know.”
I watched him trudge up the walk next door and ring the bell. An older man came to the door, they spoke briefly, then Dwight returned with a happier look on his face.
“They’ve gone to visit one of her sisters and should be back before dark,” he reported.
Back at the house, Dwight let Bandit out and went over to talk to Mr. Carlton while I put together a couple of sandwiches. He returned the little dog to its crate so that we could eat in peace. Although Bandit was too well trained to actually beg, he would sit on his haunches to watch with hope-filled eyes and would instantly pounce on any stray crumb that fell to the floor.
Dwight was still on edge, but there had been a slight easing of tension. We were both frantic to find Cal, but 24 knowing that it was Jonna’s sister who had taken him and not some faceless child molester helped a little.
As we ate, Dwight glanced at his watch, then did a double take. “Today’s the twenty-third,” he said, as if both surprised and chagrined.
I looked at him inquiringly, my mind a blank.
“As of yesterday, we’ve been married a whole month.”
“Awww, and I didn’t get you a present.”
“Yes, you did.” He reached for my hand. “You came.”
The instant our hands touched, it was as if every hormone that had been quiescent those last three days flared into action.
As of one mind, we left our half-eaten sandwiches on our plates and pushed back from the table. When we kissed, it took all the willpower we could muster not to start undressing each other then and there. Somehow we made it from the kitchen to the couch, but just barely. He unzipped my sweater while I struggled with his belt buckle. It seemed to take forever. We were like two lost and half-frozen hikers who suddenly stumble upon a steaming hot spring in the middle of an ice field. We dived in, sinking down, down, down into the liquid warmth, then coming up for air just long enough to take a breath before the waters closed over us again.
Afterwards, we lay entwined and the most relaxed since Cal disappeared. Dwight pulled the blanket up over my bare shoulder and murmured, “Happy anniversary.”
I yawned and snuggled closer. “Wake me in an hour, okay?”
“Ummm,” he said with a yawn of his own.
It was closer to two hours before we awoke, and the sun was heading for the horizon in a blaze of red and gold against the western sky.
We took a quick shower and decided to split up for a while. Dwight would check in with Mayleen Richards or Bo Poole, see what was happening back home, then go question the Lunsfords. I would drive my car back to the Morrow House and try to catch Betty Ramos before the end of the HSGS’s monthly meeting. If she was helping with the inventory, maybe Jonna had let something slip.
As I headed out, Dwight took pity on Bandit. “Poor little guy’s not getting the attention he’s used to. I think I’ll let him ride along with me this evening.”
He snagged Bandit’s retractable leash from a nearby hook and the terrier ricocheted off the sides of his wire crate in excited anticipation.
“You’re a kind man, Dwight Bryant,” I told him. “Y’all have fun. I’ve got my phone turned on, so call me if you hear anything.”
C H A P T E R
26
Sunday afternoon, 23 January
Down in Colleton County, Detectives Jack Jami-
son and Raeford McLamb once again found themselves going door-to-door. Television might sensationalize police standoffs and car chases, but a lawman’s day-to-day routine was much less exciting, and that was perfectly fine with McLamb. After yesterday, he was more than happy to be back in the mundane world of knocking on doors, ringing doorbells, and questioning residents in the Rideout Road area as to whether they had noticed Sergeant Overholt or his black Subaru sedan around sunset on Thursday. As far as he was concerned, the less sensational the better. Getting shot at was for TV
actors and nothing he wanted to make a habit of.
The two deputies began their inquiries at the Diaz y Garcia compound, where they pulled out pictures they had taken from the Overholt trailer. “When y’all were working in that new development that backs up against Rideout Road, anybody see this man?”
The two brothers-in-law recognized Overholt’s pictures from last night’s newscasts; and the name of the dead woman, Darla Overholt, had not gone unnoticed by J. D. Rouse’s wife. Nita Rouse was now blaming herself for her husband’s death. No, she had not told Overholt about the affair. Not really. But she had friends, friends who were hotly indignant on her behalf. Maybe one of them? No, she could not, would not, name names. Naming names had left three people dead.
“On the news, they say someone else was shot,” said Miguel Diaz. “The woman who came with you before—
Mrs. Richards?”
“Detective Richards,” said McLamb. “She’s not married.”
“Is she hurt bad?”
