Gone to Ground by Brandilyn Collins Page B

likely came into my salon for Patsy, so either way I heard their talk. The only white people who never darkened my door were the three Caucasian members of the Incompetent Five—the Amaryllis police force. Not that I wanted em in my salon anyway. My ex-husband, Officer John Cotter, and his father the chief would have to be crazy to let me stand over them with a pair of shears. And with the Chief tellin all his men what to think, say, and do, it was no puzzle why Ted Arnoldson wouldn't set foot in my place either.
    A block before my house I drove by the Amaryllis cemetery, rememberin the game Stevie and I used to play as kids. "Hold your breath till it's passed—or you're dead!" I'd elbow Stevie in the back of Mom's car. He never was any good at not breathin. He died a thousand deaths passin that cemetery by the time he was ten.
    Once, when I was eleven and we drove by the cemetery at night, I could have sworn I saw the Amaryllis ghost. It was floatin between headstones in the middle of the grounds. I screamed and pointed, but at that moment the ghost melted away. I've never seen it since.
    At home I locked the front door and checked to see my two guns were in their places and loaded. Call me obsessive, but I checked them every day. I put the spaghetti sauce in a pan to warm and started heatin water to boil some fresh pasta. I hadn't been home ten minutes when my bell rang.
    "Hello?" I called through the closed door.
    "It's me."
    Trent's voice, deep and kinda sulky. Frankly the man's voice was the sexiest thing about him. On looks I'd give him a five. His brown hair was good—better when he was in town and I could cut it. But his face was thin and long, and his jaw line weak. Total opposite of my hunky ex. But then, John Cotter had plenty other issues.
    Click, click went my multiple locks. I opened the door and stood back. Trent was dressed in khaki pants and a short sleeve blue shirt. The fabric set off his blue eyes. Stickin out his front pocket was the ever-present small spiral notebook and pen. Always the reporter.
    "Hi there, Deena." He leaned down his lanky frame and gave me a hug. His half-day growth of beard scratched my face.
    "Hi, Trent. Been a long time since I've seen you." Christmas, to be exact. He'd come home to Amaryllis to spend the holiday with this sister and brother-in-law.
    "Too long." He looked meaningfully into my eyes.
    Uh, yeah.
    "Come on into the kitchen. Water's about ready to cook the pasta."
    I led him back, my brain churnin. This had to go right. Trent had always been open with me, especially two years ago when Chief Cotter had tried to pin Sara Fulgerson's murder on Stevie just because my brother had raked leaves in her yard the day she died. Of course he'd left fingerprints on her back door—she gave him lunch that day. Trent had told me everything the cops had on Stevie—nothin more than the print and a boatload of speculation. Trent didn't believe Stevie could've killed Sara, or Martha a year earlier. But now after four more killings, if someone had whispered to Trent about Stevie runnin around all bloodied on the night Erika died, would Trent tell me?
    I had to find out what time Erika was killed.
    In the kitchen Trent leaned against a counter, one foot crossed over the other. Without askin, I fetched him a Dr. Pepper with plenty of ice. That's all Trent drank, mornin, noon, and night. Probably took showers in it.
    I dumped spaghetti in the boilin water and stirred the sauce in the other pot.
    He sniffed. "Smells good."
    "Yeah. Always better the second day." I set the red-stained wooden utensil on the spoon rest. "So. You got here yesterday, I hear."
    "Not till mid afternoon. I was way on the other side of Jackson when I heard the news. I'd been there with Zeke, covering another case since Tuesday morning."
    Zeke was his supervisor. "Yeah, I know." Trent's sister, Sally, and I had both left messages on his cell phone Wednesday mornin. "Sally told me she finally got through