Shoot First, Ask Questions Later, page 2
A moment later, Joan, the other waitress on duty, slid a platter with chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, onion rings, zucchini sticks, and the Roadside Diner’s specialty, fried olives onto the table. “Get you something to drink, Mrs. Long?”
“Water would be great, thank you.”
“And some ranch dressing, please,” Moon requested.
“You got it,” Joan said, rushing off.
Moon snagged an olive and popped it in her mouth, and her eyes grew wide. At first, I thought it was because she’d burnt her tongue, but then I realized she was tracking the progress of someone who entered the diner. Curiosity had me twisting in my seat to see Paige leading a bespectacled and bearded man to an empty table. I didn’t recognize him.
Catching me looking in her direction, my daughter scowled. I quickly turned back around. “Who’s that?”
“Doctor Brian Diamond,” Moon recited with stilted formality.
“And he is?” I prompted.
She waited to respond until after Joan had put water and ranch dressing down on the table, along with a pile of napkins. “You don’t know who he is?” Moon asked carefully, dipping a chicken finger in the creamy condiment.
Something in her tone set me on edge. I grabbed my sweating water glass with both hands. “Should I? What kind of doctor is he?”
Her mouth twisted to the side, and I knew she didn’t want to be the person to tell me whatever she knew.
“Just say it.”
Moon frowned. “A forensic accountant. He’s here to perform an audit of the town books.”
“Oh,” I said in a small voice. The only reason the records needed auditing was because Karl had been stealing from Pride Falls for years. I hadn’t known that until after he’d disappeared, not that it mattered. People believed what they believed, and there were plenty in this town who believed the worst. Feeling like I should say something else, I added, “I didn’t know people get doctorates in accounting.”
Moon shrugged. “Guess so.” She dunked an onion ring in the ranch. “So the reason I wanted to talk to you…”
I perked up a little, glad we weren’t going to get stuck on the misdeeds of my husband.
“Nico made me an offer.”
I grabbed a mozzarella stick, recalling that he’d urged me to get Moon to say yes to whatever this was. “Oh yeah?”
She nodded, chewing on her onion ring. “He wants to go into business together.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Doing what?”
“Baked goods. He wants us to partner up.” She stared at me, waiting for my response.
I chewed and swallowed my mouthful of breaded gooey cheese before I spoke. “And what do you think of that?”
“I think he’s crazy.”
I secretly agreed with her, but probably not for the reason she’d imagine. I loved my friend, but I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do business with her. She was as prickly as a briar patch and as stubborn as a mule.
“He wants to get our stuff into some of the local coffee shops and get a spot in the farmers market,” she elaborated, stabbing at the dressing with a spear of zucchini.
“You sold out at the fair,” I reminded her. “Makes sense you’d do well at the market.”
She leaned back against her chair, her eyebrows going up slightly. “Are you taking his side?”
I frowned. “Is there an argument about this?”
“It’s a stupid idea,” Moon complained.
For Nico’s sake, I was thinking the nicest thing I could do for him would be to not get my friend to say yes to this suggested venture. But he’d been kind to me and the kids when not a lot of people in town had been, so I felt the need to at least make an effort to fulfill his wish. “Why’s it a stupid idea?”
“One.” She held up the pointer finger of both hands, which technically equaled two, but I didn’t point that out to her. “Whose recipes would we use?”
“I’m sure you could work that out,” I murmured.
“How?”
“Give out samples of both and ask people which they prefer?”
She blinked. “Oh. Maybe…”
To hide a smile, I blotted my greasy lips with my napkin.
“Two.” She raised the equivalent of air quotes. “We don’t have the manpower or facilities to put out the volume of goods he’s suggesting.”
The lease on the building where she’d had Park’s Pastries was not renewed after the owner, Heath Burton, had been murdered at the town fair’s pie eating contest with one of Moon’s blueberry pies. Nico and my son, Henry, had helped clean out the space. It had been a blow both to my friend’s ego and pocketbook, and I suspected that was the reason Nico had suggested this partnership. Well that, and I was pretty sure that one of the most eligible bachelors in Pride Falls was infatuated with my prickly friend and would do just about anything to have an excuse to spend time with her.
“We could use my kitchen, and I could help,” I offered.
She frowned. I couldn’t tell if she was frustrated because I kept providing suggestions or because I was ruining her excuses to turn Nico’s offer down. “Aren’t you starting your new job soon?”
I nodded. “But I don’t think it’s going to take up much time.”
“Then why did you spend all that time doing the paperwork?”
I shrugged, biting down on a fried olive, delighting in the salty goodness that exploded across my tongue. “Sheriff Rockland asked.”
Moon scowled. “Three.” Now it looked like she was playing the part of Katniss Everdeen on steroids as she held up three fingers on both hands. “We don’t get along.”
“We don’t?” I teased.
“Nico. I don’t get along with Nico,” she specified.
I held my tongue, knowing that if I was silent, she’d fill in the void.
Nico’s distinctive laugh blasted through the lull in our conversation.
She looked past me, and I guessed she was watching the subject of our conversation. “He’s infuriating.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I mean, yeah, sure, he’s successful and a pretty good baker.”
“Very good,” I ventured.
She snapped her gaze back to my face. “Better than me?”
“Equal.” It was a bold statement considering the pride my friend took in being the best. I held my breath, waiting to see how she’d react.
“His croissants are flakier than mine,” she admitted after a long moment. “But we still don’t get along.” Her gaze flicked in his direction.
I wanted to ask her whose fault that was, but I sipped my water instead.
Shoulders slumping, she sighed. “Is that my fault?”
I shrugged.
“He’s headed over here,” she said without moving her lips.
“Everything okay, ladies?” Nico asked.
“It’s good,” I assured him.
“What do you think of my proposition?” he asked.
I glanced from him to my friend. “I offered my kitchen, if it’ll help.”
He grinned. “That’s nice of you, Kiki. Thanks.” He turned his attention to Moon. “Have you made a decision?”
She shook her head. “I have to sleep on it.”
He nodded, winked at me, and strolled away.
“See?” Moon shoved an entire onion ring into her mouth.
“See what?” I asked.
Words muffled because she was in the midst of chewing, she accused, “He’s pressuring me.”
“I think he’s just eager to get started.”
“What about you, are you eager to get started?” she asked, a challenge in her tone.
“Baking? Sure.”
“No, I meant your new photo gig.”
“I’m eager to have some extra income,” I admitted. The little money Karl had left behind was almost gone. “And I’d like to find the key for Karl’s car,” I added. “Have you seen it? The fob that’s on the eagle keychain?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve looked everywhere for it,” I muttered with exasperation. I leaned over the table to whisper, “The bank repossessed his truck. They picked it up from where it had been taken by the police when he went missing.”
Her eyes widened.
“Apparently, he hadn’t made payments in months before he disappeared,” I confided. “I’m guessing they’ll come for his car soon, too.”
Anger darkened Moon’s eyes. She’d never been a fan of my husband, but now she had no reason to mask her loathing for him. “That no-good, cheating, ly—"
Her diatribe was interrupted by a voice calling my name. “Mrs. Long?”
I grit my teeth, preparing for whatever was coming next. I looked up to find Sheriff Jim Rockland standing beside our table, cowboy hat clutched to his chest. I offered him a tight smile, unsure of whether he was addressing me as a murder suspect or his newest employee.
“I’ve got your first assignment,” he said.
My stomach pitched, though I couldn’t tell you whether it was due to nervousness or excitement.
3
“I’ve got to go to the McMillan farm and take pictures,” I explained to Kodak, who was riding shotgun. “Their tractor was stolen, and a fence was smashed. The sheriff said Deputy Bailey will meet me out there and talk me through everything.”
The cat meowed as though he was giving me a pep talk.
I needed one. My breathing was shallow, my stomach churned, and my palms were slick with sweat. I hadn’t had a “real” job in ages, and I desperately needed this one to work, both for the money and because I suspected that being entrusted by the sheriff could do a lot to rebuild my reputation with certain townspeople. I had to do a good job, even though I had zero experience as a crime scene photographer.
I’d entered the address for the McMillan farm in my GPS and kept glancing from the screen to the road. I caught glimpses of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance as the route rose and fell. Even after living in the Foothills of western North Carolina for two decades, I still felt a sense of peace and awe whenever the tree-covered mounds came into view.
“Rockland said it’ll be an easy job,” I told the cat. “I need something to go easily in my life.”
Taking some deliberately slow breaths, I tried to calm myself. More than once, the sheriff had mentioned my eye for detail. He thought I had the necessary skill to be a crime scene photographer, now I had to believe it, too.
I was less than a mile away from the McMillans’ place when I spotted the smoke. In an area where people often burn their yard waste, seeing smoke isn’t unusual, but the dark color of this particular plume, and how high it reached into the sky, put me on edge. It didn’t look like a controlled burn.
Tightening my grip on my steering wheel, I concentrated on following the curves and dips of the pavement as smoke filled the roadway. But I still almost hit the goat.
One moment I was riding along, the next moment a white goat was standing in the middle of the road, aggressively chewing on what appeared to be a piece of flypaper.
I’m pretty sure that both Kodak and I let out terrified screams as I slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the right. We skidded to a stop beside the goat, who calmly bleated and trotted away. That’s when I saw, just beyond it, the source of the smoke. It wasn’t a burn pile, it was a dark sedan, tilted at a strange angle and blazing in a ditch.
Grabbing my cell phone, I struggled to free myself from my seatbelt before stumbling toward the blazing vehicle. As I slipped and slid down the embankment, I dialed 9-1-1. The acrid smoke caused my nose to wrinkle and throat to close as I got closer.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a familiar voice asked. Helga Olsen and I had served on many a committee together when our kids were in school.
“Helga,” I gasped. “It’s Kiki Long. There’s been an accident on Old Highway 4. A car’s on fire.”
“Are you hurt?” Helga asked, her tone coolly professional.
“Not my car.” I yelped in pain as I twisted my ankle and stumbled down the incline.
“I’m dispatching Fire and Rescue. What about the other driver?”
“I’m trying to get to them,” I panted, climbing across shattered glass. I could feel the heat radiating from the engine fire as I neared the driver’s door. I peered through the window. The front seat was empty. I craned my neck inside to look in the back, my cheeks prickling with heat. “There’s nobody inside,” I told Helga.
“Then get away from it,” she urged. “A response team is on the way.”
“Okay.” I disconnected the call, but instead of leaving, as she suggested, I switched my phone to camera mode. “The sheriff might want photos of this, too,” I murmured to myself as I began snapping photographs.
Kodak meowed.
I could barely hear him over the roar of the fire. I glanced down and saw that my feline friend was by my side. “Just a couple more.”
He meowed more insistently, as though trying to warn me about the danger we were in.
Taking one last picture, I said, “Okay, let’s go,” and stuck my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. I began to scramble out of the ditch, feeling the inferno clawing at my back. My feet slid out from under me, and I fell forward, banging my forehead on a large rock. Whimpering in pain, struggling to breathe the scorched air, I realized what a massive mistake I’d made. Had I made a choice that would make my children orphans?
Kodak, who’d bounded up the incline without issue, yowled loudly, urging me upward.
Lungs burning, I awkwardly attempted to summit the walls of the ditch on all fours. My right hand cleared the top, and I reached for a handhold to pull myself out.
I didn’t find a pocket of dirt or a root to hang on to. Instead, someone grabbed my hand and yanked. Hard.
At the same moment I was being pulled upward, there was a deafening boom and a percussive blast of heat slammed toward the person pulling me out of the hole.
4
My head hurt. Ached. Throbbed. Felt like someone was hammering on it. I groaned in protest, trying to make them stop.
“Mom?” Paige called from far away. “Mom, can you hear me? Open your eyes.”
Hearing the panic in her voice, I reached blindly in the direction of her voice.
“I’m here,” she said, sounding closer. She took my hand. “I’m here, Mommy.”
Blinking against a light so bright it seemed to stab my brain through my eyeballs, I struggled to focus on my daughter. My beautiful girl’s eyes were swollen, rivulets of mascara ran down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong, Paypay?” I whispered.
A tremulous smile lifted her lips when I used her childhood nickname, then her chin wobbled, and she lowered her head, sobbing softly.
“Ah, you’re awake,” an unfamiliar voice chirped cheerfully. “Honey, why don’t you go wait in the other room while the doc does his thing.”
“I’m not leaving her,” Paige growled angrily, tightening her grip on my hand.
Despite the pain and disorientation, I realized I was in a hospital. “It’s okay, sweetie,” I assured her. “They’ll let you back in as soon as they’re done.”
The nurse who’d spoken came into view, her round angelic face framing sympathetic eyes. “This way, honey.” She wrapped a supportive arm around my daughter’s shoulders, flashed me a reassuring smile, and led Paige away.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the stabbing pain of the light, trying to figure out how I’d ended up in a hospital bed hooked up to monitors. It took me a couple of moments to recall my day. I’d spent the early hours talking to creditors, then I’d had the Princess photoshoot, pouting Paige, talking to Moon at the diner, then my first job. My whole body tensed as I remembered barely missing the goat and the burning car.
My breath caught in my throat as I realized I’d never gotten to the assigned job. Rockland was going to fire me on my first day. I groaned.
“What hurts, Mrs. Long?” a kindly doctor asked.
Forcing my eyes open, I found a kid who didn’t look old enough to shave, studying the monitor I was hooked up to. “My head,” I murmured.
“I’m sure it does. You’ve got quite a lump, but fortunately, it doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches. You’re just a bit banged up. Nothing broken. No serious injuries as far as we can tell. Of course, we’ll have to keep you overnight for observation, but—”
“No.” I struggled into a sitting position. “I’m leaving. Now.”
“Mrs. Long,” he protested. “I can’t—”
“I can’t afford to stay here racking up medical debt,” I told him forcefully. I began to pluck at the adhesive connecting a monitor to my chest like I was a monkey picking fleas off a prospective mate.
“You’ll need someone to observe you all night,” the doctor warned. “You may have a concussion.”
“Concussion percussion,” I muttered, despite the fact I was aware I was feeling fuzzy-headed.
“I don’t think…” he began to protest.
“You’re awake!” a familiar voice said with something that sounded like relief.
I yanked the bedsheet up to my chin.
Sheriff Jim Rockland stepped in. For once, his cowboy hat was nowhere in sight. “Is she going to be okay?” he asked the doctor.
“Yes, but she isn’t an ideal patient,” the younger man grumbled.
Rockland chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t imagine she would be.”
“I’ll have the paperwork started for your release, Mrs. Long, but it’s imperative someone observes you overnight.”
“Got it.” I’d been through the possible concussion routine more than once during Paige’s high school soccer career.
The doc hustled out and Rockland stepped closer to the bed, his gaze settling on my fingers, tucked under my chin, with a death grip on the sheet. “How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts,” I admitted. Then, I looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I never made it to the farm.”
“Bailey’s taking care of it,” he said dismissively. “I’ve been told you climbed into a ditch to see if there was someone trapped inside a burning car.”
