had receded a bit from his forehead. He lived for the day he could shoot someone in the line of duty. So far, the best he’d managed was tasering a few gangbangers and assorted others when we lived in Atlanta.
I sneezed, drawing Hank’s attention.
“Grace! What are you doing here?” He elbowed Marv out of the way and gripped my upper arm, leaning forward to kiss my cheek.
I ducked the kiss and shook myself free.
“Now, Grace, don’t be like that. Can’t a man even kiss his wife?”
Marv looked at us curiously. Hank’s partner glared.
I kept a hold on my temper with difficulty. “I am not your wife. We are divorced. No relation legally or biologically. Get a girlfriend. Heaven knows, you had enough of them when we were married.” Grrr. Hank’s proprietary attitude was driving me crazy. I’d left Atlanta in part to get away from him, but he’d moved back to St. Elizabeth shortly after I did, ostensibly to care for his ailing mother who didn’t look too sick when we saw her on the tennis courts or chugging mai tais at The Roving Pirate.
The female officer—her name tag read A. Qualls—threw me a suspicious look tinged with jealousy. Little did she know she had nothing to worry about; if she wanted Hank, she was welcome to him. More than welcome.
“I’m working for the beauty pageant,” I said. “I found the body.” I wrapped my arms around myself to stop the shivers that came on suddenly.
“Not another one!” Hank exclaimed.
“It’s not like I go looking for them,” I defended myself.
“Another one?” Officer Qualls stepped closer to me, her hand resting near the handcuffs clipped to her utility belt.
More footsteps sounded on the stairs and the door pushed open to admit a man about six feet tall, with closecropped hair going gray at the temples. His flagpolestraight posture and air of command said “soldier” or “cop,” even though he wore civilian clothes, a navy blazer, and an off-white shirt that set off his tanned skin. He had a square jaw and a longish nose that had clearly been broken at least once. His steely eyes swept the small crowd clogging the hallway, lingering for a moment on me. His brows rose a fraction. My heartbeat sped up at the sight of him. Special Agent in Charge John Dillon of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. We’d met in May, when he investigated Constance DuBois’s death, and there’d been a few sparks once he decided neither Mom nor I had stabbed Constance. But he’d been gone most of the summer, assigned to some special investigation on the other side of the state, and I hadn’t seen him in two and a half months. How long had he been back? Maybe he’d returned weeks ago but hadn’t been interested enough to call me. I suppressed a tiny ping of disappointment.
After a moment, his gaze moved past me and he said, “Who was first on the scene?” It took him less than a minute to take a report from Hank and Officer Qualls, prod them to put up crime scene tape, and assign Hank to keeping looky-loos from intruding. He disappeared into the room with Audrey’s body. The coroner, arriving a few minutes later, joined him. More police officers showed up and separated Marv and me by putting me in the dressing room I’d used earlier. A sixteen-year-old copy of People I found in the vanity drawer kept my mind off what the coroner and crime scene types must be doing next door.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only twenty-five minutes by my watch, Special Agent Dillon stepped into the room. He paused on the threshold and gazed at me where I sat at the vanity. His eyes lingered a moment on the length of leg bared by my denim skirt. His mouth was set in a firm line, but a hint of humor lit his navy eyes. “Miss Terhune. I suppose I should’ve expected to see you here.”
“I don’t know why you say that, Marsh.” I flipped a page of the magazine as if fascinated by the article about Pamela Anderson marrying Tommy Lee.
He sighed. I’d taken
I sneezed, drawing Hank’s attention.
“Grace! What are you doing here?” He elbowed Marv out of the way and gripped my upper arm, leaning forward to kiss my cheek.
I ducked the kiss and shook myself free.
“Now, Grace, don’t be like that. Can’t a man even kiss his wife?”
Marv looked at us curiously. Hank’s partner glared.
I kept a hold on my temper with difficulty. “I am not your wife. We are divorced. No relation legally or biologically. Get a girlfriend. Heaven knows, you had enough of them when we were married.” Grrr. Hank’s proprietary attitude was driving me crazy. I’d left Atlanta in part to get away from him, but he’d moved back to St. Elizabeth shortly after I did, ostensibly to care for his ailing mother who didn’t look too sick when we saw her on the tennis courts or chugging mai tais at The Roving Pirate.
The female officer—her name tag read A. Qualls—threw me a suspicious look tinged with jealousy. Little did she know she had nothing to worry about; if she wanted Hank, she was welcome to him. More than welcome.
“I’m working for the beauty pageant,” I said. “I found the body.” I wrapped my arms around myself to stop the shivers that came on suddenly.
“Not another one!” Hank exclaimed.
“It’s not like I go looking for them,” I defended myself.
“Another one?” Officer Qualls stepped closer to me, her hand resting near the handcuffs clipped to her utility belt.
More footsteps sounded on the stairs and the door pushed open to admit a man about six feet tall, with closecropped hair going gray at the temples. His flagpolestraight posture and air of command said “soldier” or “cop,” even though he wore civilian clothes, a navy blazer, and an off-white shirt that set off his tanned skin. He had a square jaw and a longish nose that had clearly been broken at least once. His steely eyes swept the small crowd clogging the hallway, lingering for a moment on me. His brows rose a fraction. My heartbeat sped up at the sight of him. Special Agent in Charge John Dillon of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. We’d met in May, when he investigated Constance DuBois’s death, and there’d been a few sparks once he decided neither Mom nor I had stabbed Constance. But he’d been gone most of the summer, assigned to some special investigation on the other side of the state, and I hadn’t seen him in two and a half months. How long had he been back? Maybe he’d returned weeks ago but hadn’t been interested enough to call me. I suppressed a tiny ping of disappointment.
After a moment, his gaze moved past me and he said, “Who was first on the scene?” It took him less than a minute to take a report from Hank and Officer Qualls, prod them to put up crime scene tape, and assign Hank to keeping looky-loos from intruding. He disappeared into the room with Audrey’s body. The coroner, arriving a few minutes later, joined him. More police officers showed up and separated Marv and me by putting me in the dressing room I’d used earlier. A sixteen-year-old copy of People I found in the vanity drawer kept my mind off what the coroner and crime scene types must be doing next door.
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only twenty-five minutes by my watch, Special Agent Dillon stepped into the room. He paused on the threshold and gazed at me where I sat at the vanity. His eyes lingered a moment on the length of leg bared by my denim skirt. His mouth was set in a firm line, but a hint of humor lit his navy eyes. “Miss Terhune. I suppose I should’ve expected to see you here.”
“I don’t know why you say that, Marsh.” I flipped a page of the magazine as if fascinated by the article about Pamela Anderson marrying Tommy Lee.
He sighed. I’d taken
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