Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky by Sharon Love Cook Page A

Homer Frost? Whose idea was it to paint the horse’s ass green and blue?”
    He smiled. “Who sat on my shoulders holding the paint cans?”
    “It was a two-person job.”
    “Did I ever tell you how much I liked having you up there?”
    We smiled at each other, remembering that night. I said softly, “If you move down South, who will know your secrets?”
    His mood changed, and he scowled. “What’s so special about being buried in the town you were born in?”
    Cal needed more help than I could give in a quick conversation. “Promise you won’t do anything hasty without talking to me first. Give yourself time. Things have a way of working out.”
    He got to his feet, brushing off his knees. “Fine, but Marcie’s not the patient type. She’s threatening to see Spencer Farley unless I make a commitment.”
    I turned the key in the ignition. “Trust me, Marcie won’t let you get away.”
    Quick as a minnow, he leaned in and kissed me, whispering, “I let you get away. Biggest mistake of my life.”
    I tried to keep my voice steady. “Let me know about that suspect, will you?”
    He pulled the ticket pad from his pocket. “Sure thing, and you know where to find me.” With that, he sprinted across the street.
    I shifted into drive and soon merged with the Main Street traffic, my face burning. Did Cal seriously think I’d visit him at Home Suite Homes? I’d be putting my life in danger. Marcie Ventimiglia Devine might appear a contemporary woman, but she’s old school. She’d go straight for the jugular.
    Preoccupied, I didn’t notice the man with the peculiar gait walking on the sidewalk, a case of beer balanced on his shoulder. With each step his right leg swung in an arc, creating a pronounced limp. Still, he looked pretty jaunty. His tangled, copper-colored hair and ruddy high cheekbones gave him the appearance of a Ralph Lauren model if you ignored the dirty, matted sheepskin vest flapping in the breeze, the jeans.
    The man looked familiar. I followed him with my eyes until whump! I banged into the car ahead of me. It had stopped at the light while I hadn’t. The driver glared into his rear view mirror, blasting the horn and at the same time giving me the finger. I waited for him to pull over. He didn’t. Fortunately, I’d hit a clunker. When the light turned green, the car continued on its way. I turned my attention back to the road.
    Thursday evening at six, I pulled up in front of the Zagrobski’s house. It was an olive ranch with a rooftop satellite dish the size of a beach umbrella. The thing looked capable of picking up transmissions beamed from Jupiter.
    Betty Ann’s husband Tiny and his son Jonah were throwing a football around in the front yard. The contrast between them was striking. Tiny was broad, his arms and neck straining his tee shirt. Jonah, on the other hand, was a wraith. His legs in cutoffs looked like pipe cleaners speckled with insect bites.
    The football spiraled through the air. Jonah lurched toward it, but at the last minute, he covered his head. The ball bounced off his back into the bushes.
    “Go on, Son, throw it back!”
    The boy scowled at his dad and began kicking the azalea bushes in his search for the errant football. I lowered my window. “You two look good,” I lied.
    Tiny approached the car. “Jonah’s coming along. We haven’t spent much time together these past years, so I’m playing catch-up.”
    “How’s it going?”
    “It’s going,” he said. “The kid’s been living with Judy all these years. She’s not the best role model for a young teen.”
    Though I didn’t know Judy personally, I’d heard plenty from B.A. about Tiny’s wacky first wife. “Is Betty Ann ready?”
    “Last time I checked she was trying on shoes. I said, ‘Babe, who’s gonna look at your feet at a wake?’”
    At that moment, Betty Ann appeared at the side door. In a long, flowered caftan, she looked like a Samoan fortune teller. Like her husband, B.A. is large, the