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“Give me a minute, woman. My stomach needs to get out of my throat,” Conrad said, his voice strained. “You really are okay?”
“I really am. Christopher did it, by the way,” she told him. “He confessed to everything.”
“We’ve got it all recorded. But you weren’t safe,” her fiancé complained, pulling back to frown down at her.
“Conrad, my love.” She jutted her chin. “I’ve been carrying around a fully loaded roundhouse kick. Totally packing heat. I was never in any danger.”
He snorted. “You owe me so many casseroles.”
“And you owe me another poem.”
A second snort met her words. “I’ve got to go to the station to handle this, but a deputy will take your statement. I’ll return as soon as I’m done.”
She cupped his jaw and peered into his beautiful amber eyes. “We won the game and beat the curse. We are the best sheriffs in the history of sheriffing! But I’m officially undeputizing myself. I’ve got a wedding to plan!”
“Agreed.” He kissed her lips before reluctantly releasing her and stalking from the shed.
She grinned at her friends, and Donnie, who remained behind. “It’s nice to meet you Donnie.”
He blushed and kicked a rock with his shoe. "You too. Sorry I made you so uncomfortable before. Chris told me you liked me, and I…I didn’t mean…I…never mind. He also told me to leave the memorial, that I was making everyone uneasy. I was sitting in my car when I heard the explosion and came running. Conrad asked me questions as we ran to get you, and I realized Chris had set me up.”
“It’s okay.” Jane beamed at him, at everyone. “I finally know how to end my book.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Leave readers haunted by an ending that defies the concept of happy.
Y’all Write Now–Advice for New Writers
by Tabby Paynes-Murksand
Hours later, Jane, along with the members of Team Truth and a handful of others sat at her dining room table, talking and laughing, with a feast spread out before them. Fried chicken, collard greens, fried okra, toasted pimento sandwiches, BBQ short ribs and desserts. For such a special occasion as this, Fiona had even prepared the cream of the crop. Blueberry pancakes.
Wyatt and Susan had come. Raymond Moore, Holden and Lucy, too. Donnie stayed for a bit before taking off. With the case solved, the delusional Christopher locked behind bars, and the pure gold ending to Jane’s book settled—the ex did it, of course—she enjoyed the camaraderie. The group was only missing Conrad. He’d texted a short while ago to inform them Cartier had been found in Christopher’s shed at home, alive and well. That news had erased all tension from Lucy, who remained by Holden’s side, the two whispering and smiling at each other. It was safe to say they’d patched things up.
“I’m still in shock,” Fiona said, passing the warm maple syrup June’s way. “Christopher Wellington, Jane’s ex-boyfriend, a murderer. I never suspected.”
Jane’s sister accepted the offering, but she didn’t dive into her pancakes like any sane person would. Rather, she remained focused on the banana pudding, as if she’d never tasted anything better. Tiffany snatched the syrup and drowned her cakes before shoveling bite after bite into her mouth. She excelled in table manners until Fiona’s specialty was available.
“I know,” Jane said. “I really let the team down with this case. Though, yes, I did execute the most sublime sting operation in history probably. However, I failed to peg Christopher as a monster right from the start.” Perhaps it was time to hang up her investigator hat?
Beau forked a bite of his greens. “I never trusted him.” The darling man had fixed Jane’s phone, ensuring any trackers were disabled.
Isaac and Holden threw pieces of bread at Beau while booing.
“You were snowed, too,” Trick retorted. “Admit it.”
The front door opened and closed, saving Beau from having to reply. Jane’s heart skipped a beat as familiar footsteps reached her ears. In seconds, Conrad strode through the opening. He looked tired, and his hair and clothes were disheveled, but relief and satisfaction tinged his features.
She jumped to her feet and rushed to hug him. They held each other tight for several long beats. She breathed in his delicious scent. Dry cedar and refined spices. Something she’d loved about him from the beginning.
“It’s over,” he breathed out. “We discovered multiple drafts for Grave Actually in Wellington’s home. He tried out numerous scenarios and used the game of Clue as a blueprint.”
“I knew it,” she replied. Perhaps she shouldn’t hang up her investigator hat, after all.
But. By going undercover as an author, she’d developed a love of writing. And, while on the case, she’d discovered a desire to help Conrad at the office. Perhaps she could do both, one fodder for the other. Plus, “number one worldwide mega best-selling author” did have a nice ring to it.
Should she stick with Jane Ladling—or rather, Jane Ryan—or go with a pseudonym? Dilla Jangen, perhaps? The moniker had come to her in a dream, and for some reason, she adored it. If not a pseudonym, maybe she should change the name of the hotshot detective in her manuscript. Well, she’d go with whatever her agent suggested. When she acquired an agent, of course.
