CHAPTER 4

      I slept like G.G. used to when he was mixing drugs and alcohol: comatose for twelve hours straight, and I felt groggy when I woke up. A little clock ticked on the small, round table next to me, but I felt like it was shaking the whole bed. Then I realized that it was Tripod’s whiplike tail whacking the mattress in rhythm with the clock.

      “Okay, okay,” I mumbled, squinting at the brightly lit window. Nearly eleven? No wonder Tripod was getting antsy. I rolled out of bed, found my same jeans and T-shirt—I really needed to unpack—then on bare feet headed downstairs. The house was quiet, and I could tell I was alone.

      I saw a sticky note on the office door: “Leave Angel inside.” Sure enough, fluff-ball’s shrill yapping started up. Tripod’s ears perked up. Once he sniffed and snorted at her, however, only silence came from the other side of the door.

      “What the hell,” I muttered, and opened the door.

      I’ll give Angel credit; she was fast. Through the door, across the foyer and halfway up the stairs before Tripod could even turn around. There she stood her ground, ceding the first floor to Tripod but daring him to try for the second.

      Tripod, of course, leaped joyously into the dare. But I caught him by the collar and dragged him to a standstill. “Cool it, mutt. Let’s go outside.”

      Once we were on the porch, Angel ventured down, resuming her yapping at the front door. I figured the two of them would eventually sort things out. The real question was how I was going to sort things out with Alice.

      One hour, one shower and one cup of coffee later I was on my way. There were a couple of lawyers in the several towns around here, but I worried that some of them might know Alice and her recently deceased minister husband. So I picked the sleaziest, most likely to be godless one I could. According to his yellow pages ad, Dick Manglin was just what I needed. Personal injury, criminal defense, DWIs and bail bond reductions. Someone whose only goal was to win, win, win.

      I didn’t call for an appointment. I figured my snug-fitting dress, stiletto sandals, red toenails and redder lipstick would get me in.

      Sure enough, by the time I left Dick’s office he was dictating a demand letter for my sister that would give her one week to produce my portion of the property sale to the church, as well as one-half the value for the remaining acreage and house. It would be hand-delivered tomorrow. Otherwise, the letter concluded, we would take legal action to challenge the sale as fraudulent and to force the sale of the house. Copies to be sent to the Simmons Creek Victory Church.

      Alice was going to shit a brick.

      Oops. Alice was going to freak out, I amended. I’d given up cursing in deference to the baby, who all the books said would be able to hear long before she was born.

      Anyway, Alice was going to freak out, which was the whole point. As for Daniel, I’d better interview him soon, before Alice turned him entirely against me. But he hadn’t been home when I left, and I didn’t want to go back there anyway.

      I climbed into my Jeep. The whole day stretched ahead of me, but I wasn’t sure where to go or what to do.

      As if in answer, my stomach growled.

      “Food,” I muttered to Jenny Jeep. “Find me a restaurant, baby. Preferably one with oyster po’ boys and fried onion rings.” My ob-gyn in Los Angeles had given me permission to eat whatever I wanted to. No dieting at all, at least for the first few months. She probably hadn’t had fried onion rings in mind, but it wasn’t like I ate them everyday. Besides, most days I couldn’t eat much breakfast. It made sense, then, that I make up for it at lunch.

      I found a place—Sara Mae’s—that looked like it had been serving lunch specials for the past fifty years. It was well past the lunch hour, but there were still enough cars there to reassure me that the food was good.

      I slipped in without fanfare—I thought. Of course, every head in the place swiveled my way.

      This is a small town, idiot. And you’re a stranger. The outfit didn’t help either. As I slid into the first empty booth, I reminded myself that from now on it would be jeans and T-shirt for me. Nothing flashy. And I needed to keep my always-rioting hair in a ponytail or bun.

      I gave the waitress my order, then took out my cell phone. Three more messages from G.G. I slapped it closed. The hell with him. He probably just wanted to know where the file for the next tour was. And if I was really leaving him, could I please return all the jewelry he’d bought me?

      Fat chance. I’d already sold most of it. I had a little nest egg started. Barely five figures, but if I was frugal, it would keep me going a few months until I received my inheritance. Then I’d settle in, just me, Tripod and my sweet baby.

      The waitress returned with my lemonade and onion rings just as the door opened.

      “Hey, Joe,” she called out. “You’re late today.”

      “You got any pork chops left?” the man called to her. That man. That Joe.

      Like radar, his eyes seemed to find me.

      Shit. I mean, shoot.

      He greeted a couple of old guys at the bar. The regulars. It reminded me of Cheers, a place where everyone knows your name, so it was no biggie to figure out who would be the big topic of conversation once I left the joint.

      “Hey,” he said, stopping at my booth.

      I’d done the mental calculations in the short time it had taken him to reach me. Six feet tall, maybe six-one. One-eighty or so. G.G.’s height but a good thirty pounds heavier. Probably never been strung out. A big plus in his favor. Too bad he was a reporter.

      “Hello,” I responded, not smiling.

      “You’re eating alone.”

      “I am. Unless, pushy reporter that you are, you intend to invite yourself to join me.”

      He grinned. Damn, he had a great smile. I meant darn.

      “You don’t like reporters. Now why is that?”

      “I don’t like lawyers either,” I said. “Or dog catchers, or tax collectors.”

      His eyes glinted with humor. “Surely the fact that I’m not a lawyer, love dogs and pay taxes instead of collecting them should offset the fact that I’m a reporter.”

      I’ve always been a sucker for charming men. Charming, smart or talented, preferably all three. G.G. had once been charming and talented. They hadn’t dubbed him “Guitar God” Givens for nothing. But fame and cocaine had eventually ruined him for anything but staring in the mirror.

      This man, Joe Reeves, was charming and probably a talented writer—and smart, too. Unfortunately he could also be a threat to my need to lie low. But there were ways to deal with a man like him.

      So I perched my chin on my hand, smiled up at him. “At least you like dogs.” I gestured to the bench seat opposite me. “Go ahead then, and sit. Have an onion ring.”

      The waitress appeared with his iced tea and a house salad. “Thanks, Marie,” he said. “Have you met Zoe?”

      We