Brock
Parnell owns a small pizza place in western Nebraska. It's not a
fancy life, but it's a comfortable one—except for Tack Carmichael.
“Tacky Carmichael” has been his nemesis since the 8th
grade. With one thing and another, Tack has made Brock's life hell.
When he hears that Tack's been murdered, he pours himself a drink and
does a dance—only to be interrupted by the police knocking at his
door. Someone thinks that Brock's the prime suspect for Tack's
murder.
It
wasn't Bartolli and Simpson who stood across from me now. It was a
really sexy brunette with a curvaceous figure and short red dress.
She looked like she'd been pulled in from a night out at the country
club. She also looked totally pissed at having to be there.
I
was probably a delightful sight by now. I can't prove it, but I
suspect I had been drooling in my sleep. The table was a little damp
under my hands.
Shit,
great way to make a good impression on a lady.
Did
I mention she was stunningly gorgeous? She must have been five foot
nine in her heels, built like Sophia Loren back in her heyday, with
beautiful blue eyes.
My
jaw dropped open and I stared hard at her. Blinking rapidly, I tried
to decide if she was real. She walked around the table, glaring at
me. She was real, all right. Something about me did not impress. I
stood up, holding out my hand. I realized it was a little sweaty, or
drooled on, so I wiped it on the seat of my jeans. Extending a drier
hand, I smiled.
"How
do you do? I'm Brock Parnell."
"I
know who you are. I'm Adrianna Hasselhoff from the District
Attorney's office. Do you know why you're here, Mr. Parnell?"
"Someone
thinks I killed Tack Carmichael," I said with a shrug and sat
down.
She
hadn't taken my hand, so I folded my hands in my lap, leaning forward
with my elbows on my knees.
"Exactly.
You're a prime suspect, Mr. Parnell. Second only to his wife."
"What?
You think Amy killed him?" I laughed, rather hysterically I'm
afraid. I was tired as hell.
"You
find your situation humorous?"
Her
frown deepened as she made a note on the clipboard she carried. She
hadn't taken a seat, just stood there looking fantastic. Her skirt
was right about to her knees and she wore backless pumps with four
inch heels. I'm a sucker for heels. They're sexy as hell and made her
legs look great! I could picture the curve of her leg all the way up
to her ass. The skirt was cut to cling and it did in all the right
places.
I
sat there, fixated, my mouth open. I snapped my lips shut and
forced myself to look at her face. She hadn't missed my expression. I
might still have been feeling the effects of that whiskey, but I
swear she was smiling a little and her blue eyes flashed like twin
sapphires. She repeated her question.
"Humorous?
No. Not at all. Ludicrous, yeah. What's humorous is that you suspect
Amy Carmichael. The woman can't even smash a bug in the bathroom. You
think she could kill her husband? How was he killed?"
"He
was shot six times."
"Ew!
Hell of a way to go. And you seriously think Amy did that? Somebody's
been smoking." I put an imaginary joint to my lips, inhaling
loudly.
"Have
you been smoking, Mr. Parnell?"
"Not
for about fifteen years, Miss Hasselhoff."
"That's
Ms. Hasselhoff."
"Ms.
No, make that twenty years. I quit smoking when I met my ex-wife. I
couldn't afford both."
I
chuckled, tipping my chair slightly. Ms. Hasselhoff wasn't amused.
She made another note on her clipboard. I yawned loudly. I couldn't
help it. We were going on two o'clock and I really needed a hot
shower and some sleep.
"Why
am I still here? I don't know anything. Could you please let me get
home and go to bed? I've been up twenty-two hours, Ms. Hasselhoff.
I'm dog tired and I have to work tomorrow. Just because I'm the boss
doesn't mean I can sleep in."
"I
really can't do that, Mr. Parnell."
"Why
not, Ms. Hasselhoff?"
Why
did she have to have such a long name? Why couldn't it be something
short like Smith?
"Because
Tack Carmichael was shot with your gun."
"My
what?" I stood up, knocking my chair over. "My gun?
My gun? What the
fuck?"
"There's
no need for that kind of language, Mr. Parnell."
"I
beg to differ, Ms. Hasselhoff. You just told me that some asshole was
shot to death with my gun and you don't expect me to say fuck?
Of course I'm going to say it. Wouldn't you say it? Anybody would
under those circumstances. My own mother would if you told her that."
"Settle
down, Mr. Parnell."
I
was babbling and I knew it, but I was too tired and too upset to
care. They wanted a reaction, they got one. Whether it was the one
they expected, I don't know. But you can't send a beautiful woman in
four inch pumps in to talk to a man who hasn't had sex in months that
some dick head he's hated since the eighth grade got himself whacked
with his (my) gun.
"Fuck!"
"Mr.
Parnell!"
I
wanted to throw something, but there was nothing to throw. I could
have pitched my chair across the room at that mirror, but I decided
against that. I didn't want to get arrested.
"Ms.
Hasselhoff, I'm sorry that Tack Carmichael had the bad form to get
himself shot with my gun. But if you check your records, you'll
discover that my gun was reported stolen over a year ago. That weapon
hasn't been in my possession for a very long time. I reported it
myself to Sam Hart. Have you talked to Detective Sergeant Hart about
that?"
She
tried to be all cool, but that caught her by surprise. No one had
mentioned that fact to her. She seemed a little flustered and shot a
look at the mirror.
Like
I thought, there's someone back there.
"The
gun disappeared about the same time my ex-wife left me. I always kind
of figured she'd taken it with her for spite. It was a family
heirloom. My great-great-grandfather was a lawman in Cheyenne. That
was his gun and it was worth a lot of money, not to mention the
sentimental value. I'd sure like to have it back."
"It's
a murder weapon now, Mr. Parnell. It's being held in evidence."
I
shrugged and nodded, sitting down again. By this time I was too tired
to stand. I'd had a rush of adrenaline when she told me Tack had the
poor taste to get slaughtered with my great-great-granddaddy's
peacemaker, but now I was paying for it. I yawned again, long and
loud, looking right at the mirror. I hoped they were all yawning like
hell too. It would be satisfying to know that I'd spread it around.
"If
it wouldn't be too much trouble, could I go home? I'm really
exhausted. I'm hungry and I want a hot shower. Would you either
charge me or send me home? Either way, I'll get some sleep."
Ms.
Hasselhoff didn't know how to proceed. She glanced at the mirror
again and walked out, excusing herself. I put my head back down on
the table and closed my eyes.
©
2017 Dellani Oakes
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