Demon Hunting In the Deep South (21 page)

Evie tried not to resent it too much. But sometimes it was hard having a best friend who was smart, sexy, sassy,
and
eternally svelte—another one of the universe’s sick little jokes.

Sometimes, the universe was a mothertrucker.

Nicole still looked a little wan. Evie couldn’t tell whether she didn’t feel well or if she was still pining for Ossifer Dan. Love sure had a way of catching the heart unawares.

You ought to know,
her sneaky inner voice smirked.
Or are you too big a coward to admit you have feelings for a certain demon hunter?

Oh, shut up, Evie thought crossly.
I’m not talking to you.

She shoved her uneaten biscuit aside. Ansgar stood on the other side of the room in quiet conversation with Brand. Ansgar seemed to sense her scrutiny and turned his head to look at her. Their gazes collided and
wham!
the room narrowed and fell away. He made her feel that way, like they were the only two people on the planet.

Only they weren’t the only two people on the planet. He wasn’t even people. He was an immortal demon hunter and she was . . .

She wasn’t in his league; that was for sure. Ansgar the Dalvahni Cream Machine could have any woman he wanted, in this dimension or any other. Someone beautiful and exotic. Like Lenora, Shep Corwin’s girlfriend. Lenora was tall and curvy with flowing dark hair, a mouth like ripe cherries, and flawless features. Addy didn’t much like her brother’s new girlfriend, but even Addy had to admit Lenora had it going on in the sex appeal department.

Of course, being sexy was Lenora’s job before she met Shep. Addy described her as “an inter-dimensional emotion-stealing hoochie mama.” The best Evie could figure, thralls were sex slaves who served the Dalvahni. “An emotionless demon hunter is an efficient demon hunter . . .” Or something like that.

Evie didn’t know the particulars. She hadn’t had the chance to get to know Lenora better, and Addy avoided the thrall like the plague. Maybe because Addy suspected Brand had availed himself of Lenora’s services B. A.—Before Addy.

Lenora was lucky she hadn’t ended up in the river. Brand wasn’t the only one with a jealous streak. Addy Corwin had a heart of gold, but when it came to a certain handsome demon hunter, she didn’t share.

Thinking about the thrall gave Evie an idea. Maybe she’d ask Lenora for some pointers on how to please a man. She stole a nervous glance at Ansgar. Was she seriously contemplating having sex with him? Her heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

Yep, she was seriously thinking about it, had been since the moment she set eyes on him.

Then an awful thought occurred to her. Maybe Lenora knew how to please Ansgar
from personal experience
. Suddenly, Evie understood Addy’s animosity toward the thrall. She wanted to scratch Lenora’s eyes out.

The door opened and Blake Peterson, Trey’s grandfather and the reigning patriarch of the Peterson clan, stepped inside.
Blip!
Ansgar crossed the room to her side before the door had time to swing shut. Evie was glad he was there. Ansgar made her feel safe, and Mr. Peterson gave her the willies. Always had, though she didn’t know why. He’d never been anything but unfailingly polite to her the few times she’d seen him at the mill. But there was something about the man that made her skittish.

That went double for today. Blake Peterson was a Big Fish in Hannah’s little pond—a big,
rich
fish from one of the oldest families in Behr County—and he thought she’d killed Meredith, his granddaughter by marriage. Evie wanted to crawl under the counter and hide.

Tall and handsome, with silvery blond hair and deep blue eyes, Mr. Peterson was decades younger in appearance than his seventy plus years. Surely, there was a picture of Blake hanging somewhere in the Peterson mansion that was a sagging, wrinkled mess, ’cause he never aged. His wife Clarice was with him today—as much as Clarice was ever “with” anybody. A cloud of perfume enveloped her, something sweet and heavy. Clarice Peterson was the walking dead, a fashionable but lifeless shell compared to her husband’s ruthless, restless energy. An almost imperceptible shudder ran through her slender frame when her husband took her by the arm, though the expression on her carefully made-up face remained wooden.

Evie braced herself, expecting them to turn on her in outrage. To her surprise, Mr. Peterson flicked a single, uninterested glance in her direction and moved on. His wife the walking zombie didn’t seem to notice her at all.

“We’ve come to order the blanket for Meredith’s casket,” he said to Addy in his cultured, honey-and-whiskey drawl.

Evie was born and bred in the South. She had a Southern accent, but she’d never be able to talk like that if she lived to be a hundred years old. It was the accent of Old Money, entitlement, and privilege, and she was the daughter of a clerk at the feed and seed store. Blake Peterson wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He had the entire place setting.

“I’m so sorry about Meredith, Mr. Peterson,” Addy said.

“Thank you,” he said, as though she’d complimented him on his tie. “The coroner has released her body. The funeral will be Monday.”

Addy blinked in surprise. “Monday? As in day after tomorrow? I assumed the funeral would be later next week.”

“We want to put this unpleasantness behind us as quickly as possible. My wife’s health is fragile, and Trey needs closure. Now, about that blanket. It should be something tasteful. Roses, lilies, and hydrangeas.”

Addy nodded and went to her computer. “If you’ll give me a moment, I can give you a price—”

Mr. Peterson held up his hand, silencing her. “Please, let’s not talk about money in this time of grief. It’s vulgar. Just send me the bill. Good day.”

Without another word, Blake steered his unresisting wife back out the door.

“Huh.” Addy shook her head. “That was weird.”

“It was bizarre-o,” Evie said.

Actually, it was anticlimactic. She’d expected them to point at her and yell
J’accuse!
Instead, she was so invisible to these people she didn’t register on their radar, even as the woman suspected of killing their granddaughter-in-law. She should have been relieved.

Instead, she was ticked, which was pretty weird, too. She hated confrontation and unpleasantness, and this little scene could have been both on a major scale.

She realized Addy and Muddy were talking and tuned back in.

“—wrong with her,” Addy was saying. “It’s like nobody’s home.”

“Clarice hasn’t been right since Blake, Junior, died,” Muddy said. “You and Evie are probably too young to remember it. He was killed in a freak accident out at the mill more than twenty years ago. A circular saw shattered and split his head in two.”

Addy shuddered. “How horrible.”

“Yep,” Muddy said. “Your daddy like to had a nervous breakdown over that one. It was a closed casket. Shep, Senior, was a fine mortician, but he couldn’t fix that one. Poor Clarice didn’t utter a syllable for a year after Junior died, just sat in the music room with his piano. He was a talented musician. Played like an angel. Could have been a concert pianist, but Blake wouldn’t hear of it. Said it wasn’t manly.” Muddy shook her head. “People claim he still haunts the Peterson place. Miss Mamie swears she was out walking her dog late one night and heard music coming from the Petersons’. She peeked in the window of the music room and saw Clarice sitting alone. The baby grand was playing all by itself, and Clarice was talking to someone.” Muddy’s voice lowered dramatically. “Someone not
there
.”

“Mothertrucker.” Nicole looked appropriately awed. “That is so creepy. Who’s Miss Mamie?”

“The town gossip,” Muddy said, dropping the
Masterpiece Theater
impression. “She’s all up in everybody’s business.”

“Speaking of business,” Addy said to Evie, “I need you and Nicole to deliver this last batch of flower arrangements to the club.”

Muddy’s expression brightened. “Oh, yes, the big dance is tonight. Evie, you still have the tickets I gave you?”

“Yes, ma’am, but I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“Because. Everybody thinks I killed Meredith. People will stare a-and
talk.
”

“Did you kill her?”

“No!”

“Then let them talk,” Muddy said. “Somebody’s trying to frame you for murder. You got any idea who?”

“No.”

“Any idea who killed Meredith?”

“No, ma’am, but I—”

“Then going to the Halloween costume ball is as good a place as any to start. I got one of my feelings. Something’s going to happen at that dance tonight, something big. And you need to be there. That’s why I gave you those tickets. Had a hunch you’d need ’em.”

“I appreciate it, Muddy. It was very kind of you. I’ll pay you for the tickets, but I can’t go to the dance. Surely, you can understand how uncomfortable that would be.”

Walk into a room full of people who thought she was a homicidal maniac or the husband-stealing hoochie from hell? Or both? She could hear the shocked whispers now and feel the weight of their disapproval and condemnation. Uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe it.

“Tell you what will be a whole lot more uncomfortable. Going to jail for a murder you didn’t commit.” Muddy examined her nails. “Did you know Blake Peterson was a major contributor to Frank Horne’s campaign?”

“Frank Horne?” Evie processed the name. “You mean
Judge Horne
?”

Muddy nodded. “The very same judge that will be presiding over your murder trial. Blake Peterson owns this county, and he owns Judge Horne. You talk to Amasa today?”

“No, ma’am. I came straight here.”

“He’ll be calling you any minute with the news.”

“What news?” Evie said.

The shop phone rang and Addy answered it. “It’s for you,” she said, handing the phone to Evie. “It’s Mr. C.”

A trickle of dread ran down Evie’s spine. She had a feeling of her own. Something bad was coming down the pike. There’d been a lot of that lately. She was starting to see a pattern.

She listened to Mr. Collier and hung up the phone.

“What’s up?” Addy said, looking at her in concern. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“My preliminary hearing has been set.” Evie swallowed. “And there’s talk of convening a special grand jury. The district court judge called Mr. Collier and ‘suggested’ in the strongest possible terms that he agree to a preliminary hearing this Thursday. Said he wouldn’t be happy if the defense was to ‘draw this thing out.’ ” Evie shook her head, the trickle of dread rising to a full-blown flood. “I thought I’d have more time.”

“Wake up and smell the coffee, girl.” Muddy’s tone was sharp. “Blake Peterson owns the district judge, too. You’re being railroaded. At the rate this thing is snowballing, you’ll be indicted before Thanksgiving. You need to be at that ball tonight. It may be your only chance to do some sleuthing in a big crowd.”

“Maybe they won’t call a special session,” Evie said.

Muddy made a noise of disgust. “And maybe a pig’s butt ain’t pork. Get real. For some reason, the Petersons want this thing over and done with. The Petersons always get their way.”

“But, Muddy, I can’t—”

“The universe sends us blips, girl,” Muddy said, brushing aside her protests. “Most people ignore them. The smart ones don’t. Meredith’s murder and that knife being found in your car are big-ass King Kong–size blips. The universe is trying to tell you something, and you’d better listen.”

“But, Muddy—”

“Ever since that sister of yours died you’ve tried not to cause trouble. Trouble found you anyway. Being the perfect child didn’t keep your sweet mama from getting cancer or your poor daddy from drinking himself to death. Life is trouble and perfect is boring. Grow some balls, Evie. Go to the dance. Maybe you’ll find the killer. Maybe not. But at least you’ll be doing something.”

Ansgar put his arm around her shoulders. “She is right, Evangeline. Not about her reference to growing balls. I assume that is a slang term referring to the generative gland in males, a derivative of the Anglo-Saxon term ‘bollocks.’ ”

“Dude,” Addy said. “It’s a euphemism.”

Ansgar scowled at her. “I am trying to say that I agree with Edmuntina.” He looked down at Evie. “My hunter’s instincts tell me our quarry will be at this dance. Do not fret about the humans. I will protect you.”

“We’ll all be there,” Muddy said. “We’ll have your back.” She jerked her chin at Nicole. “You’re going, too.”

“Me?” Nicole’s eyes bugged. “No way. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself at no fancy schmancy country club.”

“Huh,” Muddy said. She sounded just like Addy. Or maybe Addy sounded just like Muddy. Kind of a chicken and egg thing. “Dan Curtis will be there. He’s on duty.”

“Officer Curtis?” Nicole’s eyes lit up. “You reckon Frodo could go, too? I can’t leave him alone.”

Addy shook her head at Muddy. “Not a good idea. Frodo’s not what you’d call a people person. Or maybe he
is
a people person, but in a bad kind of way.”

Muddy waved away her concern. “He’ll be fine. Nicole can tell people he’s a prop.”

“I don’t know.” Nicole wavered. “All those rich folks . . .”

“Come over to my house this afternoon, and I’ll help you get ready,” Muddy said briskly. “Addy can give you directions. I’ve got an idea for a costume for you and Frodo that totally rocks. Bring some of Evie’s special shampoo and conditioner with you. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but if you want to get Dan’s interest, we’ve
got
to do something with that hair. It’s a cluster fu—”

“No, Muddy,” Addy shrieked. “No,
ma’am
.”

The violence of Addy’s reaction momentarily startled Evie. Granted, it wasn’t polite for Muddy to use the Big Bad Word, but it wasn’t like Addy had never heard the word before. When they were kids, they used to crawl in Addy’s closet and practice their cussing in the dark. They’d whisper bad words and giggle. It felt wicked and good . . . until Bitsy caught them and waled the tar out of them.

She’d have to remember to ask Addy about it later. Right now, she had other things to think about, like how to get out of the dance.