Swamp Sniper (4 page)

I looked out the back door in time to see Carter coming up the steps carrying a plastic bag in his hands. He stepped inside the kitchen and glanced at Kyle before looking at Ida Belle.
 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station,” he said.

I have to give her props. If it had been me, I’d have been shitting kittens, but Ida Belle just looked up at him, cool as a cucumber. “Am I under arrest?”

“No. I just want to ask you some questions.”

Ida Belle nodded. “I suppose it’s all right if I change clothes?”

“Of course.”

Ida Belle rose from the chair, patting Gertie on the shoulder as she passed. “Don’t worry, dear. Everything is going to be fine.”

Carter waited until Ida Belle had left the room before looking down at the two of us. “It’s time for you to go home. I know you want to help, but there’s nothing you can do. If you even think there’s something you can do, remind yourself that if I catch you doing something, I’m going to arrest you both. Is that clear?”

I bristled a bit at his tone but knew this wasn’t the time to challenge the good deputy. If Ted had been murdered and Ida Belle owned the poison used, this was serious business.
 

“How long will she be?” I asked.

“That depends,” Carter replied. “I’m sure she’ll call when I release her.”

He left the room without so much as a glance at us, and I rose from the table. “Let’s go, Gertie. We can wait at my house. I stocked up on one of everything in the General Store. It’s enough to last through a hurricane, much less a little police questioning.”
 

I hoped my light tone would perk Gertie up a little, but the woman who walked out of the house with me was a shell of the one I’d come to know.
 

“I think I’d just rather go home,” Gertie said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind.”
 

As we walked down the sidewalk, Gertie clutched my arm, bringing me to a stop. “We have to get her out of there.”

“It’s just questioning,” I said. “She’ll probably be done in a couple of hours.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then we’ll deal with it then.”

Gertie’s lower lip trembled. “I’ve got a really bad feeling this time—one I never got with Pansy or Marie.”

I felt the same way, but I wasn’t about to admit it. That would only make Gertie even more anxious, and she was hovering around heart attack range already.
 

I patted her on the back. “You’re just feeling that way because you and Ida Belle are so close.”

A small sliver of hope passed over Gertie’s face as she reached up to give my hand a squeeze before continuing to her car. As I watched her walk away, I said a silent prayer that my own intuition was dead wrong.
 

Chapter Three

I’d just finished breakfast when my cell phone signaled I had a message. I picked it up and my pulse quickened when I saw it was from my friend Ally, who should be neck-deep in breakfast service at Francine’s Café.
 

re: Ida Belle There’s a mob outside the police station.
 

Hell! I grabbed the keys to my Jeep and hurried into the garage, pressing in Gertie’s number as I jumped in the driver’s seat.
 

“I’m picking you up in two minutes,” I said as soon as Gertie answered. “I’ll explain when I get there.”

Before she could utter a single word, I disconnected the call and threw the Jeep in reverse. As I squealed away from the curb, my mind whirled with all the reasons a mob might be assembled. But unless it was a “Free Ida Belle” movement, I had serious doubts it was going to be good news.

Gertie was standing at the curb when I screeched to a halt. She attempted a quick leap inside the Jeep, but the weight of her enormous handbag set her off balance and she ended up sprawling across the passenger’s seat and my lap. It took a bit of work to get her upright and her handbag straps unwound from the stick shift, but with minimal embarrassment and a brief apology, we were finally on our way.

I filled Gertie in on Ally’s text as I drove. Based on her grim expression, I could tell she wasn’t expecting anything good, either.
 

But what we saw as I pulled onto Main Street was even worse than we expected.

Paulette stood in front of the police station, wailing like a wounded cat and screaming for justice. Sheriff Lee, who was probably old enough to be Paulette’s great-great-great-great grandfather, was trying to reason with her, but a 200-year-old man didn’t have a chance against a thirtysomething emotionally bent woman.

Hell, short of knocking her out, I wasn’t sure what would improve the situation.

A crowd of people were assembled behind Paulette, all grumbling and shaking their fists at the sheriff. I parked in front of the café and as we approached the crowd, I could begin to make out some of the comments.

“This town used to be safe!”

“How many murderers can one town have?”

“What the hell are we paying you for?”

As we approached the crowd, one of the angry protestors caught sight of me and shook his fist. “Things like this never happened before Yankees came to town.”

Five feet eleven, two hundred eighty pounds of flab, high blood pressure, incredibly low IQ.

“Given that the victim is also a Yankee,” I said, “I fail to see your point.”

His face turned a bit red but my logic didn’t stop him from blustering on. “You know exactly what I mean.”

I raised one eyebrow at him. “Are you saying he was killed because he’s a Yankee? If that’s the case, then I’m the one who should be worried, not you.”

“No, damn it! That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Really?” I asked, intent on carrying the absurdity as far as he was willing to travel. “Because that would make sense given that the victim before him was living in California. That’s kinda like Yankees, right?”

Several of the mob nodded in agreement and I held in a sigh. Humor had no place in Sinful.

“You’re twisting my words!” he raged.

“Your words were already ridiculous,” I said. “I didn’t have to so much as bend one for everyone to get that.”

“You meddling bitch.” He started toward me.

I smiled. “You forgot ‘Yankee.’”

Sheriff Lee, finally noticing the exchange, rushed forward at a good clip of negative two miles per hour. I have no idea what he thought he was going to do against the charging wall of ignorant flab coming at me, and I was almost sorry that he wouldn’t arrive in time for me to see it, but the situation in front of me was about to require action.

Flabby Man took another step toward me and lifted his hand, palm open.

Oh, hell no! He did not think he was going to bitch-slap me like some girl.

“Stop!” Sheriff Lee yelled, but I barely heard him over the crowd. Flabby Man never slowed, so either his ears were insulated with a layer of blubber or he was ignoring the sheriff like most everyone else did.

He took that final step, his arm swinging downward at the same time. He couldn’t have indicated his strike more if he’d sent me a text beforehand. In a single deft move, I stepped to the side, grabbed his thumb and twisted. He howled in pain and bent over to follow his thumb, and I kept pushing it lower. It didn’t take long for gravity to take over and he went tumbling down onto the street.
 

“She assaulted him!” Another man in the crowd yelled.

I glanced over, taking only a second to dismiss him as a threat. He looked like Flabby Man’s twin.

“Good,” I heard a woman’s voice chime in. “He’s an asshole.”

“You can’t say ‘asshole’ in the middle of Main Street,” another woman complained. “It’s illegal.”

“What are you going to do about it, asshole?”

Sheriff Lee, who’d finally managed to make it over to me, waved his hands in the air, trying to get the attention of the clearly escalating crowd. “Everyone calm down. There’s no need for violence.”

I looked over at Gertie and shook my head. She raised her eyebrows, clearly no more confident than I was that Sheriff Lee could get the crowd under control. The voices continued to escalate in pitch and level. More and more people began shouting and pointing fingers, and I could no longer tell who was angry at whom and for what.
 

And then all hell broke loose.

Such a simple thing—one shove—and the entire mob erupted. Men swung wildly at each other, mostly missing their intended target and hitting the women, who had handfuls of each other’s hair and were bent over turning in a circle like performing some insane dance.
 

It was a bar fight without the bar.

Although it pained me, I knew retreat was the best option. I turned to grab Gertie and pull her out of the fray, but as I swung around, I caught a glimpse of her dropping to the ground and crawling through the crowd toward the sheriff’s department.
 

What the hell was she doing?

I knew it was a suicide mission, but I couldn’t abandon a man in the field, so I ducked down and pushed through the crowd, trying to follow Gertie, who scrambled on all fours through the mass of thrashing idiots. I was just about to step onto the sidewalk when someone grabbed hold of my ponytail and yanked me backward. I saw a flash of glittery hot pink and knew Paulette was the culprit.
 

It took me less than a second to assess my options, and none of them were good. If I didn’t get my hair out of Paulette’s grasp, those extensions were likely to rip right off, leaving me exposed in a way I couldn’t afford. By the same token, I could hardly assault the widow in the middle of Main Street and in front of a bunch of screaming witnesses.

I grabbed the base of my ponytail as I heard the first rip of hair and at the same time, a spray of water hit my face. I looked up and saw Gertie standing on the sidewalk directing a water hose onto the fighting crowd. Paulette screamed like a banshee and showed no sign of letting up, so I did the only thing possible.
 

I clenched the ponytail as tightly as I could and swung around, flinging Paulette toward the sidewalk. She stumbled as she whirled around, and let go of my hair as she completely lost her balance and ran straight into Gertie, knocking her to the ground.
 

Carter chose that exact moment to open the door to the sheriff’s department, and the spray of hose water caught him right in the face.
 

It was like a gunshot went off. All fighting ceased and the mob scattered in every direction, leaving only me, Gertie, and Sheriff Lee standing there, dripping and clearly guilty.

Carter wiped his hand across his eyes then shook the water off. He pointed at Sheriff Lee. “Go to the Williams house and sit on Paulette. I don’t want her walking out her front door until I say so.”

Sheriff Lee, looking happy to escape, hustled off down the street at a faster clip than I thought possible.

Carter turned to Gertie, who still clutched the dripping hose. “You, put down the weapon and go home.” He pointed at me. “You, get inside.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “I never even threw a punch. I’m the victim here.”

Carter raised one eyebrow. “Somehow I find that impossible to believe. Inside. Now.”

He stepped to the side and held open the door.

Gertie sprang up from the sidewalk. “She’s telling the truth. You’ve got a lot of problems in this town, but Fortune is not one of them.”

He pointed his finger at her. “Home. Now. Or I’ll arrest both of you.”

Gertie’s mouth set in a grim line. She glanced over at me, and I gave her a small shake of my head. Whatever Carter had in mind for me, Gertie’s continued protesting would likely only make it worse.
 

I could tell she wasn’t pleased, but Gertie shut off the water and with a final glare at Carter, stalked off down the sidewalk, her shoes squishing as she went.
 

Ida Belle sat in a chair in front of the metal desk at the front of the sheriff’s department, and looked up in surprise when I stepped inside. Deputy Breaux perched in the chair across from her, looking even more uncomfortable than he had at Ida Belle’s house. The blinds on the front windows of the sheriff’s department were drawn, so they couldn’t have seen the fray, but I was certain they’d heard it.
 

Carter pointed to a room diagonal from where Ida Belle sat and I stepped inside and flopped into a chair in front of a makeshift desk. Carter closed the door behind him and it didn’t take a second before he unloaded.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

My mouth dropped. “What was I thinking? Look, I know you find it impossible to believe that I’m not looking for trouble, but I assure you, I did not start that fight. I was only defending myself.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t look remotely convinced. “Do you realize you have to defend yourself more than anyone I’ve ever met in my life? Professional football players defend themselves less than you do. Freedom fighters pale in comparison to the record you’ve established in just two weeks in Sinful.”