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Lottie might be distracted, but that’s never stopped her before.
Let’s hope I can stop the killer before they realize the best detective in all of Vermont is on their tail.
My number one job is to protect Lottie from the killer at this point.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
EVERETT
My phone bleats incessantly all the way down to Ashford.
I have one hard rule in the car. I don’t glance at my phone, period.
If it’s important they can call, and if I deem it appropriate, I’ll pick up through the speaker system. I talk to Lemon that way at least once a day.
But whoever keeps sending me these text messages isn’t in the mood to call. I’ll have to remember to mute my phone on the drive home. All of this chirping makes me antsy.
As soon as I pull into a parking spot at the courthouse, I snap up my phone, only to see an entire jumble of group texts from Miranda to both Lemon and me.
Good morning, kids! Speaking of kids, I’ve got a few procreating tips that can help put us on the highway to Baby Town.
A groan evicts from me.
Every text thereafter holds the same theme, so I shove my phone into my pocket, grab my briefcase, and head toward the massive alabaster building looming before me.
It’s still early in the morning and the heat is already on. Which reminds me, there’s a boat out in Honey Lake that I’ve yet to use this season. Maybe I’ll grab a picnic basket and invite Lemon—
A woman runs out before me and I stop shy of slamming into her, and yet I send the stack of books in her hands flying despite the fact.
“My apologies,” I say, helping her snatch up the scattered tomes at our feet.
“Please, don’t apologize.” She laughs as she takes the small stack from me and she begins to topple to the side, so I wrap an arm around her waist to help keep her from falling.
Her dark hair is swept into a bun. Her white blouse seems to have unbuttoned itself, far lower than socially acceptable in the near miss, and she’s wearing what looks to be an uncomfortably tight skirt. She’s about my age; mid-thirties is my guess.
“It’s completely my fault,” she says, sweeping me with her gaze and I take a firm step away. “It’s my first day. I’m a little nervous, and I’m terrified I’m going to be late.” She glances back at the building.
“Your first day?”
“That’s right. I’m a clerk.” She swallows hard. “I’m a transplant, and everything is new to me.”
“A transplant from where?” I ask as I motion toward the courthouse, and we get into lockstep together as we make our way toward it.
“Friedman.” Her mouth clamps shut before she winces. “I just finished up with my degree. Anyway, I just rented a place out in Honey Hollow. And believe me when I say, the rent isn’t cheap. I’d better get in there. Wish me luck.” She gives a little wink as she trots off with all the fresh-faced excitement one should have on their first day.
A clerk.
An uneasy feeling takes over.
Odds are we’ll meet again, and something about that doesn’t sit well with me.
* * *
Three cases and two hours’ worth of paperwork later, I find myself stepping inside Red Satin Gentlemen’s Club down in Leeds.
It’s dark inside. Crimson carpeting meets with crimson walls as the neon runway in the center of the room features scantily clad girls.
The music is loud, the scent of greasy food clogs up the air, and men flaunting dollar bills in their hands flock to the stage in hopes to buy a little attention for themselves.
