Page 89 of The Deadly Candies

"Why’s the sheriff here?"she whispered, though she already knew.

Ely cut the engine, his jaw tight."Janey. Gotta be ‘bout Janey."

On the porch, Big Mama stood squared off against the sheriff—a white man with a sun-reddened neck and a tin star pinned to his shirt—and another stranger in a tailored suit that screamedcity law. The suited man turned first, his gaze slicing through Kathy like a blade.

Lord, he ain’t even blinkin’.

The stranger in Butts stood a full head taller than the sheriff, his lean frame draped in a charcoal suit that cost more than the Jensens' monthly harvest. The cut was sharp enough to draw blood, the fabric whispering of New Orleans tailors and backroom deals. His skin held the golden undertones of Sicilian sunsets—olive-kissed and smooth—with a strong, aristocratic jaw shadowed by precisely-trimmed stubble. Thick, ink-black hair swept back from his forehead in waves, kept in place with pomade that carried a faint citrus scent even across the yard.

But it was his eyes that froze Kathy where she stood.

Dark as espresso and just as intoxicating, they pinned her with a gaze that seemed to peel back layers of skin to read the secrets beneath—the kind of eyes that belonged in a Raphael painting, not on some Louisiana lawman. A faint scar traced his left eyebrow—thin as a cat's claw—giving his otherwise perfect features a dangerous edge.

"That ain't no sheriff,"Kathy reconsidered her first thought, her pulse fluttering."That's a lion in a wool suit."

He moved with the lazy grace of a man who knew violence intimately but preferred not to dirty his cuffs. When he removed his hat in mock courtesy, a silver pinky ring glinted—a crest too worn to identify, but the glint of it screamedold money and older sins.

Big Mama’s spine stayed ramrod straight as the sheriff tipped his hat and lumbered down the steps.

"Ely,"he called, thumbs hooked in his belt."Station says you dropped Janey off this mornin’. No ticket was bought under her name. Does she use another? Without a warrant cain’t get the station to confirm the registry. Say where she was headed?"

Ely’s brow furrowed. He glanced at Big Mama, then back at the sheriff."Another name, sir?"

The suited stranger descended next, his polished oxfords crunching gravel."We know her as Caroline Sheffield. Or Margaret Tiller."His voice was smooth as bourbon, but his eyes stayed locked on Kathy."You heard either?"

Kathy stepped forward before Ely could answer."And you are?"Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

Big Mama’s arms crossed—a silentgo on, then.

The man smirked,“Carmine Bonanno. Law outta New Orleans."His nod was polite, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes."Just need a word with Janey. That’s all. She mention her destination?"

"Yes,"Kathy lied.

Ely stiffened. Big Mama’s gaze sharpened.

"Said she was headin’ back to California,"Kathy continued, lifting her chin."Came to check on me ‘cause I moved here. Talked ‘bout Paris, too—said she had business there."

Bonanno’s smirk said he knew a tall tale when he heard one."That tracks with our information sheriff.”He replied, continuing to stare directly into Kathy’s eyes.“I ‘Preciate the help."He situated his hat again, but his stare clung to Kathy as he slid into the cruiser.

Only when the dust settled did Big Mama speak, her voice low and lethal:"Inside. Now."

One inside Big Mama paced.

Ely lingered by the window, his hand clutched the lace curtain. He watched the sheriff’s car vanish down the dirt road. The grandfather clock’s steadytick-tockfilled the silence, each beat heavier than the last.

Kathy sat still with her hands in her lap. She could still smell Janey’s perfume on the letter tucked in her pocket—a scent that now felt like betrayal.

Kathy, child,” Big Mama began, “I’m gon’ ask you once.” She took a step forward, floorboards creaking under her sturdy shoes. “And I expect an honest answer. What did Janey write to you in that letter? You ain’t speak on it, and I know you read it.”

Kathy’s eyes lifted up to meet Big Mama’s for only a second before lowering. “I–I told y’all. She said she was goin’ to California,” Kathy stammered, but her voice lacked conviction, and her lower lip quivered.

Big Mama’s brow furrowed, deep lines carving her forehead. She shook her head slowly. “Mm-hmm. And you expect me to swallow that, do you?” Her tone was gentle but carried an undercurrent of disappointment that cut deeper than outright anger. “Kathy, you best not lie to your Big Mama. Not now. Not when your Aunt Janey’s life might depend on us knowin’ the truth.”

Kathy opened her mouth as if to protest, but the words tangled in her throat. The weight of Big Mama’s stare and the lingering memory of Carmine’s cold, desperate eyes bore down on her. A hot tear spilled down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Big Mama. She gave me recipes.”

Big Mama’s hands flew to her heart like startled birds. Ely lunged, guiding her to the ladder-back chair made for her by one of her dead husbands. A chair where she often nursed her sorrows.

“Is she in trouble, Big Mama? Is she?”

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