Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) Read Free

of Lance’s memory with uncomfortable precision. Could be she had reason to be wary.
    “Who knows? But I don’t like it when problems are dumped in my lap. I’ve got a strong hunch there's more to this deal than we've been told. You’re to find out how much more.”
    The case was getting more interesting by the minute, but that didn’t keep him from seeing problems. “And I’m supposed to do that with nothing to back me up, no way to persuade the Caret woman to let me get close, much less inside her house. Got any idea how I’m to go about it?”
    His cousin’s smile held grim amusement and no sympathy whatever. “Beats the hell out of me. But you’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”
    Lance’s jaws still ached from holding onto his temper when he stepped inside the coffee shop and beer joint known as the Watering Hole a short time later. The humid atmosphere and eternal sameness was like balm to his spirts, exactly what he needed. He could feel the knots of tension begin to leave the back of his neck after his first deep breath.
    The name came from the big watering trough, carved from a single cypress tree, that had been installed when the spot was occupied by a livery stable—and was still there. That the customers poured a lot more coffee and beer down their throats than they did water had no bearing. The place was a town institution.
    The familiar, sugary smell of doughnuts fought it out with the sour tang of onions left over from yesterday’s hamburgers and hot dogs. Hot grease, frying fish, grilling meat and the yeasty scent of beer added their grace notes. But the main event was the full-bodied aroma of the coffee the owner blended and brewed from his own secret recipe. Hot as the pits of hell and strong enough to grow hair on a cue ball, it was what kept the geriatric crowd and young sprouts alike coming back. It certainly wasn’t the décor, which was your typical ancient coffee shop staple of gritty wood floors, scarred wooden tables and chairs, and booths with red fake leather seats.
    A long counter ran down one wall with a few stools in front of it. It was a popular area as it was manned, off and on, by the coffee shop’s manager, a brown-eyed, wise-cracking termagant who was surly on her good days and downright insulting on the rest.
    As he strode toward the counter, Lance nodded at folks he knew here and there, waved and spoke to the table of retired guys seeking refuge from the soap operas at home, and tipped his hat to a couple of older women with shopping bags at their feet. He could feel eyes burning into his back, following his progress, and knew with disgusted certainty that his stint on administrative leave was already common knowledge.
    “Lance, old buddy!  What are you doing here? I thought you spent your days cruising around, taking potshots at law abiding citizens. Oh, wait. Guess you hit one every now and then, huh?”
    Only two people in the known world would even whisper such a thing, much less yell it across the room. One was his cousin Beau Benedict, who had far better manners than to actually do it. The other was also a cousin, Trey Benedict, the Watering Hole’s owner who also laid claim to a truck stop and several convenience stores. No need to wonder why Trey put up with the rudeness of his female manager. He could hardly complain, since he always said exactly what he thought himself. Insults, sometimes teasing, sometimes not, were his stock in trade.
    “I could try for two out of two,” Lance said as he changed directions. Snatching off his hat, he spun it across the table toward where Trey sat.
    “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine. Missing your shiny badge? Or would it be your big old pistol?”
    “Handgun, firearm, or Glock,” Lance corrected for the thousandth time.
    “All the same to me.”
    Trey’s shrug was designed to drive him crazy, Lance knew. So was his laidback position, the tilt of his dark head and the humorous challenge in his gray eyes.