Scene of the Crime: Killer Cove. Carla Cassidy

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      Bo went into the living room and slumped down on one end of the sofa. Jimmy’s Place. It had actually been Bo’s Place before the murder. During the late afternoons and early evenings, families had filled the dining room, drawn to the good food, the reasonable prices and the atmosphere of community and goodwill. At ten, the diners had mostly gone and the drinkers and partiers arrived.

      It was only after Bo had been named as the number-one suspect in Shelly’s murder that the families stopped coming in and even the staunchest alcoholic refused to frequent the place.

      Within a week Bo had become a pariah in town with only his mother and Jimmy sticking by his side. There had been no evidence to warrant Bo’s arrest, but in the eyes of Lost Lagoon he’d been deemed guilty and judged as such.

      A month after Shelly’s murder it had been his mother who had urged him to get out of town, to start fresh someplace else.

      With his life and business in shambles and the woman he’d loved dead, Bo had finally left Lost Lagoon.

      Although he still owned what had once been Bo’s Place, as far as everyone in town knew, Jimmy had bought the place, and under the new name, business was once again booming.

      Bo snagged a second beer from the refrigerator and then spent the next hour sipping his drink and wandering the house. Little had changed. The bedroom where he had stayed while he’d lived here looked as if he’d just stepped out for a meal rather than been gone for so long. The smaller guest bedroom held signs of Jimmy’s takeover. The closet door hung open, displaying a variety of clothing including half a dozen black shirts with the white lettering reading Jimmy’s Place on the pocket.

      Finally he entered his mother’s room with its attached bathroom. Apparently Jimmy had worked hard to remove all traces of the death scene. He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand over the patchwork quilt in shades of pink and rose, a lump the size of Mississippi in the back of his throat.

      He and his mother had usually spoken on the phone at least once every couple of days. He’d talked to her days ago and while she’d sounded a bit frail and weak, she’d assured him she’d just picked up a bug of some kind and that Jimmy was feeding her chicken soup and she’d be fine.

      Dammit, Bo should have been here. He should have taken her to the doctor, he should have eaten dinner with her the night of her death and every night in the last two years.

      His occasional visits had been short and bittersweet. He’d arrive in the middle of the night on a Saturday, park his motorcycle in her garage so the neighbors wouldn’t know he was there, and then leave again in the middle of the night on Sunday.

      He’d known it would be easier on his mom if people in town didn’t know he was at her home. She’d carried the stigma of being a murderer’s mother although she’d never mentioned her own alienation from friends and neighbors.

      Bo wasn’t sure how long he sat there. He had no more tears left, having spent them on the day he’d gotten the call from Jimmy that his mother was gone.

      He was vaguely surprised that it was almost seven when he finally left his mother’s bedroom. He needed to get his things from the motorcycle and settle in for the night. If Jimmy continued to stay here, then all Bo needed to do was bury his mother, meet with the lawyer and pack up his mom’s clothing and shoes and other items to donate.

      It was Wednesday night. He figured if things went smoothly and he used his time wisely, then by Sunday he could be back on the road to return to the life he’d been forced to build, a new life he’d never wanted.

      * * *

      BO MCBRIDE WAS BACK.

      Nothing exciting ever happened in Lost Lagoon, not since Shelly Sinclair’s murder, and that had been tragic.

      Claire Silver had heard about Bo’s mother’s death and assumed he’d come back to take care of whatever needed to be done. His presence here was sure to stir people up.

      George had certainly been stirred up. He’d seen her toss the bag of food to Bo and had fired her. Claire had gone home and spent the late afternoon cleaning house, her thoughts whirling about Bo.

      She’d never believed in his guilt. Nothing she’d heard had ever changed her mind about Bo’s innocence in Shelly’s death. She believed he’d been a victim of an overzealous sheriff with tunnel vision that had zeroed in on Bo as the perpetrator, to the exclusion of anyone else.

      She hoped he was back not just to bury his mother, but also to clear his name, because if he was innocent, as Claire believed, then a killer was walking free in the town.

      At six thirty she grabbed a can of pepper spray and stuck it in her back pocket. After unlocking her bicycle from the porch, she took off riding. She rode most nights, pedaling at a leisurely pace away from her “swamp home” and to the outer band that would take her around the lagoon.

      This was her time to unwind from the day, to wave to neighbors and empty her mind of any stresses, which were few in her life at the moment.

      Normally when she reached the edge of the lagoon she turned to head down Main Street, but instead this evening she continued around the outer road and then on impulse turned onto the roads that would take her to Bo McBride’s home.

      When she reached his house she stopped and got off her bike, leaning it against the white picket fence along the boundary of the yard.

      She had no idea what she was doing here. Had no indication of what her intentions might be. Did she want to officially welcome him to the town that had effectively driven him out two years ago? Did she want to extend her sympathies about his mother? She’d scarcely known his mother. She’d been a shy, retiring woman rarely seen around town.

      Claire grabbed her bicycle and was about to get back on it when the front door of the house flew open and Bo walked out. His blue eyes narrowed as he slowed his steps. She leaned the bike against the fence one again.

      “What are you? My new resident stalker? Are you one of those women who writes to serial murderers in prison? Buy sick memorabilia on the internet from crime scenes?” His voice was rife with distrust.

      “Actually, I’m the woman who fed you this afternoon and lost my job in the process,” she replied evenly. “I suppose a simple thank-you is too much to ask for.”

      Bo grimaced and raked a hand through his thick, unruly black hair. “Sorry, I was way out of line.” He motioned her closer and frowned. “You lost your job?”

      “Don’t worry about it. George fires me at least once a week and besides, it’s just a job to alleviate some of my boredom during the summers. My real job is teaching second graders. By the way, my name is Claire Silver.”

      “I’m sure you know who I am. Bo McBride, who, according to everyone in Lost Lagoon, is the man who got away with murder.”

      “Not everyone,” Claire replied. She’d forgotten how utterly sexy Bo was with his broad shoulders and lean hips and long legs. She’d always thought him handsome and she’d always thought of him as belonging to Shelly.

      He raised a dark brow at the same time he pulled a duffel from one of his saddlebags. “You think I’m innocent? That’s novel. There aren’t many in town who share your view.”

      “I’ve СКАЧАТЬ