Playing Dead in Dixie (17 page)

"He didn't have to do that.  I could've walked."

"Two miles is a long way in shoes like those."  He eyed her strappy sandals.

He had a point.  "Floyd has a television in his office. You can watch the game while I'm checking the cash against the register tape."  Grabbing the bag of cash and change from the cubbyhole under the cashier's desk, she led Wes back to Floyd's office and unlocked the door.

While she took a seat behind Floyd's desk to reconcile the register receipt with the cash total, Wes settled on the edge of Floyd's desk and pushed the power button on the small television on the credenza by the desk.

While she was totaling the receipts, something happened on the television that made Wes utter a string of curses Carly hadn't heard since leaving Atlantic City.  "Chief Wes, you're abusing my delicate, virginal ears!" she murmured.

He grinned at her.  "Georgia fumbled on their own twenty yard line, sugar.  That requires profanity."

"What is it with you men and football?"  She picked up another register tape.  "I mean, I like it fine.   Go Eagles.  But it's just a game."

"Down here, it's damned near a religion."  Wes pointed at the screen.  "See that quarterback?  His name is David Newfield.  His daddy was Terry Newfield, who played running back for Georgia twenty-five years ago.  His uncle Mark played offensive guard and went on to play for the Packers for fifteen years.  When David gets married and has a son, the boy will wear black and red every fall Saturday for the rest of his life.  Football can keep families together.  It can tear them apart.  Divorcing couples sue for custody of the Georgia season tickets."

Carly narrowed her eyes.  "You're making that up."

"Barfield versus Barfield.  It was quite the big deal down here about five years ago.  People all over the state took sides, wrote editorials, picketed outside the courtroom.  It was a sight."

Carly laughed.  "And you guys wonder why you lost the war."

Wes turned back to the television, smiling.

Carly finished matching the register tape to the cash total and put the money away.  She tucked the tape into the drawer for Sherry to handle on Monday.  While she was in the drawer, she checked the ledger books, flipping through the last week's entries.  "Hmm," she said aloud.

Wes looked away from the television.  "What?"

"Either we've seen a big upturn in business," she told Wes, passing the book to him, "or someone's hand didn't dip into the till this week."   The store had actually made a profit for the week.

He looked over the figures.  "I take it this isn't what you found in previous ledgers?"

She flipped back a few pages.  "Twenty-five dollars and change in the red."  She flipped more pages.  "Almost fifty-seven dollars in the red."

"Those aren't big amounts to be skimming off the top."

"Those aren't the amounts being skimmed."  She turned pages in the book until she reached the current week's numbers.  "Based on this, when you total receipts against invoice payments, the store made a profit of over three thousand and fifty dollars just this week.  Now, of course that total's going to fluctuate week to week, season to season.  But if someone's skimming money, they're possibly stealing hundreds, even thousands of dollars in profits every week."

Wes let out a low whistle.  "Is Monday night going to be enough time for you to figure this out?"

"I don't know.  I think it'll be enough time to get an idea what's causing the deficit, and maybe I'll have a clue whether or not someone's set up a shell company or something."  Carly tapped her hand on the open ledger.  "I wish I could stay longer tonight, get a head start, but Bonnie's expecting me home.  And Floyd will wonder what's going on if I'm not home by the time he gets there.  He'd probably come looking for me."

"Not if he thinks you're with me."

She looked up at him.  "I could call Bonnie and tell her I'm having dinner with you."

"I can grab us something from the diner."

"Don't they close at six?"

"Not on game day.  What are you hungry for?"

Carly picked up the phone.  "Surprise me.  I'm starving."

"You're a brave woman.  There's grits in them thar hills."  He shot her a wicked grin as he headed out the door.

Here we go again.
  Carly put down the phone for a moment and leaned back in Floyd's chair.  She blew out a long breath, trying to slow her racing heart.  Picnic dinner with Wes the night before last.  Lunch with him yesterday.  Dinner with him tonight.

And no, the fact that they'd be eating over a stack of ledger books did not make a damn bit of difference.

What was she doing?

She didn't get involved.  Ever.  No matter how damned sexy he looked in a pair of jeans.  No matter how his dark-eyed gaze and come-kiss-me grin turned her stomach into jelly and sent her heart rate hurtling into the stratosphere.

Wes was a forever kind of guy.  He reeked of commitment, responsibility, ties to the communities.

Carly didn't do ties.  Ties were a trap.  If she'd learned nothing else from her mother, she'd learned that.

CHARLIE SYKES HAD THE ball game going on a television set he'd pulled out from the back so his customers, such as there were on a Saturday evening with Georgia playing football, could watch the game while they ate.  When Wes entered, he found both Charlie and his daughter Katie sitting with their handful of patrons, watching the last few minutes of the game.

Knowing better than to interrupt with Georgia driving to the end zone, Wes pulled up a chair next to Charlie and watched with them.

"Newfield has almost three hundred and fifty passing yards."  Charlie passed a plate of cheese fries in Wes's direction.  "Damn fool announcer on the sideline's already talkin' Heisman."

"Great, jinx us, will you?" Wes muttered, snagging one of the fries.  "It's Fielding State, for Pete's sake.  Of course he's got three-fifty in passing; we've got over six hundred yards of total offense."

"You here to eat?"  Katie asked.

"No, I came to a diner to watch a ball game on a piece of crap thirteen-inch television with rabbit ear antennas because I like the company."  He softened his sarcasm with a grin.

Katie threw a wadded up napkin at him.  "What'll you have?"

"How about a couple of your cheese steaks and two sweet teas to go?"  As Katie started to get up, Wes waved her off.  "It can wait until the game's over."

Katie sank back into her chair.  "J.B. doesn't like cheese steaks."

"They aren't for J.B."

Though Katie's eyes never left the television screen, she grinned.  "I didn't really think they were."

"One day I'm going to write a book called 'Small Towns: Cesspools of Gossip,'" Wes commented.

"Yeah?  Well, I'm going to write a book called 'Would y'all quit your damned yappin' so we can hear the game?'" Charlie growled.

Wes bit back a laugh and settled down to watch the Bulldogs quarterback take a knee for the last three snaps of the game, ending the blowout with a hint of mercy.

"Two cheese steaks and a pair of teas to go.  Comin' up."  Charlie headed back to the kitchen as the handful of customers began to disperse.

"Now starts the real fun," Katie straightened out her apron and pulled her order pad from her pocket.

If Wes stayed there much longer, he knew, he'd be drowning in a sea of red and black.  Charlie offered a ten percent discount to customers who came in wearing Georgia's team colors after a game.

A few minutes later, Charlie called out his order.  Wes paid him and took the order, juggling the drinks as he pushed through the diner door.

And almost ran headlong into Sherry Clayton and her mother.

"Hey, Wes!"  Sherry flashed him the big-toothed smile that had made her homecoming queen fifteen years ago.  "I thought you'd be at J.B.'s, watchin' the game."

"I was.  I thought I'd come grab some dinner."  Wes kept his expression carefully neutral, but his heart beat a little faster.  Carly's suspicions about Sherry Clayton seemed to have rubbed off on him.  Even though he didn't want to think it, Sherry did have the most access to his uncle's money.  She paid invoices, kept the ledgers, handled payroll; if there was fraud happening at the hardware store, Sherry was definitely the prime suspect.

They just had to prove it.

"You aren't wearin' your red and black," Sherry's mother Lois said with a smile.

"But you are, Miss Lois.  You sure look nice."  Wes tamped down his impatience to get back to Carly.  Being part of a small town like Bangor meant you were nice to your neighbors, especially sweet old ladies like Lois Mayfield.  Carly Devlin wasn't going to be here in a couple of months.  Lois Mayfield would.

He'd do well to remember that.

"We thought we'd come by after the game and get a bite to eat," Sherry said.  "You want to join us?"

"No, I've got to get back.  But thanks for asking."  Wes nodded to the women and headed down the street toward the hardware store.

He paused next to his truck, which was parked just outside the front of the store.  Looking back toward the diner, he wondered if Sherry had seen his truck parked here.  Would she put two and two together and realize he was bringing dinner to Carly at the hardware store?

Probably not.  She and her mother would have been coming from the opposite direction;  they lived east of town, in a big, two-story Victorian she'd gotten in the divorce settlement with her husband Roger.

He elbowed open the front door of the hardware store and went inside.  Setting the two paper cups on a nearby shelf, he locked the door behind him.  "I'm back," he called.

Carly met him at the sales counter, taking the cups tucked precariously in the crook of his elbow.  "I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming back."

"Had to wait for the end of the ball game before anybody'd get up to fix our supper."

She laughed, until she realized he was serious.  "You people do take football seriously."

He nodded, following her into the office and settled in one of the folding chairs across from Floyd's desk.  He set the sack of food on the table.  "Right after my father's stroke, he had a lot of lingering aphasia.  But even when he could barely utter a recognizable word, he could yell for the Dawgs."

Carly smiled.  "Guess that gives you one thing in common."

"Score another one for Georgia football.  If it can bring me and my dad together for three hours without a fight . . ."

She envied him that history with his father.  "It must be nice to have a tradition like that."

He gave her an odd look.  "Don't you have any family traditions?"

Not unless you counted knowing how to pack and clear out of a place in fifteen minutes.  "My family wasn't all that close."

"My dad and I had our problems.  Still do.  I guess every family has issues."

She laughed, but it sounded bitter even to her.  "My father always had these big ideas.  You know, he was going to invest his savings in a nightclub that was guaranteed to be a big hit.  Or put all his money on a horse that was a sure bet.  Or maybe it was just a new place—this was going to be the place where we'd finally hit the jackpot and then, we'd be rolling in the dough, babycakes."

Wes's gentle gaze unnerved her.  She never talked about her past.  It was too humiliating.

"I'm babbling."

"What about your mother?"

Carly busied her restless hands with the desk blotter, sliding it until it was straight and centered.  "She stayed at home."

"At least you had some stability."

If you could call being trapped in a house with a miserable, bitter woman all day long stability.  Carly nibbled at her bottom lip and didn't respond.

After a long silence, Wes nodded toward the ledgers.  "Have you found anything yet?"

Glad for the change of topic, Carly nodded.  "Maybe.  I've found a vendor I don't recognize.  I'm trying to find an inventory sheet to check against."

"Well, take a food break.  I brought you a surprise."

CARLY CAREFULLY OPENED the sack he'd laid on the desk in front of her, her expression revealing a hint of distrust.  "Which is mine?"

"I got us the same thing."

She handed him one of the paper-wrapped sandwiches and took her own from the bag.

Wes unwrapped his cheese steak, frowning as goopy yellow cheese slithered across his fingers.  "What the—?"

Carly's expression was sheer delight.  "She remembered!"

Wes wiped his fingers on a napkin.  "Remembered what?  And why is there Cheez Whiz on my cheese steak?"

Carly looked up at him as if he were nuts.  "What else would you put on a cheese steak?  Swiss cheese?"

"Well, yeah."

"Heathen!"  Carly licked the gooey yellow cheese from her fingers, her little pink tongue darting out to catch a drop that nearly fell onto the desk.  "A real Philly cheese steak has Cheez Whiz, or maybe provolone if you're feeling all ritzy.  Not cheddar, not mozzarella, and definitely not Swiss."

"Charlie's cheese steaks used to have Swiss," Wes grumbled, riveted by the sight of Carly's tongue.  "Before you came into town and corrupted everybody."

"I told Katie that if she'd try it once, she'd never go back to Swiss."  She took a bite of the sandwich and closed her eyes, moaning her approval.

A hot, curling sensation darted through his belly.  He distracted himself by taking a bite of the sub.  After his taste buds adjusted, he had to admit the sandwich was pretty good.  "What other changes have you made to Charlie's menu?"

"Well, I tried to talk him into carrying Tastykakes, but he said it's too expensive to ship them all the way from Philly."

"Tasty whats?"

"Tastykakes."  She spelled it for him.  "They're made in the Philly area, but you can find them all over South Jersey.  When we were kids, my sisters and I used to save up our pennies to buy Tastykakes from the convenience store down the street."  Her gaze grew unfocused, as if she were watching a scene play out in her mind.  "I haven't thought about those times in years.  Sometimes my dad would take us to this place in south Jersey called Wildwood.  It had a boardwalk, an amusement park with rides.  We loved the place."  She laughed softly, her face lighting up from the inside.