Bargain Hunting by Rhonda Pollero Read Free Book Online

people wouldn’t do vets. From the décor, early 1970s greens, browns, and avocados, and the antiquated appliances—who doesn’t have a microwave?—and all the other knickknacks, I guessed the Bollans had little if any substantial income.
    “What happens with the proceeds from our sugarcane?” Sleepy asked. “We’ve lived here since the late sixties. Raised all them kids here. You trying to tell me some woman we’ve never met can toss us out? Just like that?”
    “We’ve done everything possible to bring this to an amicable resolution.”
    “Load of crap if you ask me,” Sleepy grumbled.
    I reached into my briefcase, took out the letter, and passed it to Wanda Jean. I thought that was the safest way to handle it. Turned out not to matter. Sleepy snatched it away from her before she could so much as read the letterhead.
    Sleepy’s face burned red. “This is bullshit!”
    “Sleepy, mind yourself. This young lady is only doing her job.”
    “I’m sorry it’s come to this Mr.—Sleepy. Miss Egghardt’s offer still stands. She’d be happy to set you up on the southwest corner of the property.”
    “What’s it say?” Wanda asked, her face pinched with concern.
    “Says we gotta be outta here in ten days.”
    “That isn’t what it says,” I corrected. “It requests that you move to the assigned parcel of land within ten days or we’ll have no option but to begin the eviction process. If that happens, you’ll end up with nothing. Is that what you want?”
    “ ’Course not,” Wanda Jean answered.
    “Then please take Miss Egghardt up on her offer. It’s more than generous.” I stood and moved to the door, then reluctantly stepped onto the porch, fully prepared to pick up the shotgun and start picking off the herd of vicious dogs. I was spared that unpleasant task by Wanda Jean, who also had perfected the two-fingered, piercing whistle.
    “We’ll think on it,” Wanda Jean said as I went to my car.
    “Not a damned thing to think on,” Sleepy growled.
    The dogs chased me halfway back to the main road.

A secret is often followed by a lie.

four
    I was the last one shown to our table at Cheesecake Factory. The place was loud and crowded with workers from in and around City Place. I wove my way through the labyrinth of tables, then slid in next to Becky in the booth.
    “Bad morning?” Liv asked.
    “Bad everything,” I replied with a weak smile. “Sorry I’m late.”
    A waiter came by and handed me the tome they called a menu. I didn’t need it. A bad day meant only one thing—high-caloric sweet corn tamale cakes. I placed the menu down in front of me.
    “So what’s the dish?” Becky asked.
    Liv’s aquamarine eyes lit up and Jane leaned forward.
    “Liam got shot.”
    “By whom?”
    “How?”
    “When?”
    I held up my hand. “Ashley brought him to my house at four A.M. ,” I began, then told them the full story. Or as much of it as Liam had shared with me.
    Jane shook her head, a mass of brunette hair brushing against her shoulders with each movement. “I don’t believe it. Liam wouldn’t just shoot a kid.”
    “I agree,” Liv seconded. “There has to be more to the story.”
    “But that doesn’t explain the dead ex-partner or getting shot five years after the kid got killed,” Becky said in her usual analytical style. “Did he give you a hint as to why he thinks the two things are related?”
    “He said something about a serial number, but then he pretty much just blew me off.”
    “Did you seriously use Super Glue?” Jane asked.
    I nodded. “Well, not me. Beer Barbie, I mean Ashley, did the actual gluing.”
    Liv tapped her chin with one pink-tipped fingernail. “How come he called Beer Barbie and not you? I thought after the wedding that you two were . . . ya know.”
    “Apparently not,” I said on a long breath. “He must trust her more than he trusts me. Probably takes her calls, too.”
    “That was kind of rude to leave your place without so much as jotting