Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,41
tell her where he planned to stay, and she wasn’t sure he hadn’t just parked off the side of the road and spent the night in his truck, but when she arrived at Padgett Memorial Gardens for Marjorie Kenner’s funeral the next morning, Sutton was there already, looking freshly showered and shaved and wearing an appropriately conservative charcoal suit and black tie.
He caught her eye as she entered the cemetery chapel, and she slid onto the pew beside him. “Where’d you find to stay?”
“Maisey Ledbetter took pity on me and gave me a room over the diner.” He smiled slightly. “Free biscuits and gravy for breakfast.”
“And they say your daddy is the con man,” she murmured, slanting a look at him.
“Any word on the warrant yet?”
Ugh. She’d almost forgotten. “Apparently the judge didn’t think our conjecture constituted probable cause.” Antoine had called her early that morning with the bad news. “He’s willing to reconsider if we can bring him something new.”
“So we’ll just have to find something new.” He fell silent, leaving Ivy searching for something to say in response. But it was taking all her willpower, especially with his body so close, so warm and solid beside her, not to think about the night before, the way his hands had moved over her flesh, sure and possessive, as if marking her with his brand.
Apparently, his mind was traveling similar territory, for his next words came out low and seductive. “I didn’t want to leave last night.”
She closed her eyes against the assault on her senses. “I know.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t think it would be so hard. Being here in Bitterwood, I mean.”
“Maybe you left more unfinished business than you realized.”
He didn’t answer, and the opportunity for further conversation was lost as the minister of the local Methodist church entered the chapel, signaling the beginning of the funeral service.
The crowd was larger than Ivy had anticipated, although she supposed it made sense. A combination of nostalgia—Marjorie Kenner had been a four-year fixture in the lives of any person who’d attended the local high school during her twenty-year tenure as librarian there—and morbid curiosity had probably brought most of them here.
Most of the faces were familiar, though she didn’t recognize some of the mourners who sat in the pews set aside for family and close friends. She made a mental note to make contact after the graveside service and introduce herself.
Unfortunately, Captain Rayburn beat her to it. He made his way to the inner circle of mourners as soon as the graveside service was over, shooting Ivy a disapproving look as he spotted Sutton standing beside her.
“Your captain seems unhappy,” Sutton murmured.
“He told me to stay away from you.”
“I thought he just told you not to share investigation secrets with me.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not doing so hot with that, either.” She let her gaze drift across the rest of the mourners now dispersing from the cemetery. One woman in particular caught Ivy’s attention, primarily because she had moved away from the rest of the crowd and now stood in front of another grave, one Ivy recognized from a previous funeral vigil only two weeks earlier.
She started moving toward the woman, her curiosity fully piqued.
Sutton fell in step with her. “What is it?”
She nodded toward the woman, who was tall and slim and dressed in a conservative blue suit. “I don’t know who that is, but she just left Marjorie Kenner’s funeral to visit Coral Vines’s grave.”
The woman looked up as they approached, her brow furrowed. Sadness darkened her red-rimmed blue eyes. “Can I help you?”
Ivy flashed her shield. “I’m Detective Hawkins with the Bitterwood Police Department. Were you a friend of Marjorie Kenner?”
“She was my neighbor when I was a little girl.” Her lips curved slightly. “We bonded over a love of books and stayed in touch ever since. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Ivy nodded at the simple gravestone in front of the woman. “You knew Coral Vines, too?”
“Yes.” The word came out in a gusty breath. “She worked for my father for a while. We became friends until—”
“Your father?” Sutton asked. “Who’s your father?”
She gave him a wary look, as if she suddenly realized this was more than just a friendly conversation. “George Davenport. Coral worked at our trucking company in Maryville.”
Chapter Ten
“It’s been so surreal. I knew all four of the victims really well. How often does that happen?”
Her name was Rachel Davenport. Sutton supposed that, in less grief-stricken days, she’d be considered a pretty girl. She