Death on Heels by Ellen Byerrum Page A

pair of brown slip-on sneakers.
    He must hate wearing that
, she thought. Still, he didn’t look like a man defeated. His shoulders were straight, his gaze direct.
    Tucker smiled at her, and memories rushed over her like Proust’s madeleine on speed. His grin brought back the times they’d shared: their first date, their first dance, the first time he saddled his favorite palomino for her to ride. And lots of kisses, but not that first kiss.
    “It’s good to see you, Lacey. Why don’t you take a seat?” He waited for her, ever the gentleman. She sat down and he took a chair opposite her. She had forgotten the mellow timbre of his voice.
    Get ahold of yourself, Lacey.
She shook her head to clear it. “You’re not wearing orange.”
Orange? I’m really asking him about his jumpsuit? Ten minutes, Lacey!
    “Seems orange is for small-time offenders. They tell me brown is for the big, bad boys. But brown goes with my eyes, right?”
    “Oh, Tucker.”
    “Whatever are you doing here, Lacey? A special trip from Washington, D.C., just to see me? I’m honored, but I’m not at my best.” He shifted in his seat, and his handcuffs and waist chain rattled. “Why are you here? To write a story about this disaster? About me?”
    It must seem like such a violation of his privacy, she realized. Especially from her. “No. I mean, I am going to have to write some kind of story. But— I needed to see you. I need to know, Cole. I just need—” Lacey wanted to say more, but she couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.
    “Know what? If I’m a killer? You know me better than that,” he said, with a flash of emotion. “Don’t you?”
    His brown eyes stared right through her, stirring feelings she thought she’d left behind years ago. “I’m one hundred percent sure you’re not a killer,” Lacey said. “But I want to be a hundred and fifty percent sure.”
    He smiled. “You haven’t changed, have you?” He took a moment. “No, I didn’t kill anybody, and you canbe two hundred percent sure of that. Somebody’s been working their tail off to set me up. They’re railroading me, Chantilly Lace.”
    Chantilly Lace? Oh, my.
She’d forgotten a few things about Cole Tucker after all. His pet name for her was one of them.
    “Please don’t call me that.” It was the second time this morning she’d asked someone not to use an old nickname. Muldoon, because he was still an idiot and “Scoop” brought back only bad memories. Tucker, because he was still Tucker and “Chantilly Lace” brought back too many good memories.
“Your mama really named you Lacey? Like in the song?”
Tucker had said to her on one of their first dates, and he said it with a big smile and broke right into the old song, changing the words.
“Chantilly Lace…I like it. Such a pretty face…”
    “Cole, I want the truth. That’s all.”
    “Okay. Lacey.” He drew out her name, then settled back in his chair and gazed at her. His face was impassive, but his eyes were full of questions. “I guess this is not a reunion for us. It’s just a story, and you just want to get your facts right. Okay. I’m all for that. Ask me anything.”
    “If you’re innocent—and you are—then why did they arrest you?”
    Cole shook his head. “I’m still trying to sort that out. Seems the sheriff found Rae’s purse and things, buried down a hole out on my property. I thought they were saying it was some kind of fox hole or badger hole, but no, they say it was dug by hand. Said someone called in a tip about it. Somebody made that hole, and they went to a lot of trouble.”
    “Framing you?”
    “Looks like it.”
    “Who?”
    “I’ll let you know when I figure it out. But Chant— Lacey, why do you want to write about this? I thought wild horses couldn’t drag you back here. Don’t you have enough to write about in Washington, D.C.?”
    “You’ve heard about my stories?”
    “Couldn’t help hearing about them.” Tucker smiled. “Google ‘Lacey