miss fortune mystery (ff) - body in the bog in the bog by j l johnson Page A

like… Well, they drove like old people. Simply being anywhere near a road was playing with danger. There was only one gas station in Sinful, and Fortune found it amazing the pumps were still standing.
    She expected to hear the explosion at any minute. The tank on her Jeep, well, it had been Marge’s Jeep, but she was using it , was kept full at all times. She figured it was only a matter of when the tanks would explode, not if they’d explode.
     
    There were cases of the SLS cough syrup at both Ida Belle’s and Gertie’s houses, but Fortune believed in being prepared. She also believed in variety and flavor.
    Blackberry just happened to be one of her favorite flavors and she’d found bushes full of the berries. Fortune only had to convince the ladies it might be a bit more respectable if their brew actually looked, and tasted, a bit more like cough syrup.
    “Do we look like we care about being respectable?” Gertie had snickered.
    “Actually, I think you do,” Fortune replied, one of her perfect, salon-sculpted eyebrows raised. “Otherwise, why would you sell it in those cute, little, pink bottles with the adorable labels? Why not XXX-labeled, brown ceramic jugs? And, why bother calling it ‘cough syrup’ at all?”
     
    She’d spied the bushes on one of her early-morning runs. Fortune was by no means a morning person, but it wasn’t humanly possible to do anything in this god-forsaken part of the country requiring any sort of movement or physical activity after the sun had risen. Simply breathing in the sweltering, dank air was difficult.
    If she wanted to continue to enjoy lunches, and gossip, with her new friend Ally at Francine’s Cafe, she had to set her alarm for O’dark-thirty, and at least try to run some of those calories off.
    Even if she tried to jog to New York City and back every morning, she knew she wouldn’t begin to burn enough to combat the butter-filled desserts, sauces, and pastries Francine excelled at creating, but she had to admit, she felt better about herself for at least trying.
    On returning home, she usually stripped down to her running bra and panties, and hosed herself off outside, not wanting to sully Marge’s house with her sweat-filled running clothes.
    She’d been told, more than once, that any form of nudity was illegal in Sinful, on most days, and at most times. The deputy sheriff, Carter LeBlanc, had caught her at various times, in various modes of undress, but since she was on private property, in her very own backyard, and wearing the equivalent of a bathing suit, she tended to ignore him.
    Someone would have to be stalking her to catch her hosing off, and anyone who’d take such extreme measures would likely be more dangerous to her than just an ordinary Peeping Tom. She imagined peeping wasn’t legal here anyway, at any time, on any day. But in this town, nothing was certain.
    Most things were illegal in Sinful, at least on certain hours of certain days. Keeping up with it all gave her a massive headache.
     
    Everyone in the small town, except Gertie and Ida Belle, thought Marge had been her aunt, and that she had inherited Marge’s house when she died. The regular Sinful folk thought she was here to pack up the house and sell it.
    Those two old ladies had correctly guessed she wasn’t actually Sandy Sue Morrow, Marge’s actual, beauty-pageant winning, librarian niece. After gaining their promises to never reveal the truth, she’d admitted she was a CIA assassin named Fortune Redding.
    She’d had a singularly bad stroke of luck on her last assignment, which had resulted in pissing off an Arab sheik, who’d then offered a hefty sum for her head.
    Now, she had all manner of really bad guys actively hunting her down, looking to kill her and collect that reward. Rogue assassins, mercenaries, Jihadists, and bounty hunters, to mention just a few, were all searching for her. Her boss had decided none of them would look for her in the quiet, sleepy, little town of