A Breath Away. Rita Herron

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СКАЧАТЬ tales of the ancient customs, especially the religious tribal dances and traditions. Some of them were pretty damn eerie. As were those bone artifacts displayed on the wall. Her son, Joseph, collected them. Grady wondered if he’d found them or killed the animals first, then hung them to show off his hunting skills.

      Kerry Cantrell, an attractive blonde a few years younger than him, offered a flirty smile and sauntered toward him. She’d been throwing out vibes for months. Maybe one day he’d ask her out. Then again, that would piss off Joseph Longhorse, who worked at the diner. The Native American had been chasing Kerry ever since she’d moved to Crow’s Landing. He already hated Grady, had since he was a child, although Grady didn’t know why. He’d actually tried to stand up for the kid one time, but Joseph had snarled that he didn’t want or need Grady’s help.

      “Hey, Grady. Want some sweet potato pie with that coffee?” Or a piece of me, her eyes suggested.

      “Pie sounds good.” He contemplated her silent offer. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. They always wanted more than he could give.

      She handed him the dessert, letting her fingers brush his knuckles. “Anything else you want, you just holler, sweetie.”

      Joseph suddenly appeared through the back door, his shoulder-length black hair tied into a ponytail with a leather thong, his black eyes blazing fire at Grady. Shit, let the man have her. He sure as hell wasn’t getting into a fight over a woman. That close call with Luanne years ago had taught him better sense. No woman could understood his obsession with solving Darlene’s murder.

      Besides, Kerry had that look about her that said she wanted the whole package.

      “Kerry, can we get some service over here?” Bart Stancil, a crotchety old man who practically lived on the vinyl bar stool, flicked a wrinkled hand.

      Kerry winked at Grady, then pranced toward Bart, coffeepot in hand.

      Grady ate his pie in silence, studying the other regulars. Agnes Potts and Blanche Haney, two widow women who organized the Meals on Wheels program at the church, waved at him from their biscuits and hash browns, while a teenage couple cuddled in the corner, feeding each other ice cream sundaes.

      Tate, the incompetent sheriff Grady had replaced a few months ago, folded his beefy body over a stool, glaring at him. Tate had bungled Darlene’s murder investigation years ago. Unfortunately, the man owned half the town and was now mayor, which meant Grady still had to work with him.

      Mavis Dobbins and her son, Dwayne, claimed their usual corner booth. Dwayne was in his thirties now, but he’d had some sort of accident at age fourteen that had triggered a psychotic break. If Grady remembered correctly, the doctors diagnosed him as bipolar. He still lived with his mama. Dwayne laid out three sugar packets for his coffee, then ordered his usual—three eggs, three biscuits, three slices of bacon.

      Grady pushed away the remaining pie, his stomach churning. Years ago, when Dwayne was sixteen, Grady’s dad had paid him to do yardwork. When Grady had noticed him watching Darlene, he’d threatened to beat him up if he touched her. He’d always wondered if Dwayne had something to do with Darlene’s disappearance.

      The lunch crowd drifted in slowly, and Grady caught a sharp look from Ross Wheeler. The minister’s son, Wheeler was a former teacher who’d lost his job because of complaints of sexual misconduct from female students at the high school. Wheeler had denied the charges, and they’d finally been dropped, but his reputation as an educator had been ruined. Grady had been shocked when Wheeler stayed in Crow’s Landing. He still hadn’t decided whether the man had been guilty or victimized.

      Grady tossed a few bills on the counter, nodding goodbye to Kerry as he walked to the door. Maybe he’d ride up and check out that rabid dog report. Not much else to do today.

      Tonight he’d look over the files on Darlene’s case. One more time.

      Outside, he noticed Laney Longhorse talking to his father. She turned in a huff, then gathered a group of Cherokee children into a circle. Her long gray braid swung around her shoulders as she spoke. “The power of the circle,” she said, crooked teeth shining. “Just as the sky is round, and the stars and the moon. The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle. The seasons form a circle in their changing, always come back to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”

      Grady nodded, accustomed to her aphorisms, but Tate and a few of the other locals protested her storytelling, especially when she shared Native American folklore with the Caucasian kids. His father was watching her, too, a frown on his face. Odd how some of the town and the natives mixed, while others let prejudices fester like old sores. As did his dad and Baker.

      Just as Grady reached his police car, the radio crackled. He pushed the respond button, but static rippled over the connection. He tapped the speaker, frustrated with the inadequate equipment. “Sheriff Monroe. Over.”

      “Monroe…” More static. “Jim Logan here.” His deputy’s voice sounded raspy, as if he’d been running.

      What’s up?”

      “I’m out at Briar Ridge. You’d better get over here.”

      “Trouble?”

      “Definitely.” Logan paused. “We found a dead body over the cliff.”

      AS VIOLET ENTERED Strictly Southern, she steered her mind toward business. Thankfully, tourists already crowded the gift shop. Children shrieked over the cheap souvenirs, women were gushing over the Savannah cookies and pecans, and teenagers were choosing colorful T-shirts of River Street and scenes from the movie Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

      “Am I glad to see you, dear,” Mrs. Guthrie chirped. “We’ve been busy as bees this morning. Just sold the last of those lovely notecards of yours.”

      “Good.” Violet removed more notecards of Savannah sights from her bag and arranged them on the display. That steady work, plus her commissioned sketches of the town and historical buildings, had earned her a decent income in Charleston, where she’d lived before. When she’d moved to Savannah, she’d supplied the store with the same type of merchandise, and two weeks ago had bought the gift shop herself.

      “These are wonderful,” Mrs. Guthrie exclaimed. “Would you paint a portrait of my granddaughter one day?”

      “I’m sorry, but I don’t paint people,” Violet said softly. Especially children. To draw faces right she had to delve inside people’s heads. It was too personal. Too painful. Especially when Darlene’s face flashed into her mind.

      “That’s too bad. I’m sure you’d do a beautiful job.” The woman fluttered a hand. “Damon sold the sketches you put in the art gallery. He said one customer wanted to talk to you about showing some of your pieces in Atlanta.”

      Nerves sputtered in Violet’s stomach. “What did you tell him?”

      “Don’t worry, hon. I know you like your privacy so I didn’t give him your address.” She removed a business card from her apron pocket. “He left this, though, and asked if you’d call him.”

      “Sure.” Stuffing it in her pocket, she headed to her office, where she spent the afternoon ordering new stock. Around five, she picked up a pack of her grandmother’s favorite hickory coffee and shortbread cookies, then walked to the market.

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