When Bobbie Sang the Blues by Peggy Darty Page A

down her cheek. The day that began with fun and happiness had turned into a nightmare—a nightmare, she feared, that had just begun.
    The most important thing on her mind, at the moment, was talking to Jack. His involvement in the investigation would be crucial. She had to talk with him privately before Deputy Arnold and the detectives got to him.
    At the service station, she turned onto the narrow sand road that led out to Rainbow Bay and Jack’s place. As always, her gaze wandered to the ten acres of towering live oaks Jack had given Chad to build their dream home. Dan had bought those ten acres from Jack, but his plans for building there had stalled.
    Jack’s gray bungalow came into view, and Christy slowed down, spotting two other vehicles parked in the driveway. Neither belonged to Deputy Arnold. Pulling to a stop a few yards back from a truck she didn’t recognize, she noticed J. T. Elmore’s old beat-up truck farther ahead.
    Bobbie
. The awful day rolled over Christy like a tropical wind, tugging at the roots of her beliefs. Remembering Jack’s threat, Christy feared he scored high on the suspect list. She cut the engine and hopped out.
    Around back, she spotted Jack and J.T. indulging in theirfavorite beverage while Jack grilled three king-size hamburgers. In a deck chair nearby sat Buster Greenwood, who usually holed up in his digs at Shipwreck Island in the hermit lifestyle he preferred. Jack and J.T. occasionally provided him with a social life. Buster was overweight with a round head the size of a dinner plate, partially covered by a stained baseball cap. He overhung Jack’s narrow deck chair and almost tipped it when he looked over his shoulder to see who had arrived.
    Jack laid down the burger flipper, and placed a hand on his heart. “Ah, at last an angel has come to save us.”
    J.T.’s arthritic knees prevented swift movement, but he hobbled toward her with a wide smile, showing off a missing tooth. “And this angel’s real.”
    Christy noticed his clothes were clean and freshly pressed, and he wore a new baseball cap.
    “J.T., you’re looking fit,” she said, giving him a quick hug.
    Jack smirked. “Aw, he’s sweet on Cora Lee Wilson, Busters cousin.”
    Buster chuckled, looking pleased with the idea.
    J.T.’s knobby little face turned red as a snapper. He whirled on Jack. “You got a right to talk. You haven’t shut up all day ‘bout Christy’s aunt.”
    “Speaking of Bobbie,” Christy said, looking grimly at Jack, “I’ve got to talk to you right away.” She grabbed his arm and led him around the house to the driveway. “They found Eddie Bodine dead in Bobbie’s pickle barrel this morning. In her locked storage unit. What do you know about it?”
    He jerked his arm free. “Me? I haven’t talked to that drunken bum since Dan bounced his butt across the Blues Club parking lot. And it’s a good thing I haven’t.”
    “That’s exactly the kind of thing you mustn’t say,” she snapped. “This man is dead. Half a dozen people in the parking lot heard you threaten to kill him.”
    “Aw, come on, Christy—”
    The sound of tires spitting gravel interrupted his words as Deputy Arnold’s SUV swerved into the drive, skidding to a halt mere inches from Christy’s bumper. Detective Johanson sat in the passenger seat.
    Both rolled out of the car. Johanson glared at Christy while Deputy Arnold shook his silver head and frowned his disapproval. “Christy, you have to stay out of this investigation. We need to talk to Jack privately.”
    “How can I leave with you blocking the drive?” Christy asked, pointing.
    “Just go around him in the side yard,” Jack said under his breath.
    Buster and J.T. strolled around the side of the house, then froze, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the scene before them. J.T. shoved a half-empty bottle deeper in his pocket while Buster whirled and slid, catching himself against the corner of the house, before disappearing into the