"Breathe," the sheriff says at the same time as I do. So helpful. He takes the thermos from me and sends the man on his way, while I'm coughing like a hag and trying to wipe out the taste from my mouth with my hands.
"Horace owns the local brewery. He's crafting a new malt, and he's had some trouble with it."
"You could have told me," I say hoarsely, the spice still burning through my insides. Then I think better of it and hiss. "Don't say you did."
By all accounts, if this is my initiation into the town, I should pack up and leave immediately.
But I'm not a quitter, right?
Chapter Seven
Marlowe
I force myself to pull it together, but I'm thrown off course again at the sight before me. I remove my sunglasses to ensure my eyes aren't deceiving me and hand them back to the sheriff, who groans loudly beside me. He didn't expect this either.
"Fuck," he mutters as he guides me forward. Is he shielding me with his whole body? I don't know, but my pulse, pounding in my ears, tells me he's too near, his body too close to mine.
What have I stepped into?
My only silver lining? It might not have been coffee in Horace's thermos, but maybe it will give me some liquid courage. I'm going to need it.
The courtroom, a designated room in the Candy Creek Town Hall building, is so homey that I feel as if I'm sitting in someone's living room instead of a courtroom.
I'm not unfamiliar with courtrooms, but this one is extraordinary on another level. The walls are painted a soft pink to match the floral rugs on the floor. Vases filled with fresh flowers adorn numerous surfaces, along with cute little knick-knacks. Embroidered cloths cover everything that resembles a table. There are curtains instead of blinds, and the chairs have plush floral cushions.
I'm made to sit at the defense table while the sheriff stands with the bailiff. But I can't shake the feeling that behind me, the gallery is packed to the rafters with people. Is the entire population of Candy Creek here in the courtroom with me? Oh dear heaven. They're all looking at me with strange expressions, as if I'm some interloper. Well, I did try to smite their beloved Benjamin Lawrence. That otter is seriously ruining my life.
Then the judge arrives. Judge Jennifer Jenkins.
"Ms. Evans," she says in a stern voice, though she looked like a supermodel in her younger years, with her glossy, flawless dark skin and her hair cropped short into tight curls.
She is beyond beautiful and currently scrutinizing me over the tops of her spectacles.
The silence stretches on. Was I supposed to say something? Was she waiting for me to speak? If their courtroom looks like this, I can safely say the rules I know don't apply here in Candy Creek.
I also can't seem to take my eyes off the mug on her bench; the ceramic is embossed with candy, and so is the handle. "Judge Candy Creek" is loosely printed on the front. Steam rises from the surface, and the aroma of coffee floats toward me. All I want is a sip. Dear god, what has this town turned me into?
"What can you say for yourself, Ms. Evans?"
I was just about to start rambling anyway. I'm so off my game, though. Without caffeine, my brain feels like a pair of drunks bumping into each other in a bouncy house.
"Your Honor," I say, intending to give it my best shot. "I recently purchased the cottage in Marrow Lane. I—"
"I'm aware of your backstory, Ms. Evans. Bernie, as your only witness, informed me of all the gory details regarding BenjaminLawrence. I believe you attempted to perfume him to death. We can skip that. Do you admit to the intent to do bodily harm?"
"Your Honor, I thought it was a rat—"
I think I saw the judge stifle a giggle at my words. I can't take my eyes off her coffee. I'm practically salivating now, and I think the judge caught me eyeing her mug.
"Ms. Evans, please approach the bench."
Oh boy.
"Hi," I say when she merely looks at me.
"Hello," she replies. "Are you all right?"
"No, not in the least. I—"
