me?" look. But there was no way to tell who might be the younger one There were no grown-up photos of the boys, and just as I was about to pick up another picture frame, in walked Caleb trailed by a couple of uniforms.
"Lalla," he said, his voice resigned, if somewhat pained.
"Caleb? What're you doing here?"
"Please," he said, the painful tone turning to aggravation. He took my arm, and just like a few days ago, turned me for the door. "Let's go outside and talk."
"She asked me to come," I protested as he pulled me out onto the porch.
Caleb said something to the uniforms, then nodded at the row of houses on either side, and his deputies went to work, ringing doorbells, asking questions.
"So why are you here?" I asked.
"Because dispatch said there was a red car outside with big tailfins, loud arguing, and gunfire."
"Right. And, mine is the only red Caddy in town?"
He did a slow head shake, like I shouldn't have to ask. "Fortunately, it's my jurisdiction. Come on sweetheart, better me than Detective Rodney, right?"
Caleb's cruiser, I noticed, was hastily bumped up onto the sidewalk. It was sweet of him to hurry on my account, still. Something was off. "This is a load of horse-crap," I said, waving prettily at the guy with the watering hose. "Gunshots, huh? Look over there. Do you think parents in this neighborhood would let their kids stay out and play if there were shots fired? So, how long ago did the call come in?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes," he said, herding me towards his cruiser.
"I've been set up," I said, the macaroons now burning a hole in my stomach. He opened the passenger door, and I slumped down into the seat.
"Okay, maybe you're right," he said, going around to the driver's side. Settled, he put an arm along the back of the seat and tugged at my ponytail. "Where you been all day?"
I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him the short version. "I called you. You could've returned any of the messages I left."
"I tried. Your cell out of juice?"
I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. Sure enough, the battery was dead. "I went to a funeral with my dad, met Billy Wayne's crazy mom, and got the business end of her forty-five aimed at me. But I guess nobody called the cops about that. But I did get a call from that newspaper guy, Del, and soon as somebody arrests a suspect, I'm suing his dumb-ass for libel, maybe defamation of character, something. Then I get this letter addressed to me from Billy Wayne's aunt. Said she had something to tell me about his murder."
"You got this letter with you? No? Okay, what's her name?"
"You don't believe me!"
"Of course I believe you."
"Merri—Merriweather Cook. This doesn't look good for me, does it? If it turns out the lady is dead, you think your psychic deputy could help me get off a murder rap?"
"This isn't a joke."
Caleb's sense of humor didn't stretch to the macabre where dead people were involved.
We both watched through the car window as the patrolmen unsuccessfully canvassed yet another house down the block.
"What's going on, Caleb? You don't think she's dead too, do you?"
"I think we shouldn't jump to any conclusions. Listen, I know this probably isn't the best time to bring this up, but I needed to talk to you anyway."
"Yes?"
"I think we should get married."
My eyes blurred, and I heard bees in my head. However a migraine wasn't the reason—it was panic. What was he saying? When we talked about our future together, which we seldom did, marriage was never mentioned. Besides, what was he doing proposing to me like this? I looked out at the cluster of five or six couples standing with arms folded while they rapidly tossed back and forth their own theories as to why the police were parked on their quiet street.
He was proposing to me in front of a missing woman's house with a complete stranger staring at us from behind his watering hose–wait a minute. I knew what was wrong with this picture.
"You're hoping you can rope me in with a ring, aren't
"Lalla," he said, his voice resigned, if somewhat pained.
"Caleb? What're you doing here?"
"Please," he said, the painful tone turning to aggravation. He took my arm, and just like a few days ago, turned me for the door. "Let's go outside and talk."
"She asked me to come," I protested as he pulled me out onto the porch.
Caleb said something to the uniforms, then nodded at the row of houses on either side, and his deputies went to work, ringing doorbells, asking questions.
"So why are you here?" I asked.
"Because dispatch said there was a red car outside with big tailfins, loud arguing, and gunfire."
"Right. And, mine is the only red Caddy in town?"
He did a slow head shake, like I shouldn't have to ask. "Fortunately, it's my jurisdiction. Come on sweetheart, better me than Detective Rodney, right?"
Caleb's cruiser, I noticed, was hastily bumped up onto the sidewalk. It was sweet of him to hurry on my account, still. Something was off. "This is a load of horse-crap," I said, waving prettily at the guy with the watering hose. "Gunshots, huh? Look over there. Do you think parents in this neighborhood would let their kids stay out and play if there were shots fired? So, how long ago did the call come in?"
"Ten, fifteen minutes," he said, herding me towards his cruiser.
"I've been set up," I said, the macaroons now burning a hole in my stomach. He opened the passenger door, and I slumped down into the seat.
"Okay, maybe you're right," he said, going around to the driver's side. Settled, he put an arm along the back of the seat and tugged at my ponytail. "Where you been all day?"
I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him the short version. "I called you. You could've returned any of the messages I left."
"I tried. Your cell out of juice?"
I pulled my cell phone out of my purse. Sure enough, the battery was dead. "I went to a funeral with my dad, met Billy Wayne's crazy mom, and got the business end of her forty-five aimed at me. But I guess nobody called the cops about that. But I did get a call from that newspaper guy, Del, and soon as somebody arrests a suspect, I'm suing his dumb-ass for libel, maybe defamation of character, something. Then I get this letter addressed to me from Billy Wayne's aunt. Said she had something to tell me about his murder."
"You got this letter with you? No? Okay, what's her name?"
"You don't believe me!"
"Of course I believe you."
"Merri—Merriweather Cook. This doesn't look good for me, does it? If it turns out the lady is dead, you think your psychic deputy could help me get off a murder rap?"
"This isn't a joke."
Caleb's sense of humor didn't stretch to the macabre where dead people were involved.
We both watched through the car window as the patrolmen unsuccessfully canvassed yet another house down the block.
"What's going on, Caleb? You don't think she's dead too, do you?"
"I think we shouldn't jump to any conclusions. Listen, I know this probably isn't the best time to bring this up, but I needed to talk to you anyway."
"Yes?"
"I think we should get married."
My eyes blurred, and I heard bees in my head. However a migraine wasn't the reason—it was panic. What was he saying? When we talked about our future together, which we seldom did, marriage was never mentioned. Besides, what was he doing proposing to me like this? I looked out at the cluster of five or six couples standing with arms folded while they rapidly tossed back and forth their own theories as to why the police were parked on their quiet street.
He was proposing to me in front of a missing woman's house with a complete stranger staring at us from behind his watering hose–wait a minute. I knew what was wrong with this picture.
"You're hoping you can rope me in with a ring, aren't
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