reporter.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. DNA is the first step in a long road for you and your client.”
Disappointment tempted her to beg for another interview. “Looks like we are all in a holding pattern.”
Heels clicked as Susan walked toward the door. “Here’s hoping we both end up with a story.”
“Won’t covering me make you unpopular?”
“Evidence will be on my side and I’ll get a lot of attention. Negative attention gets ratings faster than positive and in the end it’s all about ratings.”
“Not justice?”
She arched a brow as if waiting for a punch line. When none came she said, “Sure. Justice is important, especially when it gets me noticed.”
“You are popular enough.”
“I’m fifty-two and I don’t have a fresh face to dazzle my viewers. It’s going to take a great story to get my airtime.”
Song notes. Flashes of light. Smiling faces. The pictures flashed like lightning skittering and shattering across the night sky.
Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.
None of the sights and sounds made sense but the headache worsened and throbbed behind tired unfamiliar eyes staring back from the mirror. Frustration welled as understanding remained at arm’s length.
“I want to understand. I want to know.”
Song notes. Flashes of light. Smiling faces.
The pieces, tattered like fabric scraps, needed a master seamstress to take needle and thread and sew them together into a bright, big memory quilt. Perhaps this quilt would never be perfect or pretty, but it promised some kind of warmth and comfort. If the memories joined, calm was sure to follow. And perhaps the headaches would stop.
But even as she imagined a needle and thread basting fabric edges together, a slight jostle, a loud noise or a bad night’s sleep undid the stitching in a blink and the scraps unraveled.
Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.
All that ever remained were worthless scraps.
And the headaches.
And the raw fury that burned like boiling water.
November 1
Sugar,
You make me feel like a princess. Grace Kelly and Princess Diana ain’t got nothing on me when I’m with you. The private dinner was so perfect. The twinkling lights. Music. Iced champagne. Fried chicken. And the kiss. The kiss so very sweet and so very . . . hot. I realize now why so many find you hard to resist. Your energy draws people. It certainly draws me.
I did not give you an answer last night but . . . yes! Yes! Yes! I would love to ride down to Memphis in your new candy apple red car. And stay at the fancy hotel you talked about. I look forward to silk sheets and breakfast served on silver trays.
Until next weekend . . .
A.
Chapter Five
Saturday, October 15, 8 AM
Deke arrived home late last night, showered, and too jazzed to sleep, had grabbed a beer and sat in the worn recliner that had been Buddy’s favorite. As ESPN played on the big screen, he’d sipped the beer and stared at football wondering how many hours Buddy sat in this chair, alone and chewing on a case? How many years would Deke sit here, doing the same before his heart gave out and he earned a big funeral filled with speeches, bagpipes, and a five-gun salute.
He’d fallen into bed at two and risen by six. He’d stopped for more coffee and an egg bagel and now found himself at his desk, the one place he belonged.
Deke sat at his desk, coffee in hand, and flipped on the desk lamp. Rolling his head from side to side he attempted to work kinks from tired muscles that needed a week’s worth of rest, not more caffeine and paltry stretches.
He powered up his computer and waited as it came online. All the interviews he and KC had conducted yesterday had done little to get them closer to a killer. They’d heard an array of comments about Dixie. Most included her obsession with men and singing. And though some flat-out didn’t like her, most liked her bubbly nature.
A check of his answering machine had
“Don’t be so sure about that. DNA is the first step in a long road for you and your client.”
Disappointment tempted her to beg for another interview. “Looks like we are all in a holding pattern.”
Heels clicked as Susan walked toward the door. “Here’s hoping we both end up with a story.”
“Won’t covering me make you unpopular?”
“Evidence will be on my side and I’ll get a lot of attention. Negative attention gets ratings faster than positive and in the end it’s all about ratings.”
“Not justice?”
She arched a brow as if waiting for a punch line. When none came she said, “Sure. Justice is important, especially when it gets me noticed.”
“You are popular enough.”
“I’m fifty-two and I don’t have a fresh face to dazzle my viewers. It’s going to take a great story to get my airtime.”
Song notes. Flashes of light. Smiling faces. The pictures flashed like lightning skittering and shattering across the night sky.
Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.
None of the sights and sounds made sense but the headache worsened and throbbed behind tired unfamiliar eyes staring back from the mirror. Frustration welled as understanding remained at arm’s length.
“I want to understand. I want to know.”
Song notes. Flashes of light. Smiling faces.
The pieces, tattered like fabric scraps, needed a master seamstress to take needle and thread and sew them together into a bright, big memory quilt. Perhaps this quilt would never be perfect or pretty, but it promised some kind of warmth and comfort. If the memories joined, calm was sure to follow. And perhaps the headaches would stop.
But even as she imagined a needle and thread basting fabric edges together, a slight jostle, a loud noise or a bad night’s sleep undid the stitching in a blink and the scraps unraveled.
Soft blue velvet. Red lipstick. A wordless melody.
All that ever remained were worthless scraps.
And the headaches.
And the raw fury that burned like boiling water.
November 1
Sugar,
You make me feel like a princess. Grace Kelly and Princess Diana ain’t got nothing on me when I’m with you. The private dinner was so perfect. The twinkling lights. Music. Iced champagne. Fried chicken. And the kiss. The kiss so very sweet and so very . . . hot. I realize now why so many find you hard to resist. Your energy draws people. It certainly draws me.
I did not give you an answer last night but . . . yes! Yes! Yes! I would love to ride down to Memphis in your new candy apple red car. And stay at the fancy hotel you talked about. I look forward to silk sheets and breakfast served on silver trays.
Until next weekend . . .
A.
Chapter Five
Saturday, October 15, 8 AM
Deke arrived home late last night, showered, and too jazzed to sleep, had grabbed a beer and sat in the worn recliner that had been Buddy’s favorite. As ESPN played on the big screen, he’d sipped the beer and stared at football wondering how many hours Buddy sat in this chair, alone and chewing on a case? How many years would Deke sit here, doing the same before his heart gave out and he earned a big funeral filled with speeches, bagpipes, and a five-gun salute.
He’d fallen into bed at two and risen by six. He’d stopped for more coffee and an egg bagel and now found himself at his desk, the one place he belonged.
Deke sat at his desk, coffee in hand, and flipped on the desk lamp. Rolling his head from side to side he attempted to work kinks from tired muscles that needed a week’s worth of rest, not more caffeine and paltry stretches.
He powered up his computer and waited as it came online. All the interviews he and KC had conducted yesterday had done little to get them closer to a killer. They’d heard an array of comments about Dixie. Most included her obsession with men and singing. And though some flat-out didn’t like her, most liked her bubbly nature.
A check of his answering machine had
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