Between Black and White by Robert Bailey

department, Tom thought, sliding into the front seat and cranking the ignition. He had met with Helen this morning and told her his intention to file an appearance. Perhaps she had updated the family. He had also visited Bo at the jail this afternoon, and a sheriff’s deputy could have called George and given him Tom’s name. Either way George could have then googled Tom and learned all about him.
    That’s got to be it, he thought, easing the car forward and dialing Rick’s number on his cell phone. As his partner’s voice came over the line, Tom took a last look at the medical office. Behind the open blinds of the front window, he saw the shadow of a man watching him. Ray Ray was right, Tom thought, feeling gooseflesh break out on his arms.
    The good doctor was a “strange bird.”

13
    George Curtis watched McMurtrie leave from behind the blinds and followed the Explorer with his eyes until it stopped out in front of Ms. Butler’s Bed and Breakfast. That’s convenient, he thought, remembering something his late brother-in-law had always said.
    Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
    George packed up his briefcase and locked the office. Then he walked two doors down to his house and opened the door. His cat, a black-and-white-striped feline named Matilda, came running toward him, but he paid her no mind, lost in thought over his encounter with Bo Haynes’s lawyer.
    McMurtrie bothered him. When he had learned earlier in the day that McMurtrie would be Bo’s lawyer, George had done some digging, and he hadn’t liked what he’d found. It had been McMurtrie, a former law professor, who had spearheaded the big trial win in Henshaw, Alabama over Jack Willistone, whose trucks had routinely carried loads for many of Andy’s businesses in Giles County. Over the years George had come to know Jack pretty well. George knew that anyone who got the jump on Jack Willistone had to be pretty tough.
    George’s encounter a few minutes ago with McMurtrie had done nothing to ease his concerns. The lawyer had already gotten some of the history. Knew Andy was an interloper. A scalawag who had come in and saved the day. And McMurtrie’s question to George had contained some challenge.
    Did George resent Andy for saving the farm?
    George lit a cigar and sat down in the den, turning on the television set. As an old episode of Friends came on, he scanned the dark house. He rarely kept lights on inside, as they gave him a headache, but the glow from the tube allowed him to see the familiar surroundings. The painting of Count Pulaski above the mantle of the fireplace to his left. The old rocker to his right that his mother had rocked him and Maggie in as kids. And beyond the television, the short hallway leading to the home’s two bedrooms, one of which was his, while the other was the “guest” room.
    At the thought of the guest room, George subconsciously smiled. He could count the “guests” that had stayed in that room over the past thirty years on one hand. There had, however, been one frequent guest.
    Matilda crawled into his lap, and he stroked her behind the ears, his thoughts returning to McMurtrie. And the history . . .
    Of course he had resented Andy. Hated the son of a bitch. But not because of the farm. George had never loved the property like Maggie. Sure, he had enjoyed hunting dove in the fall and had always been a good shot, but the lure of the land held nothing for him. He would rather have moved when their father hit hard times. Had even talked with Maggie about it. Let’s take what we can get for the farm and move the family to Nashville. Or even Atlanta. Anywhere . . .
    George sighed, and hearing the sound, Matilda purred. George had never wanted to save the farm. He had only wanted . . .
    His cell phone chirped in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts with the indication that he had a new text message. He pulled the phone out and clicked open the message.
    Coming over in a few.
    George rose from