why he did the things he did. And he didn’t want to tell me anything at all.
Now he seemed to be genuinely trying to open up. We’d stopped to pick up some more clothing for me on the way to Georgia, but it had been a convenience, not an attempt on his part to impress me with what he could offer financially. He’d finally figured out I wanted more from him than his magical way of turning a hundred bucks into a thousand.
“You can’t stay,” I said softly. “If you give me your bed, it’s the couch for you.”
He pushed off the mattress with a faint sigh. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Good night, Chance.”
“Sweet dreams, love.”
I found myself thinking,
Sleep snatched me before I could complete the thought.
When I woke, the slant of the sunlight told me I’d slept half the morning away, so I took a quick, tepid shower and got dressed. I plucked my cell from where it was charging in the hall and called Miss Minnie. “Good morning. It’s Corine. How are you?”
“Old and achy,” she said with a little laugh. “How about you, dear?”
“Good. I was wondering if you still wanted us to come to supper.”
“I surely do. I’ll make a nice big pot of soup and some corn bread. You like peach pie, don’t you?”
“Cherry is my favorite,” I felt compelled to say.
“Cherry it is. It will be so good to catch up and get to know your young man. I don’t have guests as often as I’d like these days. Everyone’s just so busy. . . .” She rambled on, giving me some idea why people didn’t stop by more often, but I needed any information she might possess.
“I’ll have two more friends with me, if that’s all right?”
“Oh, more young people.” She sounded genuinely delighted. “Soup can always stretch, don’t you fret about that. I’ll see you tonight at six, then?”
“I’m looking forward to it.” And I was. Miss Minnie had been the second-best cook of all my foster mothers, surpassed only by Miz Ruth. And actually Miss Minnie’s pies were better. I might as well enjoy some aspects of being back in Georgia.
Though the food was delicious in Mexico, it was also different. You just couldn’t find decent biscuits and gravy there, or fried chicken, let alone picnic food like potato salad. And the pie was nothing like the same. If I wanted cherry pie, I had to go to the gourmet foods section at Palacio del Hierro—an upscale department store— and search the shelves for the filling. I’d never been able to find ready-made piecrust, either, which meant making it from scratch, and I wasn’t nearly skilled enough for that. Plus, my initial attempts at baking had failed due to the high altitude.
Just thinking of all the delicious Southern food made my stomach rumble, and I realized as I rang off that I hadn’t eaten breakfast. The others were waiting for me in the kitchen, drinking coffee someone had made with the old-fashioned pot. Jesse offered me a cup when I stumbled in, still braiding my hair.
“Wow,” Shannon said. “Your hair is really long. Pretty. Is it real?”
“Depends on what you mean by that. It’s real
“The color.” She rolled her eyes.
I grinned. “As much as yours is.”
That surprised a smile out of her. I guessed she wasn’t used to grown women who admitted to coloring their hair; I could hear her mother chiding that it wasn’t genteel to discuss such artifice. I ate an apple and drank a cup of sweet coffee, liberally mixed with powdered milk. It was better than you’d think. I followed that up with toast and jelly.
Shannon seemed more relaxed than I’d ever seen her. I could understand why. With men like Jesse and Chance telling you they wouldn’t let anything happen, it was easy to relax. I’d learned the hard way—sometimes there was nothing anybody could do.
“Are we ready?” I asked.
“Yeah, we already ate,” Saldana told me. “We should take my Forester. People already know the Mustang, if someone tried to run Corine over the other day.”
I scowled. I would love to have a talk with the guy who owned the Cutlass. In fact . . . we had a native here. Maybe she could tell us who drove it.
“Good point.” Chance seemed more cheerful this morning—less inclined to smash Jesse’s head in with a claw hammer.
“Shannon, do you know who drives a dark blue Olds Cutlass Supreme?” I asked. “It was an older car, but very well kept.”
As we left the kitchen, she thought about that, pale brow furrowed. “Yeah, actually. Sounds like Little Ed Willoughby. His mother owns the hardware store. She’s on the school board and the town council—a real meddler, if you ask me.”
When we came into the parlor, Butch raised his head from where he’d been napping on the love seat. He leaped up and trotted to the front door, but he wasn’t agitated. His calmness reassured me, though; the wards must be solid.
“You think you’re going with us?” I asked the dog.
He yapped once.
Despite her own gift, Shannon gazed at him wide-eyed. “Oh my God, that is the coolest thing ever. You have a talking dog!”
“Kind of,” I said.
“How? Is he magical?”
I considered as I swept him into my handbag. “I’m not sure. We didn’t train him to do it, that’s for sure. Maybe one day we’ll figure out what makes him tick.”
“He’s so cute,” she said, going for the sweet spot behind his ears, and Butch wore an expression I liked to call “blissful dog.”
As I headed down the front steps, the others followed.
Jesse couldn’t stop being a cop long enough for us to climb in the Forester. He prompted Shannon for more info as we opened the doors. “Willoughby’s dad is Big Ed?”
“His dad’s dead,” Shannon said flatly. “Or presumed so. He went missing about three months ago.”
“Let me guess,” Chance put in. “He went out to hunt and never came back.”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t know if I ever heard that, but it could be. Men around here do love their guns.”
“How many people have gone missing in the last year?” Jesse wanted to know.
“We should put Shannon’s bike inside,” I said.
“Already did.” She climbed in front with Jesse, still thinking about his question. “Hard to say, because I don’t always know when someone gets scared—or sick of this town and just takes off—and when they just don’t come back. But I’d say ten. At least ten.”
Ten was a high number in a town as small as Kilmer. Chance and I exchanged a grim look while climbing in back.
Saldana glanced at me over his shoulder. “We need to find Little Ed Willoughby and ask him why he tried to use his vehicle as a deadly weapon, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Chance muttered. “I’d like a word.”
The rest of the drive passed in silence. I wasn’t sure we should have brought her with us. It might dump more trouble on our heads to be seen with her, since we weren’t ready to leave town just yet. Then again, I didn’t know if it was a good idea to leave her alone in the house, even with good wards. On the balance, it was probably better to keep her close. I didn’t intend to let Kilmer claim another victim.
“Where to?” Saldana asked her.
“The newspaper office is downtown,” she answered, pointing. “I’m not sure if Mr. England will be in. If not, we can talk to the editor, Sam Proust.”
“Does the town have any reporters?” Back when I lived here, there had been one who wrote shiny human
