Southern Comfort (30 page)

Roxanne nodded somehow managing not to grind her teeth together. “Len’s Diner. Got it. Can you tell me how to get there?” She asked the question before she really thought the idea through and, true to form, Arely gave her instructions only a local could actually follow.

To avoid the risk of him repeating them, Roxanne nodded as if she understood, then pushed her way out of the Gas and Stop.

Arely shuffled along behind her.

“What about my car?” She nodded pointedly to Mabel’s obstructive position in front of the pumps.

“Go ahead and get yore stuff out, then we’ll push it into the garage.”

Roxanne grabbed her tote bag from the front seat, then pulled her computer case and her overnight bag from the trunk before slamming the lid shut with one hand. It immediately popped back open. As she reached for it again, a land-cruising black and white police car pulled up to the pumps.

“Mornin’, Deputy Dennis.”

“Mornin’, Arely.”

Arely stepped around Roxanne, ignoring her as he proceeded to pump gasoline into the large cruiser.

Roxanne slammed the trunk lid shut. She waited for ten seconds with her fingers crossed hoping it would remain closed. On the count of eleven, it popped back open again.

She needed to have that fixed. Maybe she would do that when she got home. Yeah, right. Who was she trying to kid? She was more likely to win the Pulitzer than repair the latch on the trunk. Some things in life just required too much effort and the trunk latch would be forgotten until the next time she needed to open it. Or rather, close it.

“Haven’t been gettin’ too much rain lately,” the deputy commented, tilting his head back to gaze at the cloudless blue sky. He was fresh-faced and young, as thin as he was tall.

“Nope,” Arely agreed.

The deputy made some comment about the river looking dry and that when the rain did come it would be a “gully washer”—whatever that was—and Roxanne tried hard to block out their small town, known-you-since-you-were-knee-high-to-a-grasshopper exchange.

“Have you heard any more about that Valentine feller?” Arely asked.

“Not a word,” the deputy answered. “Damndest thing though. It’s not every day we find a body like that. Shot in the chest with his own .357. Shame he doesn’t have any family. The funeral’s Saturday. I tell you, it’s a shame.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head. The early morning sunlight flashed off the frames of his aviator glasses.

Dead body. Interesting stuff. But knowing these two even as briefly as she did, the shooting could have been a murder or a weird hunting accident. If she had to guess, she was going with the latter.

Momentarily giving up on the thought of ever again closing the trunk and actually having it remain closed, Roxanne set her bags on the ground and went around to face Arely and the deputy.

“I hate to interrupt the local news,” she said as sweetly as she could, “but would you mind helping me push my car now.” It wasn’t a question.

Both men turned and looked at her as if she had just landed on planet Earth. The young deputy glanced from her to Mabel’s out-of-state plates, then pursed his lips as if that explained it all.

“I heard Miss Betty Lou sent white chrysanthemums to the funeral home so he wouldn’t be without flowers,” Arely said, ignoring Roxanne once again.

“Yep,” the deputy answered, his gaze still on Roxanne. “Whaddo I owe you?”

“Twenty-three fiddy.”

The deputy paid, then with their help, Roxanne pushed her car—trunk still open—into one of the garage stalls. The entire time they pushed, the two men grunted and talked about the upcoming funeral. The young deputy did most of the talking. Arely did most of the grunting.

As Jefferson County’s finest droned on and on, Roxanne slammed down the trunk lid one final time and miraculously it remained closed. Then she walked around the car to the passenger’s side.

She’d just get her stash of chocolate, then she’d find Len’s Diner and settle in for the afternoon with a cup of coffee and a bag of miniature Milky Ways. And maybe with a little luck, she could find out a little more about this shooting. There could be a story in this town after all. Well, if the victim was secretly an alien. Or married to Big Foot.

The plastic bag that she had munched out of on her way south had fallen as she and the men had pushed her car to its current resting place. The contents were scattered across the floorboard, tiny little bars of melting mess in the Tennessee heat. Roxanne gathered up all the candy she could see and placed it back in the bag. Then she stuck her hand under the seat.

It wouldn’t help her disposition at all for a stray piece of chocolate to create an ant haven while she waited for Arely to fix her car. But instead of Hershey Miniatures and Reese’s Cups, her fingers encountered cool, smooth steel. Cautiously, she pulled this new find from under the seat.

Born and raised in Chicago, she had seen a few guns in her life, but this one could moonlight as a cannon. What was it doing in her car? She wrapped her fingers around its wooden butt to hold it steady in her trembling hand. Stunned with disbelief, she turned to face Arely and the deputy, gun in one hand, candy in the other.

Arely’s jaw fell, and he turned to look at the deputy. Clearly, he expected the young lawman to remedy the situation.

Deputy Dennis pulled out his own weapon, and like Roxanne, his hand shook. “Drop it,” he commanded in a wobbly voice.

Roxanne looked from him to the gun.

“I said drop it.” His voice was no more confident than before, but it was louder and echoed off the grease-smeared walls of the garage.

Roxanne’s numb fingers—by some miraculous command from her brain—let go, and the bag of candy fell from her fingers to land with a plop on the stained concrete.

“The gun,” the deputy clarified with a shout. “Drop the gun.” Perspiration beaded on his upper lip as he waited for her to obey his wavering order.

Roxanne released her grip, and the gun fell with a dull metallic clatter against the concrete. A loud shot rang out.

By instincts alone, Roxanne hit the ground and covered her head. She lay there a moment until she realized that the gun she dropped had accidentally fired, and no one was purposefully shooting. She looked up to find the two men had hit the floor as well.

Arely was the first back on his feet. He reached down and helped Roxanne up as the deputy wiped the dirt and grime from the front of his neatly pressed khaki uniform. He flashed Roxanne a menacing look, then snatched up the .357 and checked the chamber. He pushed it back into place with his still trembling thumb as a smile crossed his young face.

“Daddy’s never going to believe this.” He nudged back the brim of his buff colored hat, and his smile widened as he reached into his breast pocket and removed a dog-eared card. “You have the right to remain silent,” he drawled with more confidence than Roxanne supposed he had ever shown in his entire life. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney … ”

Great,
Roxanne thought, glancing from the deputy to the service station attendant. A Jefferson County lawyer. That’s just what she needed to make her day a certifiable disaster.

As if in agreement, the lid to her trunk popped open again.

But it was when the deputy reached for his handcuffs that Roxanne started to run.

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Praise for
Southern Hospitality

“A perfect blend of romantic comedy and sizzling romance that touches on some deep emotional issues, I thoroughly enjoyed this first book in the Hot Southern Nights series.” —Eat Sleep Read Review

“I was absolutely in stitches … Louellen takes her readers through the ups and downs of life in a comical manner, while at the same time giving us a dose of red-hot romance that you won’t soon forget.” —Pure Jonel

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