Page 2 of Homicide in Water Creek

He rolled his eyes again. Here’s the thing about Boone. He never runs out. He owns one of the state’s biggest junkyards. People order parts from him, and he ships them all over the country.

“Well, darlin’, Boone’s is self-service. Why don’t you head out to the boneyard and find yourself a taillight? You’ll find them filed under C for Chevy. I’ll help you install it when you get back. Then we can retire upstairs.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “And what do I have to do to make Boone’s full-service?”

He dropped his arms and sidled up to her. “We retire upstairs before we fix the car.”

She patted his chest with feigned affection. “Not tonight, dear. I have my period, and, uh, a headache.” Both were a lie.

“Again? You’ve had a headache for nine months.”

“I should probably have it checked out by a doctor.” It wasn’t a physical headache so much as a moral one. Jacks had resisted his charms for nine months now, but it was getting harder and harder to keep avoiding him without an explanation. The thing was, she had been using him as an emotional crutch, but when it got around town that she and Boone were a thing, Jacks had to stop that rumor in its tracks. She refused to let her extracurricular activities shed a poor light on the Double J. Even if it meant no more tinkering above the garage.

She walked toward the door. “I’ll head back to the boneyard and find a light suitable for Suzie Sweet Pea. BRB.” She said the letters out loud, just to bug him. He had a real thing about interwebs speech, as he called it, and she loved to dig at him. Once she grabbed a screwdriver to help disengage the new taillight from an old junker, she headed toward the door. Wait. Was it an old taillight? Whatever, she needed something to pry it off with.

Sashaying up the gravel path through the deserted boneyard, Jacks felt sassy. Okay, sashayed might be a strong word for how she walked. The hip, knee, ankle, and foot orthotic brace on her leg made it more like a swish and a plop, but she liked to picture herself as far sexier than she actually was. She liked to picture herself as braver, too, but she never felt brave when alone in the boneyard. Time to find a headlight and get the hell out of there.

The acres of land were chock-full of abandoned, hulking, shadow-filled car and truck bodies. Most had only half their skeletons, picked clean by vultures who then packed and shipped their parts to make others whole again. Those with whole bodies were worse, though. They always carried the risk of harboring something a girl didn’t want to encounter alone in Northern Wisconsin. Things like Brown Recluse spiders, mountain lions, or bears. She checked her hip only to remember her gun was back at the ranch. Her gaze darted back and forth nervously as she fought off the heebie-jeebies.

Pausing, Jacks put her hand to her forehead to scan the horizon, and her breath caught at the view over the junkyard. The late October sun reflected off the roofs of the vehicles, blending with the sunset’s pink, yellow, and orange. There was no doubt Water Creek was her home, and it always would be. She dropped her hand and sighed. She had already extracted lights from the first several rows of Novas, so she’d have to go deep for this one. She skated between two cars and, luckily for her, found one still with its left taillight. With a couple of twists of the screwdriver, she unhooked it and had it in her hand.

“Victory!” she yelled, holding the light over her head like Rocky. Cradling it, she chose the longer path back to the shop so she wouldn’t break it by tripping over cars.

“Maybe you’re going about this all wrong, Jacks,” she said aloud as she walked, something she did often in the boneyard so she wouldn’t get freaked out being alone. “Maybe you shouldn’t worry about what other people think. Boone isn’t exactly resting on his laurels. He’s got an empire here that would take care of you for the rest of your life. And logically speaking, he’ll be dead at least twenty years before you, which means this fortune will be all yours.”

As enticing as that scenario sounded, Jacks wondered if she could do better. Not necessarily in the wealth department, but in the heart department. She also figured that question was why she shouldn’t be considering marriage. Boone was a great guy, but they would never work. They both knew it. She figured they’d already called it quits and just hadn’t accepted it yet.

As she reached the far side of the yard, a pungent scent caught her attention. Jacks sniffed the air before pinching her nose shut. It was definitely the smell of decomposing flesh. Living on a ranch, she knew the smell well. There was a problem in Boone’s boneyard, and whatever it was, it wasn’t bones yet.

The row of cars to her right held the strongest of the offending odor, so she scanned the sky for birds of prey. There were none. Whatever it was, the vultures couldn’t reach it. She kept her nose plugged and lowered the light housing to the ground to grab her phone for the flashlight. As she started down the row of cars, the brief thought that she should get Boone crossed her mind, but her granddaddy always said she was too curious. Everyone knows how that worked out for the cat.

The emblems on the cars were BMW and Mercedes, which meant she was in the foreign luxury-car department. Bending low with her flashlight, she checked under the cars, the putrid smell growing stronger with each step. Her open mouth wanted to shut against the vile, fetid air, but she had to breathe somehow. It wasn’t unusual for an animal to crawl into a car and die, but it had to be recent and big for it to smell like this. She wanted to save Boone time by finding it, but the odor was overpowering. Ready to turn back, Jacks noticed flies buzzing around a destroyed Porsche.

“What do we have here?” Only it sounded like Whap doop we habe hebe? She giggled nervously as an unmistakable dread washed over her. There was nothing dead under the car, but nothing was left of the car except the trunk. That only meant one thing. Animals couldn’t be locked in a trunk by mistake. She supposed an animal on two legs might be locked in by mistake. She swung the flashlight around the car and shook her head. The police would have cleared the car before sending it to Boone’s. Whoever or whatever was inside that trunk was put there on purpose.

She set her flashlight down, pulled the screwdriver from her back pocket, and popped the latch. The trunk creaked as it rose, revealing its secret like a good mystery novel, slowly and with great anticipation. A pile of dark hair, a suitcoat, and hands tied together. It turned out her granddaddy was right about curiosity.

Turning, Jacks scooped up the light and did her gallop-hop run toward the garage to put distance between herself and the dead person in the trunk. Reality sank in. She was going to have to call the sheriff, and that was going to mess her up more than the dead guy in the trunk ever could.

Chapter Two

Jacks paced behind the body shop, waiting for the cavalry to arrive. She had hoped Boone would have her back and agree to lead the sheriff to the body, but that was a no-go. She even offered to pony up with a little favor in return. She added an eyebrow waggle and all. He said he had a headache, which she probably deserved. Next, she played the jilted ex-girlfriend card and told him it was his boneyard and he should be responsible for the bones in it. He said if he’d found the bones, he would, but since he didn’t, he was going to let her have the pleasure of dealing with the situation.

Electricity crackled through the air, leaving the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She checked the sky for lightning, but the stars shone brightly, which meant one thing…

Boots crunched across the gravel, drawing a sigh from her lips. The footfalls didn’t belong to Boone. She’d grown up with those footfalls, and they belonged to Water Creek’s illustrious sheriff. Only in a town like Water Creek would law enforcement treat a dead body like just another day at the office. No lights. No sirens. Probably not even a medical examiner. It would just be Sheriff Dean King in his scuffed-up cowboy boots and worn-out Wranglers, a Stetson on his head, a gun at his hip and a pair of cuffs at his back.

“Jacks,” he drawled from behind her.

“King,” she grunted, the word sticking in her throat. His scent filled her senses, and as much as she hated to admit it, it was delicious. Whatever cologne he wore, he wore it well. She wondered what it was called, then decided she didn’t care. She already knew she’d take a bath in it any day, preferably with him.

Ugh! Why was she like this? That should have an exclamation point, not a question mark, but she didn’t have time to worry about grammar. She wasn’t supposed to like King, but here she was, dreaming of bathing in his cologne. What was her problem?

“Letting Boone change your oil again?”

Ahh, yes, there it was. Problem solved.

She spun around and stuck her finger in his chest, but he was a foot taller, so it was more like his midsection. She glanced up and slid her finger onto his chest. She was sure he shivered, though maybe he was just cold. “Listen here, King, you have no say in who changes my oil. Did I miss your induction ceremony as the judge in this town?”