disappointed.”
She surprised a laugh out of him. “What if it’s just a flesh wound?” He caught her hand, tugged her down.
“Very disappointed.” She turned to him, closed her eyes. “And I won’t be sympathetic.”
“You’re a tough woman with hard lines. I guess I’ll have to avoid flesh wounds.”
“That’s for the best.”
She relaxed against him, listened to the storm blow its way west.
In the morning, with the sky clear and blue, and the temperatures rising, she worked for another hour.
“You need to give that a rest,” Brooks told her.
“Yes. I need to fine-tune. It’s close, but not perfect. I don’t want to do anything else until I consider a few options. I’m checking something else now. Unrelated.”
“I checked in with Anson. He’s meeting Garrison and Assistant Director Cabot in about ninety minutes.”
“I estimate I’ll need another day on the program.” She glanced back briefly. “I can’t divulge to the authorities what I plan to do. It’s illegal.”
“I got that much. Why don’t you divulge it to me?”
“I’d rather wait until I’ve finished it, when I’m sure I can do what I hope to do.” She started to say more, then shook her head. “It can wait. I’m not sure of the proper dress for this afternoon or—” She broke off, horrified, spun around in her chair. “Why didn’t you
“What?” Her sudden and passionate distress had him bobbling the bowl of cereal he’d just poured. “Tell you what?”
“I need to take a covered dish to your mother’s. You know very well I’m not familiar with the rules. You should have told me.”
“There aren’t any rules. It’s just—”
“It says right here.” She jabbed a finger at her screen. “Guests often bring a covered dish, perhaps a personal specialty.”
“Where does it say that?”
“On this site. I’m researching barbecue etiquette.”
“Jesus Christ.” Torn between amusement and absolute wonder, he dumped milk in the bowl. “It’s just a get-together, not a formal deal with etiquette. I picked up extra beer to take over. We’ll grab a bottle of wine.”
“I have to make something, right away.” She flew into the kitchen, began searching her refrigerator, her cupboards.
He stood, watching her and shoveling in cereal. “Abigail, chill it some. You don’t need to make anything. There’ll be plenty of food.”
“That’s not the point! Orzo. I have everything I need to make orzo.”
“Okay, but what is the point?”
“Taking food in a covered dish I’ve prepared myself is a courtesy, and a sign of appreciation. If I hadn’t checked, I wouldn’t have known, because you didn’t tell me.” She put a pot of water on the stove, added salt.
“I should have my ass whipped.”
“You think it’s amusing.” She gathered sun-dried tomatoes, olive oil, black olives. “I may not know precisely how this sort of thing functions, but I understand perfectly well your family’s opinion of me will be important.”
“My mother and sisters already like you.”
“They may tend in that direction, until I rudely attend the barbecue without a covered dish. Just go out and pick a small head of radicchio out of the garden.”
“I’d be happy to, but I don’t know what it looks like.”
She spared him a fulminating glance before storming out to pick it herself.
That sure took her mind off illegal computer viruses and stepping into the arms of the feds, he thought. And since she was on a tear, he thought it might be wise to stay out of her way for a couple of hours. When she stormed back in, he made a mental note that radicchio was the purple leafy stuff, in case it came up again.
“I need to go into the station for a couple hours,” he began.
“Good. Go away.”
“Need anything? I can pick whatever up on the way back.”
“I have everything.”
“I’ll see you later, then.” Brooks rolled his eyes at Bert on his way out as if to say, Good luck dealing with her.
He’d barely gotten out the door when his phone rang.
“Gleason.”
“Hey, Chief. There’s a little to-do over at Hillside Baptist,” Ash told him.
“I don’t handle to-dos on my day off.”
“Well, it’s a to-do with Mr. Blake and the Conroys, so I thought you might want in on it.”
“Hell. I’m rolling now.” He jumped in the car, backed it up with the phone at his ear. “What level of to- do?”
“Shouted accusations and bitter insults, with a high probability of escalation. I’m rolling, too.”
“If you get there ahead of me, you start heading off that escalation.”
He thought, Hell—and hit the sirens and the gas when he swung onto the main road.
It didn’t take him long, and he pulled up nearly nose-to-nose with Ash as they came in from opposite directions.
“You shaved off your …” It couldn’t rightfully be called a beard, Brooks considered. “Face hair.”
“Yeah, it got too hot.”
“Uh-huh.”
As Brooks had judged, the to-do had already bumped up to a scene, and a scene was one finger jab away from a ruckus, so he decided to wait to rag on Ash about the haze he’d scraped off his face.
Lincoln Blake and Mick Conroy might’ve been at the center of it, but they were surrounded by plenty of people in their Sunday best, lathered up and taking sides on the newly mowed green slope in front of the red-brick church.
Even the Reverend Goode, holy book still in his hand, had gone beet-red straight back into the sweep of his snowy hair.
“Let’s simmer down,” Brooks called out.
Some of the voices stilled; some of the chest bumpers eased back as Brooks moved through.
Blake had brought his stone-faced assistant, and Brooks had no doubt he was packing. Arkansas still had laws against guns in church—Christ knew for how long—but it was short odds some of those gathered on that green slope wore a weapon along with their tie and shined-up shoes.
Add guns, he thought, and a to-do could go from a scene to a ruckus to a bloodbath in a heartbeat.
“Y’all are standing in front of a church.” He led with disapproval, laced with a thin cover of disappointment. “I expect most of you attended services this morning. I heard some language when I got here that’s not fitting at such a time and place. Now, I’m going to ask y’all to show some respect.”
“It’s Lincoln here started it.” Jill Harris folded her arms. “Mick no sooner walked out the door than Lincoln got in his face.”
“A man’s got a right to say his piece.” Mojean Parsins, Doyle’s mother, squared off with the older woman. “And you oughta keep that parrot nose of yours out of other people’s business.”
“I could if you hadn’ta raised a hooligan.”
“Ladies.” Knowing he took his life in his hands—women were apt to leap and bite, and were as likely to be carrying as their men—Brooks stepped between them. “It’d be best if you, and everybody else, went on home now.”
“You entrapped our boy, you and that Lowery woman. Lincoln told me just what you did. And the Conroys here, they’re trying to make a killing off a bit of teenage mischief.”
Hilly Conroy elbowed her husband aside. From the look of her, Brooks decided she’d finally found her mad. “Mojean Parsins, you know that’s a lie. I’ve known you all your life, and I can see on your face you know that for a lie.”