Truly, Madly, Dangerously. Linda Winstead Jones
bathtub had not committed suicide. He’d been murdered, in a very ugly way.
Truman leaned slightly forward as the first patrol car pulled wildly into the parking lot. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he whispered.
“What?” she snapped.
“Sadie Mae Harlow, don’t leave town.”
Chapter 2
After stripping out of the outfit she’d been wearing when she’d found the body and then showering vigorously, Sadie had gladly changed into clothing she was more comfortable in. A pair of black pants that had a little stretch in them, sturdy boots, a leather jacket and a shoulder holster, where her pistol now rested. After what she’d seen today, she needed her weapon close.
She was still tempted to head down to the bank and insist on seeing Hearn. Two days was a ridiculous amount of time to wait to see a loan officer at a small town bank. There had been a framed photo of the man hanging in the outer office, where Sadie had done battle with the receptionist. Hearn was sixtyish, with a full head of gray hair and pale-blue eyes. Not bad looking for an older man, but he had that cocky smile that men who consider themselves better than everyone else can’t seem to wipe from their faces, no matter how hard they try. He was a VP, or some such, which didn’t mean much in such a small bank. He couldn’t possibly be booked until Thursday afternoon.
Besides, she needed something to take her mind off finding the body. She’d seen a lot of bad stuff, working for the PI agency in Birmingham and then for Benning, but she’d never run across a body that had been stewing for hours. She would never forget that smell, or the complete and utter deadness of the man in the tub. There had been no life left, not even a hint that he had been a living breathing man not so long ago. She shuddered and pushed the feeling aside. She couldn’t afford weakness of any kind, not in her profession.
She still had no idea who the man in Room 119 might be. Conrad Hudson, who had checked the man in late last night, had already left for the day when the body was discovered. The sheriff had sent a deputy—not Truman, but some horribly young and enthusiastic boy—to Conrad’s house to speak with him, but no one was home. Since Conrad spent every spare moment fishing, he was probably on the lake somewhere. He’d be found. Eventually.
The name in the register was a suspicious ‘Joe Smith,’ and the man had paid for the room in cash.
Drugs, probably, Sadie reasoned. A drug deal had gone bad and Smith, or whoever he was, had been murdered because of it. She would have to have a talk with Lillian about renting her rooms to just anyone who came along. Lillian was so naive, she probably never considered that anything illegal might go on at her motel. It was a family place, a simple motel that had seen good years and lean. Once a bad element moved in, it would be tough to save the Yellow Rose Motel.
Truman had taken a brief statement from Sadie at the scene and he’d taken control of the evidence, basically keeping everyone out until the proper team arrived to catalog everything. The Alabama Bureau of Investigation would be called in, since neither the city of Garth nor the county had the resources to investigate a murder. Those investigators would want to question her soon, but while she waited she might as well see about getting the reason for her trip out of the way.
Maybe Hearn would agree to allow Sadie to repay her aunt’s loan without letting Lillian know. It would take Sadie a few days to get her hands on that much cash, but it could be done.
“Sadie!” Jennifer ran up the stairs, shouting as she entered the living quarters.
Sadie stepped into the hallway. “What’s wrong now?” There was always a crisis of some sort around here. As long as it wasn’t another body…
“The ABI investigator, he wants to talk to you,” Jennifer said breathlessly.
“He’s here?”
Jen nodded. “And he does not look very happy.”
Sadie headed for the stairs. “Murder isn’t happy business.”
“Yeah, but he looks really pissed.”
“He probably got called in off the golf course.” Sadie pushed into the lobby, to find that it was quite crowded. Truman stood back a ways, positioned near the door, and a red-eyed Aunt Lillian sat in a rickety chair near the front desk. She’d been upset when Sadie had gone upstairs to dress, but now she was obviously shaken.
The man standing between Sadie and Truman eyed her suspiciously. “I was working a cold case, actually. I don’t golf.”
Sadie saw no reason to respond.
“Investigator Wilson Evans.” The stocky brown-haired man didn’t offer his hand.
“Sadie Harlow.” Instinctively, she looked toward Truman, who remained stony-faced as he fixed his gaze on her.
“We’ve identified the victim,” Evans said, his voice even and cool.
“That’s good.”
In the moment of silence that followed Sadie’s response, she automatically looked to Truman McCain. For a reason she refused to explore, she was glad he’d stayed.
“Aren’t you curious?” Evans looked Sadie up and down with suspicious eyes. She suspected he was sharper than he looked.
Aunt Lillian’s breath hitched and she made an odd noise that caught in her throat, as if she stifled a cry.
“Not really,” Sadie said honestly. “I don’t know many people in Garth anymore, and I seriously doubt…”
“Do you know Aidan Hearn?”
The mention of the banker’s name startled Sadie so much she blinked hard and leaned slightly back. “Hearn? Not really. Was that…” She tried to envision the possibility that the smiling man in the photo at the bank and the grotesque thing she’d found might be one and the same.
“I understand you made a bit of a scene in his office yesterday afternoon.”
Sadie’s eyes cut to Truman again. He didn’t smile, he didn’t offer silent comfort. At the moment he looked as cold as Evans. “I would hardly call it a scene,” she answered.
The detective flipped open his notebook and read from the small page. “You called him a tyrant…”
“He wasn’t there,” Sadie explained.
Evans didn’t so much as slow down. “And you intimated that if he didn’t see you immediately, he’d be sorry.”
“I had an appointment for Thursday.”
“You called his secretary a bimbo…”
“She is,” Sadie said beneath her breath.
“And on your way out of the room you kicked over a small trash can.”
“It had been a long day and the trash can was empty. Mostly.”
Evans flipped the notebook shut. “Do you have an uncontrollable temper, Miss Harlow?”
“Of course not!” she shouted.
Truman crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head, a little, and suddenly Sadie was eleven again, out of place and alone and feeling as if the world was conspiring against her.
“It’s my fault,” Lillian said softly.
All eyes turned her way. “What?” Sadie asked.
“I sent her there to speak to Mr. Hearn. He refused to even listen to my pleas, and I was afraid I’d lose the motel and the café if I didn’t get an extension on the loan. I called Sadie because I couldn’t think of another way.” Lillian lifted her head and looked squarely at Evans. “Sadie might lose her temper, and she might kick over a garbage can or say something she doesn’t mean on occasion. That mouth of hers has gotten her into trouble all her life.”
“Aunt Lillian…”