Thirty-Five and a Half Conspiracies
Page 35

“I didn’t think you’d decorated yet. I thought Ronnie was makin’ you wait.”
Her voice was tight. “He was. But I did it anyway.”
“I’m so sorry.” I wrapped an arm around her waist and buried my cheek into her shoulder.
“He’s not comin’ home tonight. I don’t think I can stay here alone.”
I spun her around to face me. “Then you won’t. Pack a bag for a couple of days until Ronnie Colson comes to his senses.” I pursed my lips and shook my head. “What in tarnation is goin’ on with the men in this county? First Joe. Then Ronnie. It’s like there’s something in the water.”
“If only that were the explanation.”
The look in her eyes was so pathetic that I pulled her away from the doorway and shut the door. “Come on. I have a craving for ice cream.”
“But it’s freezin’ outside.”
“So what? You know I never do things like everyone else. Let’s get you packed, grab my clothes, and get out of here. Deal?”
She threw her arms around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Deal.”
“I love you, Neely Kate. We’re gonna get through this. The both of us.”
She nodded, her tear-streaked cheek brushing against my neck. “Yeah.”
When she let me go, I grabbed her face between my hands. “You can stay with me as long as you’d like, okay?”
Her bottom lip trembled. “Thank you.”
“Now let’s get packin’.”
Apparently Neely Kate had a different idea of what “packing” entailed. She headed straight for her room and pulled a shoebox off the top shelf in her closet. After setting it on the bed, she took off the lid and pulled out a revolver. She flipped out the barrel bullet chamber, and then flipped it back closed.
“I’m not sure that’s necessary.”
Her gaze jerked up to mine. “It’s completely necessary. And I have a concealed carry permit, so don’t you be worryin’ about that part.”
“Neely Kate.”
Her eyebrows rose so high she looked like she’d gotten a facelift. “You’re in a dangerous situation, and you need someone to protect you. Trust me. I know what I’m doin’.”
She seemed so adamant, I found myself nodding my head.
“In fact,” she said, laying the gun on her nightstand, then grabbing a duffel bag out of the closet, “I think you need to learn to fire a gun yourself.”
“I already fired a gun. I shot Daniel Crocker twice.”
She stopped and put her hand on her hip. “And did it feel natural to you?”
“No, of course not.”
A smirk lit up her eyes. “Then we still have work to do.”
I considered fighting her on it, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought learning to shoot was a good idea. “Okay,” I said with a shrug. “We’ll do it.”
Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. If I’d realized how happy this would make her, I would have suggested it weeks ago.
She quickly finished stuffing her bag full of clothes and toiletries, then reached into the back of her closet and pulled out a pink backpack with white polka dots and handed it to me.
My glance bounced back and forth between the bag and her face.
“You’ll be needing that later.” Then she retrieved another small bag and stuffed it with a black wig, a pair of black boots, and several items of clothing—all black.
“Other than the black dress you loaned me on Thanksgiving Day, I didn’t know you owned anything black.” Neely Kate was known for her colorful—and often bejeweled—wardrobe.
“You have your secrets. I have my own.” She hefted the bags onto her shoulders and walked out of the room with more confidence and purpose than she’d exuded in weeks.
What secrets was she talking about?
We hefted the bags onto the back seat of my truck and headed back to town. Midway through the drive, I cast a glance at her. “So have you decided who you’ll be if you come with the Lady in Black?”
She turned to me in genuine surprise. “You’ve finally agreed to the idea?”
“No, but I confess you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
A sly grin spread across her face. “No one needs to know what role I have. Only that I’m there.” She turned to face the road. “Where do you want to go for ice cream?”
That was a very good question. Owing to Hilary’s antics, we’d been banned from the Emporium, a business that consistently changed its purpose but was currently a coffee shop and ice cream store.
“I guess we can’t go the Emporium, but Burger Shack seems like a bad idea.”
“Because of what happened to Eric.”
The assistant manager, Eric Davidson, had been found dead in his garage with his car running, so the police had deemed it a suicide. On the surface, it sounded plausible. Eric had thought he was about to be arrested for trying to run Mason off the road with the intent to kill him. The whole thing stank like week-old fish, but true to Henryetta P.D. style, they’d picked the path of least resistance. Eric was dead, so no one was fighting their explanation of events.
I suspected Eric had been murdered to keep him quiet. The real question was who had done it.
“On second thought,” I said, an idea hitting me, “Burger Shack is exactly where we need to go.”
Chapter 11