Jenn nodded, clearly beside herself, and she sorta leaned, but mostly fell into me, pressing her face against my shoulder as her arms came around my neck. She sobbed.
I held her tightly, knowing that a single Oh wasn’t going to suffice as a response to her confession. “There, there,” I added, the words clumsy and unhelpful.
But, Lord help me, I had no idea how to respond. I thought about admitting that I’d also prayed for Kip Sylvester to be on the receiving end of a biblical smiting—more than once—but dismissed that idea right out of the gate.
“You know . . .” I paused, cleared my throat, thought for a bit, and tried yet again, “You know you’re a good person, right?”
She cried harder.
Dammit.
I felt certain the internet was full of all sorts of information related to guilt, grief, and end of life issues. Yet I seriously doubted it contained anything remotely related to our present predicament. What I needed was something entitled, How to support your fiancée as she tries to process the death of her evil bastard of a father who was found in the parking lot of her mother’s hotel and realize she’s not to blame for his being strangled then shot on the evening of her engagement party when he wasn’t even invited.
That’s what I needed.
Maybe I’ll write it.
“Uh, Cletus?” In an uncharacteristic display of tact, Flo McClure had approached us and gentled her voice to say my name.
I looked up without pulling out of Jenn’s embrace. “Yes?”
“Diane is almost done. She’ll be out in a sec.”
“Thanks, Flo.”
Jenn sniffled and pulled away, wiping at her eyes again. The tissue she used was more crumbles of lint than solid form. “Thanks, Flo,” Jenn echoed.
“Oh, Jennifer. I’m so sorry,” Flo said, surprising me. The woman was not usually one to offer comfort. At her most agreeable, she was saltier than a sardine.
“Thanks.” Jenn grabbed her purse and pulled the strap to her shoulder as she stood.
“That must’ve been a real blow, having all your careful planning ruined like that,” Flo continued, earning her a confused look from both Jenn and me.
“What?” Jenn’s voice was nasally, rough with lack of sleep and tears.
“The party, hun. That was a real shame.” The older woman shook her head sadly. “Nancy and I were so looking forward to it. And to have it ruined like that, by those people.” She clicked her tongue. “Any chance your momma will try for a round two? I heard scallops were on the menu.”
Jenn glanced at me, I glanced at Jenn, and I believe we had the same thought at precisely the same time.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Raised a finger. Dropped it.
It was Posey Lamont who eventually spoke up. “Florence McClure. You know that girl just lost her daddy, and you’re asking her to reschedule a party so you can try scallops?”
Flo cast Posey—who was dressed in an ill-advised chartreuse ensemble with fringe at the cuffs and shoulder pads—a withering stare. “Of course I know Kip is dead, Posey. We were all there. But I also know that asshole got what was coming to him. I bet the girl is crying over her good fortune, sure. That man was a menace.”
Ah. There she is. Salty as a sea shanty.
Posey and Vanessa, who’d been sitting next to each other, reared back in perfect synchronization.
Vanessa’s mouth dropped and she pressed her hand to her chest. “Don’t presume to know Jennifer Sylvester’s feelings about anything, Florence. Just because Nancy Danvish told you some story about—”
“He stole her farm! Stole it right out from under her, her life’s work. Turned her out of her own house, kicked her off her own land. So don’t you presume to tell me what Nancy did or did not say. I know the truth, and the truth is whoever killed Kip Sylvester did us all a favor.”
With that, Florence lifted her chin, turned on her heel, and marched back to her desk.
“Well!” Posey Lamont and Vanessa Romero exchanged wide-eyed stares, huffing in unison.
“Good grief!” This came from Jedidiah Hill, flinging his own wide-eyed stare around the room.
“I should say so.” Nikki Becker pursed her lips together, flicking a disapproving glance to Flo and then turning her body as though to give the woman her back.
This was how southern folks shunned each other. Pretty soon everyone in town would know that Flo McClure had been rude to sweet, simple Jennifer Sylvester about the death of her father. Not the worst thing Flo had done, but definitely one of the most bizarre. However, the town never shunned Flo for long. As the main dispatch, she was the center of all the county’s legal rumor mill.
If she didn’t like you, she didn’t share her information.
The sound of ruffled feathers abruptly ceased as the door leading back to the main station swung open. Now everyone, even salty Flo McClure, stopped doing whatever they were doing and stopped thinking whatever they were thinking as all eyes, attention, and curiosity rested on the woman revealed.
There she stood, Diane Donner.
Chapter Seven
*Cletus*
“Accept who you are. Unless you're a serial killer.”
Ellen DeGeneres, Seriously... I'm Kidding
I didn’t know I’d been holding out hope until right this minute, that I’d mis-seen or misinterpreted Diane’s presence in the bakery last night, but I guess I had. Hope I was now forced to emancipate from false incarceration and release into the ether.
Looking at her now—her hair, her height, her build and frame—the woman washing blood off her hands had definitely been Diane. I’d studied and memorized the woman at the sink in a way I’d never taken the time to study Diane before. I’d never wanted or needed to. I can’t memorize everyone! That’s a waste of valuable memory nodes.
But now I did, and now I knew for sure.
The sheriff stood on one side and a tall, imposing woman in a suit stood on the other. She looked like a lawyer. You know, learned and poised to argue. Since I’d likely have very few interactions with this woman, I went ahead and looked at her, sizing her up from afar, not caring if I made assumptions about who she was based on her exterior instead of—as was my habit—taking the time to listen, learn, and ask questions first, and then judge.
Of note, and of particular interest to me, Diane no longer wore the red dress she’d donned last night. She wore a pantsuit of navy blue and a white shirt beneath, as close to casual attire as she ever came. At some point she’d changed. Did her red dress have Kip’s blood on it? Or had she simply changed because it was a new day?
Jennifer immediately crossed to her mother. I held back, watching. The sheriff looked unhappy, troubled, and exhausted. The lawyer looked . . . poised to argue. The sheriff and the lawyer shook hands, but Diane did not shake Sheriff James’s hand when offered. She didn’t even look at him. This wasn’t a snub or a rudeness, she simply seemed overwhelmed, in a daze.
When Jenn pulled her into a hug, Diane likewise appeared to be surprised by Jenn’s presence. After a moment’s hesitation, her arms came around her daughter. The lawyer placed a hand on Diane’s back and whispered something into her ear which had her pulling back from Jenn, turning to the sheriff, and shaking his hand.