, and mentally apologized to his wife.
“It was a mistake, and some of it’s on me for not talking it out with you. You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s forget it.”
“I can’t forget it until I know.”
“Know what?”
“Why her and not me? That’s all. I need to know why you want to be with Abigail Lowery—everybody knows you are—and you don’t want to be with me.”