Unspeakable by Sandra Brown Page A

why. It baffled him that anyone would strive for uselessness.
    Cora had it in her head that they should buy a Winnebago and strike out to see the country. There were a few spots on the national map that might be worth the trip. The Grand Canyon. The Tetons. Niagara Falls. New England in the fall. But he couldn't work up much enthusiasm for the endless driving that kind of trip would entail.
    She also had mentioned a cruise. He couldn't think of anything worse than being stranded on a ship with a bunch of strangers and a hyperactive crew determined to see that he had a good time doing things he didn't want to do. He had patently ignored the colorful brochures Cora kept poking under his nose.
    Eventually she would wear him down. Guilt would compel him to give in. Vacations weren't important to him, so he hadn't missed taking them. Cora had. Sooner or later he would have to accompany her on one of her fantasy holidays.
    But he hoped to delay it for as long as possible. He felt—and this was the silly part—that he shouldn't leave town just yet. Although he had been formally retired and there was a new man already on the job, and things at the Blewer County S.O. seemed to be chugging along just fine without him, he had an almost eerie notion that his work wasn't finished. Of course, he was deluding himself. He was hunting for signs and omens that he could whittle down to fit his present situation. "I'm a goddamn crazy old man, is what I am," he muttered scornfully as he shuffled into the kitchen.
    The preset timer on the coffeemaker assured him a hot, fresh cup. He carried it outside onto the redwood deck, a Christmas present from their kids a few years back. Even at this time of morning, well before the sun was up, the needle on the outdoor thermometer was nudging the eighty-degree mark. The moon was low on the western horizon. There wasn't a cloud in sight. Today would be another scorcher.
    It had been exceptionally hot that summer, too.
    Especially that August morning when Patsy's body had been discovered. The heat probably had contributed to the brash newspaper photographer's nausea. Responding to Deputy Jim Clark's summons, Ezzy had left him and the coroner Harvey Stroud at the crime scene and had sped to the lounge where Patsy had last been seen alive.
    Clark and another deputy had already rounded up people who had been there the night before. By the time Ezzy arrived, they'd been questioned, but he conducted his own interrogations, taking notes on cocktail napkins imprinted with a wagon wheel.
    "That's right, Sheriff. Cecil and Carl were here with Patsy most of the evening. They were having themselves a real good time."
    "Patsy, she'd dance one song with Carl, then the next with Cecil. And when I say dance, I mean, you know, she plastered herself against 'em. Had 'em both heated up real good. I was kinda heated up myself, just watching."
    "By 'provocative' do you mean she was leading them on? Yes, sir, Sheriff Hardge. She surely was. I think she enjoyed having an audience while she did it, too."
    "I don't mean to speak bad of the dead, you understand, but Patsy... well, sir, she was making herself available, if you know what I mean."
    "She and Cecil, they were giving everybody a real good show out on the dance floor. He had his hands on her ass—pardon the French—and his tongue down her throat."
    "I thought she and Carl were gonna go at it right over yonder on the pool table. 'N front o' God and everybody."
    "Jealous? No, Sheriff, the brothers didn't act jealous toward each other. They was sharing her and that seemed to suit them fine. 'Course they's trash."
    The only witness who didn't cooperate was the owner of the club, Parker Gee. He resented having his nightclub invaded by "cops" and his clientele interrogated like criminals. All questions posed to him were answered with a surly "I was busy last night. I don't remember." Leaving deputies to take official statements, Ezzy put out an APB on the Herbolds, stressing