Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) (18 page)

“So when Mud opened his front door, I was
prepared to register every bit of evidence. The first thing I noted
was the Twinkie cream on his upper lip. Gave me probable cause to
search the premises. And there they were, in the middle of the
kitchen counter. Nine boxes of Twinkies. He’d eaten one box, which
I verified by counting the number of Twinkie wrappers I’d collected
while hot on his trial. I impounded the rest.”

“Damn, Sheriff. Good work.”

“Thank you, Doodle. But are you truly aware
of the implications here?”

“No, sir. Maybe you should tell us.”

Teesdale uncrossed his ankles and leaned
forward with his hands on his knees. “Remember the Twinkie
defense?”

“The Twinkie defense?”

“That fellow over in San Francisco who shot
the mayor because he OD’d on Twinkies? Don’t tell me you don’t
remember. The case was landmark.”

“Sheriff, can’t say that I—”

Teesdale whipped out a hand. “Don’t say
another word, Doodle. I’m shocked and dismayed. But since you don’t
remember, I’ll explain. Mud Killian could have OD’d on those
Twinkies and wiped out the entire town. He had the arsenal to do
it.”

Doodle slapped his hands to his cheeks.
“Sheriff, you’re a saint. Thank the Lord for providing you to
us.”

“Don’t mention it. It was my duty, and I
couldn’t have done otherwise.”

“What’s gonna happen to Mud?”

“The heinousness of this crime deserves the
stiffest of punishments. I did what I had to do. I confiscated his
cache of squirt guns. Then I informed his mama.”

Doodle’s breath wheezed out. “Holy Christ,
Sheriff.”

Teesdale did the sign of the cross over his
chest. “I know, I know. Mama Killian’s retribution is too terrible
to imagine. I figure I’ll take a ride over there tomorrow and make
sure she hasn’t staked him out over an anthill for longer than
twelve hours.” He drained the last of his beer, then smacked his
lips. “Delicious brew, Doodle.”

“Have another, Sheriff. On the house. Can’t
do enough for the man who saved the entire town.”

Teesdale rose to his feet and plopped his hat
on his head. “Thanks for the generous offer. But for now, folks, I
gotta turn in. The wife’ll be worrying herself sick over me, and I
have a busy day tomorrow, what with all those dastardly criminals
to incarcerate and Mama Killian to subdue.” He put a hand over his
heart. “Better make sure I remember my nitroglycerine, just in
case. The old ticker may give out in the face of Mama’s wrath.”

Teesdale tipped his hat. “Night, Doodle.
Night, Simone, Mayor.” He turned, encompassing the assembly at the
bar. “Gentlemen.” Then he gave a nod to Brax. “Nice to meet ya,
Sheriff. Drop by for a little shoptalk anytime.”

“If you see Carl, send him home ASAP.”

“Will do. Like Little Bo Peep’s sheep.”
Teesdale saluted, then left.

If the sheriff hadn’t seemed quite so tickled
with himself, Brax would have felt for him. The humiliation of
capturing criminals like Mud Killian was a cop’s nightmare, a job
reserved for screwups who couldn’t make it in a big city
department. Hell, Teesdale wouldn’t make it in Brax’s county
department.

Still, tracking a Twinkie thief was a sight
better than working a good friend’s murder case.

* * * * *

“Simone. Mayor.” Brax stepped up to their
table and all those butterflies she’d gotten when he walked in came
back for another rally in her tummy.

“We’d ask you to join us, but it’s past my
bedtime.” Della tipped her arm to look at her watch. “Will you look
at that? It’s after eleven.” She jumped up, grabbed her purse,
hugging it to her chest as if she thought Brax might suddenly stare
at her breasts.

He was much too much a gentleman for that.
Most of the time.

“I’ve got to be up early for a breakfast talk
at the Rotary in Bullhead,” Della explained. “Those Rotarians, you
know, as much fun as a barrel of monkeys. Gotta go. Bye,
Simone.”

Della rounded Brax, turned, scrunched her
eyes and zipped her lip in a warning that said,
Do not tell this
gorgeous, hunky man a thing.

The long line of gawkers at the bar fell like
dominoes. Della had a killer wiggle in tight jeans, especially when
she wore those lace-up suede boots with three-inch heels.

Simone cocked her head at Brax. “Do men know
that women wiggle when they walk because of the high heels?”

“Something your mother says?”

“No. It’s an observation I just made.” It
also guaranteed to sway his thoughts if he suddenly got the idea to
ask how her talk with Della had gone. “It never occurred to me
before. But that’s why we do it.”

He cast an eye after Della as she disappeared
through the door. “I think some women do it because they can.”

Simone wasn’t exactly sure what that meant,
especially regarding Della, but then he held out his hand to her.
She forgot about caring what he meant. “Can I walk you home?”

She wanted to take his hand so badly the
butterflies in her tummy jumped all the way up to her throat. She
looked at his hand, then back up at him. “You can walk me partway.
Just to the corner.”

“Partway? Why not all the way?”

Did he notice his own little double entendre?
His eyes sparkled, and she figured he did.

“Because.” First, he might try to kiss
her—and she’d let him—and second, she needed to look at Carl’s
string of emails on her computer. Alone. She stood, avoiding his
hand, and tried to pull the hem of her T-shirt down over her butt,
but it was way too short.

“It doesn’t cover your tush,” he whispered in
her ear, setting off a nice chain of tingles. “But I promise not to
look.”

“You’re a very bad man,” she whispered back.
With her head held high, she paraded through the empty tables.
“Night, Mr. Doodle. Night, boys.”

More than a few brows rose in speculation as
all noted Brax close on her heels. “Brax is going to walk me home.
Partway.”

“Uh-huh, Simone.” Doodle covered his
mouth.

Snickers and chortles followed them out the
door.

She turned on Brax in the parking lot, out of
sight of the open door. “You shouldn’t have offered to walk me
home.”

“What kind of gentleman would let a lady walk
home alone? Today you said I needed to be more chivalrous.”

Trust him to remember and throw it back at
her. “You let Della walk home alone.”

“I said
lady
.”

She gasped and opened her eyes as wide as
they’d go.

Brax held up his hands. “I meant, she’s the
mayor, not a lady.”

She jammed her hands at her waist and leaned
forward.

“What I mean is—” He stopped, eyed her. “You
did that so I wouldn’t ask you what Della said.”

Darn. He caught on. She turned. “Walk me to
the corner.”

“Don’t walk so fast. We’ll get there before
you have a chance to tell me.”

“Tennies. They always make me walk too fast.”
She hummed. “I don’t think I should tell you. You’re not going to
like it.” She made sure she stayed a pace ahead of him so that she
couldn’t see his eyes.

“Can’t be worse than Teesdale saying he
hasn’t seen Carl.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t even given a thought to his
disappointment on Maggie’s behalf. A chill crept across her
shoulders. Wouldn’t it have been nice if Carl was sleeping it off
in the jail? “Why didn’t you ask him to search for Carl?”

“If the sheriff is worth anything at all, he
figured out he should do that when I asked him if he’d seen
Carl.”

That didn’t sound as if he thought much of
Sheriff Teesdale. Maybe the Twinkie story didn’t have all the drama
of chasing a real murderer through dingy back alleys as Brax was
probably used to, but the sheriff was still something special.

She didn’t realize she’d stopped until Brax
ran into her back. “You don’t like the sheriff?”

“Seems like a stand-up kind of guy.”

“But?” she prodded.

“I didn’t add a
but
.”

“There was definitely a
but
there.”

He laughed, softly, then harder. Finally, he
bent over, putting his hands on his knees as he completely lost
it.

“What?”

He raised his head. The light of a street
lamp sparkled in his eyes. “I have never in my life met anyone like
you. I don’t think you even know how hilarious you are.”

She pouted her lower lip. “Hilarious doesn’t
seem like much of a compliment.” Sexy, seductive, beautiful, smart,
those were compliments. Hilarious was something you called Groucho
Marx.

He walked his hands up his thighs until he
was straight and towering over her, then he put his hand on her
cheek. “You have no idea how much of a compliment it is.”

“That makes me feel better.”
Yeah,
right.

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, and all
the laughter drained from his gaze. “It doesn’t matter what Della
said or if she talks Maggie into feeling better. It’s too
late.”

The chill she’d felt earlier skittered from
her nape to the bottom of her spine. “You think he’s going to leave
her.”

He smiled gently, but his eyelids drooped
with sudden fatigue. “I arrived too late to do anything about
it.”

“It takes two to fix something, Brax. And you
were never one of the two that could do the fixing.” So why had she
thought her little fantasy would help? A question without a good
answer.

“You said that before. Still feels like
sh—crap.”

“It’s all right. You can say
shit
. I’m
a big girl, and I can take it. It’ll work out, Brax. I’m sure it
will.”

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and
prayed.
Please, God, let Maggie be the one Carl’s talking about
in his emails
.

“What are you doing?”

Her eyes popped open. “Praying.”

“Hope it does some good.”

It had to. Brax stared at her. She stared at
him. Finally she had to ask, “Wanna kiss me goodnight?”

Taking her elbows in his hands, he pulled her
close until her nipples touched his chest. His lips brushed the tip
of her nose, then her lips themselves. “Yes. I wanna kiss you. But
I’m not going to.”

Ooh. That was too bad. “Why not?”

“Because I’d rather dream about it tonight.
In my dreams, I don’t have to stop with kissing. I get to unbutton
your shirt—”

“I’m not wearing a shirt with buttons.”

“Shh. I’m seducing you with my words
here.”

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying, I unbutton your shirt, use
my tongue to push aside the lacy bra, and take your nipple in my
mouth.”

She wanted to press her nipples hard against
his chest. “What about the part where you bury yourself to the
hilt? The hero always does that in romance novels.”

He rubbed his lips on hers. “Burying to the
hilt comes at the end. Before that, I’m going to make you come nine
ways to Sunday with my fingers, my lips, and my tongue.”

“Oh.” Oh my goodness. She was turning to
mush. Excessive, exuberant, dangerous mush. She moved so her lips
grazed his jaw. “All in your dreams?”

“For now.”

* * * * *

Brax put both hands on the doorjamb of the
Flood’s End. “Wanted to let you boys know that Simone is home safe
and sound. Figured you’d be worried about that.”

They looked at him as if he had a screw
loose, not caring one whit if he did or didn’t climb into Simone’s
bed. The geezers loved her. She could do no wrong.

He backed up one step on the porch. “I’m
getting into my truck now. Going back to Maggie’s.”

They still didn’t care. But he wouldn’t
tarnish Simone’s reputation. Not for anything.

In those moments when he’d held her by the
elbows and fantasized about tasting her with his tongue anywhere
and everywhere, he’d decided—for the third or fourth time—that
whatever was in that email between Carl and her, he, Brax, didn’t
give a damn. It wasn’t something that would hurt Carl’s marriage to
Maggie.

Simone was sweet, she was funny, and she
wasn’t a liar. But Brax was going home in a week or so, and his
relationship track record sucked the big one. As much as he wanted
to taste her again and again, it was better to leave Simone in his
fantasies. Dream girls were satisfied with very little.

Five minutes later, his SUV chugged up the
steep drive. The trailer was dark, Maggie’s car was exactly where
it should be, and Carl’s parking spot was still empty.

How was he going to tell Maggie he’d
failed?

Worse, how was he going to tell her he
believed Carl was about to leave her and break her heart?

* * * * *

Simone stared at the computer screen until
her eyes started to cross. It was impossible to tell if the heroine
was Maggie. She’d exchanged three emails with Carl, asking for
further clarification on certain details.

He’d replied with specific answers.

But was the woman in the fantasy supposed to
be Maggie? She was blondish, like Maggie, but Carl’s description
was of a seemingly younger woman with much fuller breasts. For that
matter, the hero of the story was younger, taller, and thinner.

Maybe Carl had imagined them both young,
perfect, and agile.

Simone couldn’t make a determination.

Darn it, why hadn’t he given her names to
use? Instead, she’d written the whole thing with pronouns. Which
was easy when the story involved only the hero and heroine.

With a sudden burst of frustration, she
pounded the side of her monitor, then, for each of his stupid,
damning emails, she hit the delete key so hard she almost broke a
nail. “Darn you, Carl.”

She dashed off a new email.

“If you’re planning what I think you’re
planning, you are dead meat. And I do mean dead meat. Rotten,
maggot-infested, buzzard bait.”

She felt only marginally better.