Grab & Go (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 2) Read Free Page A

jaywalked toward the cordoned-off parking lot. Three sheriff’s department vehicles blocked the road’s shoulder, doors and trunks open. Their corresponding officers were scattered around the scene. Little yellow numbered markers identified the locations where bullets were embedded and casings had fallen. A deputy was boxing up a cast of a tire tread impression that had been left in a muddy spot.
    Clarice’s Subaru was inside the crime scene tape. I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Bob stood on the front porch of the general store, watching from a safe — and uncontaminating — distance. He waved us over.
    “Any word?” Bob asked. He’d found another shirt and a heavy canvas field coat, but he still looked as though he was shivering, fists shoved in his pockets. The shotgun was no longer in sight — probably tucked away in easy-to-reach safekeeping.
    Gus shook his head. “Hank’s still in surgery.”
    “Caught the tail end of an old red Ford screaming through the intersection. Was it who I think it was?” Bob’s forehead creased with worry lines.
    “Might be. I’ll tell the sheriff,” Gus muttered.
    I glanced from Bob to Gus to Walt. They wore the same haggard expressions. “Who?” I blurted.
    “We have our share of trouble out here, and those boys are usually part of it,” Bob replied. “Never actually shot anybody before though — that I know of.”
    “Howdy.” A stocky man in a dull olive green uniform stumped up the stairs and strolled toward us. Everything about him, from the way he moved to the sloped corners of his eyes resonated with weariness.
    He laid a heavy hand on Bob’s shoulder in greeting, then stuck out his right hand to shake with Walt and Gus. “Know these fellas, but haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet.” The hand was thrust my direction.
    “Nora Ingram-Sheldon,” I replied, shaking the proffered hand. It was warm and rough and big and gentle.
    A smile flickered behind his tired green eyes. The color of the uniform suited him. “Sheriff Desmond Forbes. But you can call me Des the way everybody else does.”
    I smiled back and had a momentary flash of apprehension about what he thought of me. There didn’t seem to be too many hyphenated last names in these parts — it had felt like a pretentious flourish when it came out of my mouth. And when I’m under stress, the scar on my upper lip stands out stark white against my skin. So I bit my lip, which makes things worse.
    “Gus, I’ll start with you,” Des said. “Inside?” He tipped his head toward the store’s front door.
    “Use the office,” Bob offered.
    The two men pushed across the threshold, leaving us to our thoughts. We leaned against the railing and watched the measured, deliberate activity in the parking lot. I tried to remember how many bullets I’d heard. There sure were a lot of little yellow markers.
    I shivered and hugged my arms across my body. “You can go,” I whispered to Walt. “It’s going to be a long time. The boys—”
    His brows drew together in a scowl. But after a long moment, he squeezed my arm and nodded.
    When he rolled past in Bertha — the name I’d christened his battleship of a beater white pickup with — his face was sharp and strained and white through the driver’s window. I gave him a little wave.
    “You want to wait inside?” Bob asked. “It’s warmer in there. Got a bentwood rocking chair on display that you can try out.”
    I nodded my thanks and followed him into the store. The whole place smells like apples on the verge of turning into cider. A little spicy and dusty and sour with a hint of floor wax and leather. The door to the office behind the cash register was closed tight, just the faintest murmur of voices escaping.
    The rocking chair was positioned between a pile of rag rugs and a stack of boxed copper-bottomed cookware sets. Everything you could possibly need — all under one roof. I sank into the chair, leaned back and closed my