J.D. would never understand about what he’d done.
He knew exactly what would happen: the minute J.D. caught wind of the store clerk’s death, either he’d expect Butch to come clean about Kittie so the cops could talk to her and clear his name once and for all, or he’d double- and triple-check her story himself. And Kittie wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the marquee. If J.D. grilled her hard enough, Butch wasn’t sure he could trust her not to fold right in the middle of the story he’d fed her.
And hell, if it came down to a choice between friendship or twenty-to-life in Walla Walla, there was no fucking contest. He was real sorry about it, but that was just the way it went. And he wasn’t about to sit around twiddling his thumbs until he was taken by surprise, either. Especially after that phone call—he’d almost crapped when J.D. phoned practically on top of his hearing about the store clerk. He’d tried to trace the call, but that had gotten screwed up too. Just when he was about to hit *69, Gina had rung up to let him know she was catching a drink with a friend after work.
Sometimes life just sucked.
He knew J.D. too well. The man was a frigging pit bull when he wanted information. Much better tomake a preemptive strike against him than wait around for J.D. to get wind of this new development and “help” his ass right into the slammer.
Trouble was, he didn’t know where his old buddy had gotten himself off to. The temporary job he’d taken was finished; chances were he’d picked up work out of town. Or maybe he’d just moved across town and Butch would run into him down at the union hall.
But he wasn’t gonna sit around on his ass counting on that. He climbed to his feet and hunted down his car keys. It was time he put out a few feelers and found out who the hell knew where J.D. was.
J.D. stood barefoot on the dew-dampened front porch, scraping crème brûlée off the oval sides and bottom of the white ribbed custard dish Sophie had sent home with him last night. He licked the last of the dessert off his spoon. Damn, this stuff was good. With a regretful look at the empty container, he walked back into the cabin, held the dish under a running tap, and scrubbed it clean. He knocked back the last of his coffee and rinsed that cup out as well. A moment later he brushed his teeth, then finished dressing and let himself out of his cabin.
It wasn’t nearly as quiet this morning as it had been last night. He barely dodged three noisy pubescent boys who barreled around a blind corner in the lake trail, and already shrill voices from out on the water pierced the air. Reaching the dock, he saw the fluorescent floats Dru had lectured him about bobbing on the lake’s placid surface from dock to float, and kidschurned the water between the two berths. One rowboat remained in the roped-off area, one was tied up at the float, and the rest had been moved to the motorboat side of the dock.
He continued on to the Lawrences’ private dock and climbed the short switchback trails to the oversized log cabin on the bluff, where he saw Sophie in one of the flower beds that framed her front porch. Her back was to him and a small pile of weeds to her right testified to her activity. At the moment, however, her gardening gloves lay in a heap by her right hip and her bottom rested back on her heels while she vigorously flapped her shirttails, exposing half her back. He cleared his throat. “Hey.”
She jumped and swore. Swinging around to face him, she snapped, “What are you, a damn cat? Give a gal some warning!”
“Sorry,” he said mildly. He watched her drop the shirttails and blot her face with the back of her hand. Her face was flushed.
Then she dropped her hand to her thigh and sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” she said and struggled to rise to her feet. He stepped forward to assist her as she admitted, “I was having another hot flash, but that’s no reason to take it out on you. I’m jumpy
He knew exactly what would happen: the minute J.D. caught wind of the store clerk’s death, either he’d expect Butch to come clean about Kittie so the cops could talk to her and clear his name once and for all, or he’d double- and triple-check her story himself. And Kittie wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the marquee. If J.D. grilled her hard enough, Butch wasn’t sure he could trust her not to fold right in the middle of the story he’d fed her.
And hell, if it came down to a choice between friendship or twenty-to-life in Walla Walla, there was no fucking contest. He was real sorry about it, but that was just the way it went. And he wasn’t about to sit around twiddling his thumbs until he was taken by surprise, either. Especially after that phone call—he’d almost crapped when J.D. phoned practically on top of his hearing about the store clerk. He’d tried to trace the call, but that had gotten screwed up too. Just when he was about to hit *69, Gina had rung up to let him know she was catching a drink with a friend after work.
Sometimes life just sucked.
He knew J.D. too well. The man was a frigging pit bull when he wanted information. Much better tomake a preemptive strike against him than wait around for J.D. to get wind of this new development and “help” his ass right into the slammer.
Trouble was, he didn’t know where his old buddy had gotten himself off to. The temporary job he’d taken was finished; chances were he’d picked up work out of town. Or maybe he’d just moved across town and Butch would run into him down at the union hall.
But he wasn’t gonna sit around on his ass counting on that. He climbed to his feet and hunted down his car keys. It was time he put out a few feelers and found out who the hell knew where J.D. was.
J.D. stood barefoot on the dew-dampened front porch, scraping crème brûlée off the oval sides and bottom of the white ribbed custard dish Sophie had sent home with him last night. He licked the last of the dessert off his spoon. Damn, this stuff was good. With a regretful look at the empty container, he walked back into the cabin, held the dish under a running tap, and scrubbed it clean. He knocked back the last of his coffee and rinsed that cup out as well. A moment later he brushed his teeth, then finished dressing and let himself out of his cabin.
It wasn’t nearly as quiet this morning as it had been last night. He barely dodged three noisy pubescent boys who barreled around a blind corner in the lake trail, and already shrill voices from out on the water pierced the air. Reaching the dock, he saw the fluorescent floats Dru had lectured him about bobbing on the lake’s placid surface from dock to float, and kidschurned the water between the two berths. One rowboat remained in the roped-off area, one was tied up at the float, and the rest had been moved to the motorboat side of the dock.
He continued on to the Lawrences’ private dock and climbed the short switchback trails to the oversized log cabin on the bluff, where he saw Sophie in one of the flower beds that framed her front porch. Her back was to him and a small pile of weeds to her right testified to her activity. At the moment, however, her gardening gloves lay in a heap by her right hip and her bottom rested back on her heels while she vigorously flapped her shirttails, exposing half her back. He cleared his throat. “Hey.”
She jumped and swore. Swinging around to face him, she snapped, “What are you, a damn cat? Give a gal some warning!”
“Sorry,” he said mildly. He watched her drop the shirttails and blot her face with the back of her hand. Her face was flushed.
Then she dropped her hand to her thigh and sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” she said and struggled to rise to her feet. He stepped forward to assist her as she admitted, “I was having another hot flash, but that’s no reason to take it out on you. I’m jumpy
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