Lucky and the Falling Felon Read online

  “Hi, Ruthie. Yeah, it’s me.”

  “What is this nonsense you’re spouting?”

  I feel my lips thin. Between my blonde hair, my decidedly Southern accent, and my nickname, people tend to think I’m all empty upstairs. Au contraire, mon frère. My intellect is actually quite sharp. It just doesn’t jump out and ge’cha right off the bat. It’s more of a subtle thing that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. You just find yourself shaking your head one day, saying, “That Lucky, she really is a smart girl.”

  I just sit back and smile. I’ve enjoyed many of those moments in my life, and I expect that I’ll enjoy many more. People are people, and they do love their first impressions.

  “It’s not nonsense, Ruthie. Can you just call Chief Sheriff and have him call Regina? She’ll know the address of where I am.”

  The local law enforcement consists of a single man who heads both the county sheriff’s office and the town police. One is an elected position, the other appointed by the mayor. Clive is his name, and he’s held both for the last four decades from what I hear. People started calling him Chief Sheriff as a joke, though, and like many jokes, it stuck. Kind of like how I got stuck with Lucky.

  At any rate, it can’t be too hard for one man and an Assistant Chief Sheriff to uphold the law in a town that boasts the population of a community college. It gives words like “cozy” and ‘sleepy” a whole new meaning. Crime here is more a fantasy than a reality.

  Well, until tonight.

  “Did you say you found a body?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “A human body?”

  “Would I be calling 911 for another kind?” I ask sweetly.

  “I don’t know. This is Salty Springs. Strange things happen all the time. You remember when Old Thirston’s pet snake escaped and he tried to get Chief Sheriff to call the state police to help locate it? I swear, I—”

  “Hey, Ruthie, could you please focus?” I try to say it as kindly and as politely as I can, but there are more important things to deal with right now. Besides that, I’m suppressing shudders left and right just thinking about that old snake.

  I’m not afraid of snakes per se; I’m afraid of things that hiss. Snakes just happen to hiss. If they made another noise, I think we could probably be friends. But as it stands, no. Just no.

  I hear Ruthie mutter, “Rude much?”

  I don’t have time to soothe her ruffled feathers right now. “Sorry, Ruthie, but this is important. Could you please contact him and get him out here?”

  “Yes. I’ll radio him. Who did you say to have him call?”

  “Regina. Regina LaFayette. He knows who she is.”

  Regina is both my best friend and sort of my boss. She’ll know what to do and how to get help to me. She’s no stranger to my ability to get myself into more jams and pickles than ants at a picnic.

  “Oh, yeah. I think I know who she is. Does he know how to reach her?”

  “He’s the sheriff. And the town police chief. If he can’t reach her, I don’t know who could.”

  “It’s not like we’re the NSA or something. We don’t keep tabs on everyone in town.”

  That’s a lie. I overwatered the fern hanging outside my kitchen window last week and killed it. When I went to the diner for some coffee that morning, three different people asked me about it.

  “She keeps a place down on Dover Street. He’ll know the one.”

  “Are you sure? Because—”

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. “How about I call her and have her call you with the address? Will that work better for you?”

  I can hear the smile in Ruthie’s voice. “Why, that would be great, Lucky. Thank you.”

  I grind my teeth together so hard my jaw aches. “My pleasure, Ruthie. Thank you for your help.”

  “Just doin’ my job,” is her cheerful response.

  I hang up and angrily flip through my recent calls for Regina’s number. I punch her name with a little more force than is necessary. It rings twice before she picks up.

  “What are you—”

  I cut her off before she can finish her question. “Will you call Ruthie at 911 and give her the address of this field I’m in?”

  “Why? What’s go—”

  I give her the quick and brutal summary. “I found a dead body. I need Clive to come out here, but I don’t know where I am, so you need to give Ruthie that information so she can send him on out.”

  “You found a—”

  “Dead body, yes. I’ll fill you in when I get home.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I stop her before she can get out the door. “No! I don’t know how many people they’ll want out here. You know, crime scene and all.”

  “But I wanna see.” I can hear her pout, which makes me grin. I imagine her pushing her bottom lip out like a disappointed second grader.

  “I know you do, but how about if I try to sneak a couple of pictures?”

  We both know that if she actually came out here and saw this, she wouldn’t be able to hold solid food for a week.

  “You’d do that? Take pictures of a dead body?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “With your phone?”

  “Well, as far as I know, if I take them with my imaginary camera, I’ll have only imaginary pictures, so… yeah. I was thinking of using my phone.”

  “Not what I meant, smarty pants. You know what Beebee would say if she knew?”

  Actually, I do. “You know I don’t believe in all that nonsense. You can’t trap a soul in a picture.”

  “A lot of people have seen evidence of it, Lucky. Maybe you shouldn’t—”

  “That can all be chalked up to coincidence. And people’s big imaginations.”

  “Says the girl who has had miraculously good luck since her grandmother blessed her.”

  She knows she has me there. I can’t really argue because facts are facts. I do have really good luck. At least eventually. After I get myself into a heap of trouble first.

  For that reason, I go with my only defense. “What about having stalkers? You think that’s good luck?”

  “Some women would think so.”

  Even though she can’t see me, my head tilts and my expression turns dubious. “Regina. Give me a break. I’ve had my underwear stolen more times than I can count on fingers and toes.”

  “So men like you. Really, really like you. You don’t know that has anything to do with—”

  “I’m just saying. You can’t have it both ways. Either I’m one hundred percent lucky or it’s all just coincidence.”

  “Okay, fine. Take some pictures. Call me when you get home.”

  “Call Ruthie. Right now.”

  We hang up and I let my hand fall to my side. The pig and I stare down at the broken body of some unfortunate person, and the country quiet gets thicker and thicker. The crickets aren’t chirping and I can’t hear a single cicada. I’m surrounded by dark, still night.

  Just a pig, a dead person, and me.

  It’s a good thing I like Halloween or I might be a wee bit uneasy right about now.

  I raise my phone to take a few pictures, but on second thought, it seems very disrespectful. Instead, I just turn on my phone’s flashlight so I can get a better look at the body. Now those pictures, the ones I’m storing up in my head as I inspect the remains, I’ll probably never be able to get rid of. This isn’t the kind of thing that a person can really unsee. Ever. Sort of like walking in on your parents having sex. Or getting an unwanted glimpse of a naked old lady’s butt.

  The distant crunch of gravel travels through the balmy air, alerting me to the approach of a vehicle. Although he might not have been far away, something tells me it’s not Clive, the Chief Sheriff. Although he drives like a maniac, he’s not exactly what one would call a “fast mover.” He lands closer to the tortoise end of the scale than the hare. Probably because he’s old. And I mean
old. I don’t know his actual age, but I’m estimating somewhere between eighty and Methuselah. He may have met Jesus. I can’t be sure. At any rate, that means it’s very unlikely that he’s here already. Heck, he might still be on his way to his car. But that means someone else is coming.

  Maybe it’s the ride that was supposed to already be here.

  Headlights shine in an arc across the field, lighting up the pig and me for a few seconds before continuing on as the driver pulls up near the barn. It’s easy to see it’s not a van; it’s a truck, light in color. White, or maybe silver. Something that shows up well in the soft moonlight, especially against the dark backdrop of the woods.

  I wait to see who it is, but the door doesn’t open. Whoever it is just sits in their vehicle, watching. And waiting. For what or whom, I don’t know.

  Come on, Clive. Move your ancient tush and get down here.

  Within five minutes of the truck arriving, another vehicle comes barreling down the dirt-and-gravel road. This one is easy to identify. It’s a white cruiser with blue lettering on the side and reflective stripes that flash in the low light. I know it reads SALTY SPRINGS LAW. I guess when your primary law enforcement official is both the sheriff and the police chief, calling it “law” is about the only option.

  Following him, driving even faster than Clive, is yet another vehicle. It comes to a screeching halt beside the cruiser, and I can hear words mumbled when Clive gets out. I think I hear his bones creak, too, although that’s probably just my imagination.

  Probably.

  Chief Sheriff must have explained the situation to the driver, because he puts it in reverse and tears out of the barn lot with as much ruckus as he tore into it. As he disappears down the road, I sure hope that wasn’t my ride.

  I stay with the pig and the body, and wait for Clive Sally to reach me.

  Clive is a nice man. To be so old, he’s surprisingly alert and perceptive. And like most men who have fallen victim to what Beebee swears is my blessing, he is quite fond of me. Hopefully, the nonsexual kind of fond, because if not…

  Ew.

  I don’t get that feeling from him, though. He’s more like a father figure. Or great, great, great, great grandfather figure. And even though Beebee says you can’t trust a man with two first names, for me, Clive gets a pass. Partly because his last name is a woman’s first name. To my way of thinking, that ought to cancel out the negativity somehow.

  “Evening, little lady luck,” he says in his gruff voice as he approaches. Some people feel the need to tease or play off my nickname. Occasionally, it can be aggravating, or even disgusting, but with Clive it’s just adorable. He walks over to me and stops, reaching out to pat my shoulder like Beebee is fond of doing. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks for coming.”

  “Well, we don’t get too many calls like this, so I got here as fast as I could.”

  I turn on the flashlight of my cell phone again as I wait for him to ask me what happened, but he doesn’t. Instead, he swivels his head around to watch as another dark shape moves toward us. Probably the owner of the truck.

  The closer he gets, the more clearly I can see that it’s Clive’s Assistant Chief Sheriff, Petey Simmons.

  “Hey, Petey,” I call out when he gets close enough to hear me. “You got here awful fast.”

  He shrugs one scrawny shoulder. “I wasn’t far.”

  Petey is a tall, thin wisp of a man with dodgy eyes and a patchy ginger beard. He has this shifty, pervy look about him that makes me want to ask to see his hands at all times. That's how he earned the name Ginger Creep.

  I don’t know if Clive chose him as his assistant or if Petey was forced on him, but he wouldn’t have been high on my list. Or even on my list at all. One thing Petey is good for, though, is his strength. I’ve heard people around town talk about how Petey might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s strong as an ox. Surprisingly so for a guy who looks like he’d blow away in a stiff breeze.

  Petey stops at Clive’s side and mumbles in his low voice, “Where do you want this set up?” He jiggles one stick-like arm, indicating a big, black square.

  Clive squints and surveys the scene the best that he can in the dark, then points to a spot right near the pig that’s been keeping me company. “Right about there.”

  Petey starts toward the pig, barking, “Git, pig! Git!” Although he’s too far away to make contact, he kicks in the general vicinity of the pig, which turns my temper to broil.

  I squat down and make a kissing noise. “Come here, piggy.”

  Without hesitation, the pig darts toward me, giving Petey a wide berth. He flies straight into my arms like he knows I won’t hurt him. I’ve wondered sometimes if animals aren’t immune to my charms either. It’s either that or we just have an affinity for one another.

  I pet him, cooing soothing words in his floppy pink ears. “I won’t let him hurt you, little pig. I’d sooner break off that skinny leg of his and stick it where the sun don’t shine than let him kick you.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t gonna hurt him, Lucky.”

  I can hear the eye roll in his tone. I get that a lot from people who aren’t animal lovers. Not that I care one bit. They can kiss my foot.

  “Darn right, you weren’t, Petey. I don’t get violent over much, but if I saw someone kick an animal...”

  Yeah. I’d get violent. In a hurry.

  “Get that light set up so we can see, Petey,” Clive encourages, wisely interrupting our conversation.

  Within a couple of minutes, the area is bathed in blindingly bright, blue-white light. There are probably alarms going off in the space station right about now.

  “Good Lord, that’s bright.” My eyes tear if I even try to look over at the body, so I stare at a spot over Clive’s shoulder until they adjust. A few seconds later, I see a dark dream step right into the light.

  3

  “What’s going on out here, Clive?”

  “Evening, Liam.” Clive shakes the man’s hand and then explains to me, “Liam Dunning here owns the spread we’re standing on.”

  “Oh,” is all I can manage. It’s been a long night.

  Clive turns back to Liam. “I had Ruthie give you a call to let you know we’d be out here. She said she got no answer.”

  “I was out,” Liam responds as he crosses his arms over his chest.

  I don’t know who Liam is other than that he’s the landowner and one handsome devil. He’s tall and built, with dark hair and what appear to be light eyes of some indeterminate color. His face is very nice, but it would probably be a lot nicer if he weren’t scowling. His slashing brows are angled down low, his wide mouth pinched in tight. He looks like a walking, talking thundercloud.

  “So, what’s going on?” he repeats in a clipped tone.

  “Well, that’s what I’m here to find out.” Clive turns to me. “Lucky, why don’t you fill us in?”

  “What’s a ‘Lucky’?”

  “She’s a lucky. Lucky Boucher.”

  The stranger turns that stormy expression on me, and those pale eyes cut right through. I stand slowly, the pig swirling around my legs like my cat does. He’s just not as fluid, and his prickly hairs poke at the material of my pants.

  I gaze back into the eyes holding mine, and I wait for the softening. The curiosity. The interest. The inevitable interest. Fair or not, warranted or not, like it or not, men tend to like me. It is what it is.

  Except, it seems, for this one.

  This time, none of the usual reactions come. I wait and I wait. I wonder and I wonder. And when it never happens, I realize that it’s throwing me off as much as discovering a dead body has.

  I’ll be the first to admit that there’s not one exceptional thing about me, but that hasn’t seemed to matter. For whatever reason, a guy hasn’t treated me this way since Graham Bolton in the third grade, and I’m pretty sure that was because Graham’s pendulum swung the other way. But this guy... What’s his excuse?

 
How flummoxing.

  I make a mental check mark in the box beside “use your word.” I’m gratified that my three-hundred-and-forty-nine-day streak of using my word-of-the-day calendar word hasn’t been broken. I almost didn’t make it, as it must be getting near midnight by now.

  “H-hi,” I finally stammer.

  He stares at me for another second or two and then turns his attention to the body, now gruesomely well-defined by the harsh lighting. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  I assume he’s speaking to me, so I recount everything as it occurred, sparing only the humiliating details of my post-landing fiasco.

  Clive steps over to the body and bends down. I have to wonder if he’ll be able to get back up. Those knees are bound to be like rusty hinges. “I’ll call the medical examiner over in Hawthorne. We’ll need to know if the fall killed him, or this thing stuck in his chest.”

  “Is it a knife?”

  “Don’t think it looks quite like one. Maybe something like an ice pick.”

  “Ice pick?”

  “Maybe. That’s what it looks like to me.”

  I can’t help taking a few steps closer. “What’s that sticking out of his inside jacket pocket?”

  Clive reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He unfolds it and grabs the edge of the white rectangle. He unfolds it.

  “Is that a note?”

  “Sure appears to be.” Clive angles his head to better see the writing, and then reads it aloud. “‘Let’s see how lucky you are now’.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask on a whisper.

  A chill bursts down my spine like an icy firework. The word “lucky” isn’t unusual, but when it’s used in a note on a dead body that nearly killed me on its way to the ground…it feels a smidge odd. Direct.

  “Anybody’s guess.”