Page 34 of Moonshine Kiss
17
Cassidy
Icouldn’t figure out what had Bubba Rayhill, our third full-time deputy, giggling like a junior high sleepover until I swiveled my chair around.
Bowie and Jonah had arrived at the station to pick me up. In disguise.
Thank God Connelly had bugged out. Jonah was wearing an inconspicuous black down jacket and a beret. Bowie had gone for a fedora and high school letterman’s jacket.
“Is this a Halloween dinner?” I asked.
Bowie shucked the hat off his head. “You try being chased by a pack of rabid photographers for an hour after school and see how you like it.”
“Sallie Mae Brickman scared them off with an umbrella and a muzzleloader. Then she gave us these disguises,” Jonah explained.
I’d seen first-hand the mess the “newsies” were making all over town. They were clumping in public areas demanding interviews from every passerby. They blocked streets with news vans, surrounded citizens like they were Meltdown-in-Progress Britney Spears, and hogged up all the Wi-Fi at Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee. It was already a nightmare, and they’d been here for only twenty-four hours.
As far as I could tell, not a single Bootlegger had stepped up to the microphone. My town might be torn over whether or not Jonah Bodine Sr. was guilty, but one thing we all could agree on was that no outsider was going to make fools of us.
“We ditched my car on Rum Runner Avenue,” Bowie told me. “So you’re probably gonna have to drive us unless you don’t mind having a dozen reporters jogging next to you asking if any of your family members are killers.”
He was having a rough day. So I cut him some slack on the snark. Besides, he looked pretty cute in that letterman’s jacket.
“All right, boys. Let me get my coat. Did y’all call in the takeout orders?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later,loaded down with Thai food and a mixed assortment of subs and two six-packs of beer, I pulled onto a long, winding drive on the outskirts of town. The Red House was on the opposite end of town from the fancy lake houses summertimers rented for a month at a time. It was also conveniently tucked away on a private lane with a scrap of lakefront beyond its front porch.
“Why are we having dinner here?” I asked, putting my car in park.
“Last minute cancellation,” Bowie explained from the passenger seat. Our elbows were almost touching on the console that separated us. Scarlett was a mini real estate mogul in Bootleg Springs. She had a handful of rental properties that gave her a very nice cash flow during the spring, summer, and fall. “Scarlett figured we’d have less of a chance of attracting attention if we all met here instead of one of our houses.”
It was a good plan. If all the Bodines had descended on Bowie’s house, they would have attracted every journalist in town. I probably would have had to shoot someone or at least tase several of them.
We pulled around the front of the house where the rest of the Bodine vehicles were parked on the lawn. Lugging the food and beer with us, we trudged up the front steps. Bowie didn’t bother knocking. He opened the door and gestured for me to enter first.
The Red House was on the tiny side. I’d thought Scarlett was crazy when she bought it two years ago. It had been a heap of rotting wood under a holey roof at the time. But she’d redone it into a cute little cottage perfect for a couple’s getaway.
“There y’all are! I thought you got swallowed up by a horde of reporters,” Scarlett chirped from the kitchen. She was helping Devlin arrange their contribution to the meal—pepperoni rolls and potato chips—on the counter.
Gibson was flipping channels on the TV in the living room. I guessed he was the one who brought the hot wings from The Lookout. Jameson and Leah Mae unpacked bags of paper plates and napkins, followed by a bucket of fried chicken.
Jonah added our spoils to the buffet and slapped a spring roll out of Devlin’s hand. “We’re adding muscle, not food bloat.”
Devlin moped and moved on to the grilled chicken salad some joker had brought.
“I invited June Bug, but she’s pouting over some fantasy football player’s injury,” Scarlett told me.
I nodded. “GT Thompson.” My sister had been an avid fan of the guy since his NFL career began ten years ago. She was taking his injury as a personal affront, claiming he’d ruined her entire season.
Gibson wandered in, big and broody. He reached over and ruffled my hair. “How’s it goin’, deputy?”
“Oh, you know. Another day in paradise.”
Plates were distributed, and food was shoveled onto them. We crowded around the table and spilled into the living room. Bowie sat next to me on the floor. His knee was brushing mine.
“We still good?” he asked quietly. Even surrounded by his family, it still felt like we were in our own little bubble.
