Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,2

any farther onto the property. He kept his baseball cap low over his brow, shielding his face from any curious eyes. Fourteen years away wasn’t nearly long enough for anyone around these parts to forget a Calhoun. And for the moment, at least, he’d prefer to fly under the radar.

The front door of the farmhouse opened and a tall, lean black man emerged, looking grim and angry. Sutton recognized his old friend Antoine Parsons, who hadn’t changed much since their high school days. Like Sutton, Antoine had known the victim, Marjorie Kenner.

Mrs. Kenner had been the librarian at Bitterwood High School since Sutton’s early high school years, a widow who’d never married again after her soldier husband’s death in the Panama conflict. Sutton wondered who’d found her body at this time of night. The call he’d picked up on his police scanner hadn’t specified who’d phoned 911. As far as Sutton knew, Marjorie Kenner still lived alone in the same house where she’d lived as long as he’d known her. No children, no lovers, no renters to help pay the bills.

Of course, things might have changed in the past fourteen years. He hadn’t exactly kept up with the folks back home in Bitterwood once he’d got out for good. She might have met someone new, someone she shouldn’t have trusted. Hell, maybe the older she’d gotten, the more she’d felt the full weight of time passing and had taken to driving into Maryville or even Knoxville for a little male companionship.

It would certainly simplify Sutton’s life if Mrs. Kenner’s murder had an uncomplicated explanation.

“Sutton Calhoun?” At the sound of his name, Sutton looked up and saw Antoine Parsons’s dark eyes wide with surprise.

He tipped the brim of his cap up and nodded at his old friend. “How’s life treatin’ you, Antoine?”

Antoine’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles. “Better than I deserve. Never thought I’d see you around these parts again.”

“Neither did I,” Sutton admitted.

The front door opened again, and a dark-haired woman emerged from the house, her gaze sweeping the yard until it settled on Antoine Parsons. Suddenly her gaze snapped back again, locking with Sutton’s. Her forehead creased and she walked slowly down the front steps toward them.

Sutton’s gut tightened as if he’d just taken a blow to the solar plexus. Her hair was gathered back in a tight ponytail, revealing the familiar curves and planes of her small oval face. She hadn’t grown much taller than she’d been at fifteen, though even the loose-fitting blue Bitterwood P.D. golf shirt couldn’t hide the fact that she’d filled out in all the right places.

“Sutton Calhoun.” Her accent was as broad as the mountains surrounding them, but he couldn’t tell by her tone whether she was glad to see him or dismayed. Whatever she was thinking lay hidden in the depths of her dark brown eyes.

Her lips curved without much humor. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Oh, I remember you, he thought. “Ivy Hawkins. You used to live down the road.”

And you damned near saved my sanity.

She’d been a few years younger than he was, not even old enough to drive by the time he left home to join the army. But she’d been his sounding board. His secret confidante, wiser than her young years should have allowed. She’d been there when he’d broken away from his father’s influence, and he’d helped her cope with her mother’s revolving-door string of boyfriends.

She’d be in her late twenties now. She looked younger, maybe because she didn’t have on a stitch of makeup. He noted the detective’s shield on her belt. “And you’re a detective.”

Her dark eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?” Her tone wasn’t exactly friendly. Of course, the last time he’d seen her, she’d been crying, begging him not to leave her there alone.

He’d hoped she’d get out. Clearly she hadn’t.

“Just in town for a visit,” he answered.

“No, I mean here. At my crime scene.”

“Oh.” He wondered how much he should tell her. “I have a police scanner and heard the crime called in.” That much was the truth.

“Just happened to have a police scanner?” She sounded skeptical.

“It’s a hobby.”

“You know those Calhouns,” Antoine said lightly. “They like to know where the cops are at all times.”

Sutton made a face at his old friend. You’re not helping, he thought.

“You’re up awfully late.” She arched one dark eyebrow.

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the house. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.” She pulled Antoine aside, lowering her voice. But not so low that he

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