Pig'N A Poke Read online

  PIG’N A POKE

  A FINLEY GOODHART CAPER SHORT

  LARISSA REINHART

  CONTENTS

  Books by Larissa Reinhart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Thank You Reader

  A Sneak Peek of The Cupid Caper

  A Sneak Peek of 15 Minutes

  A Sneak Peek of Portrait of a Dead Guy

  Books by Larissa Reinhart

  About the Author

  BOOKS BY LARISSA REINHART

  A CHERRY TUCKER MYSTERY SERIES

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY (#1)

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW (#2)

  HIJACK IN ABSTRACT (#3)

  DEATH IN PERSPECTIVE (#4)

  THE BODY IN THE LANDSCAPE (#5)

  A COMPOSITION IN MURDER (#6)

  * * *

  Novellas

  QUICK SKETCH in HEARTACHE MOTEL

  THE VIGILANTE VIGNETTE

  A VIEW TO A CHILL

  * * *

  Audio

  PORTRAIT OF A DEAD GUY

  STILL LIFE IN BRUNSWICK STEW

  MAIZIE ALBRIGHT STAR DETECTIVE SERIES

  15 MINUTES

  16 MILLIMETERS

  NC-17

  18 CALIBER

  Novellas

  A VIEW TO A CHILL

  A FINLEY GOODHART CRIME CAPER SERIES

  PIG’N A POKE (prequel, short story)

  THE CUPID CAPER

  For my readers

  CHAPTER ONE

  CAMAROS AND WINTER don’t go together. But it wasn't my Camaro and I’d planned on putting many miles between me and the owner. Not that he cared about the Camaro. Lex would find it funny. Me making a getaway from him on the worst possible day with the worst possible vehicle.

  I was somewhere on Georgia Highway Sixteen. Nothing but ice-bowed pines and bare hardwoods. By noon, an early twilight had descended and a wind had kicked up.

  The Pig’N a Poke, a tiny roadhouse, was the only building I had seen for miles but for a few dilapidated trailers and defunct garages turned defunct antique stores. The bar was nothing more than a tin-roofed cement block. Not a place that anyone but particular locals would visit. But I remembered it. On a weekend night, you’d find guys burning their paychecks on beer, whiskey shooters, and pool. A few girlfriends and a handful of hard-eyed women would keep the jukebox flipping.

  This early, vehicles in the parking lot surprised me. I didn’t like to revisit places like the Pig’N. However, Lex’s Camaro had fishtailed the last few miles. My steering wheel grip made my small shoulders ache. I figured no one would remember me. I'd be another young woman looking for a break from the weather. Not Lex's cute “shill” who suckered college and country boys alike.

  Anyway, those days were behind me.

  Daylight wasn’t kind to the Pig’N. I scanned the room and chose the bar. A couple sat a table, their trendiness jarring against the cinderblock and faded beer posters.

  A waitress slapped a menu on the bar. The smoke squint lines around her eyes and red hair, a shade too bright for nature, made her appear older. “Do I know you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m taking a break from driving.”

  “Atlanta’s a mess.”

  She pointed to the TV. The local news showed the sprawling traffic on the downtown connector. A loop of school and community closing announcements ran at the bottom.

  “They came in a bit ago.” She jerked her chin toward the couple at the table. “Same reason.”

  “I’m surprised y’all do lunch.”

  “We don’t, but if Dale’s here, he’ll open. Thursday’s a delivery day. When that couple came, Dale called me in earlier than usual. Thought more might show with the bad roads.”

  “Who’s Dale?”

  “The cook and manager. I’m Cinda if you need anything.”

  “I’m Finley.” I scanned the menu. “I’ll take a barbecue plate.”

  “We’re out. Also out of the chicken and Brunswick stew.”

  I ordered a burger basket and Coke, then excused myself for the ladies’. Washing my hands, I smiled at the bathroom’s graphic wall scribblings. I turned to grab a paper towel, bumped the trash can, and knocked it over. Sighing, I squatted to scoop up the paper towels and spotted a white zippered bag taped beneath the toilet tank.

  “What have we here?” The electrical tape pulled easily and the bag tumbled to the linoleum. I fingered the stack of bills inside, counting the twenties. A nice stash. Not serious drug money or anything. Hardly worth hiding behind a toilet.

  I checked inside the tank lid, under the sink, and inside the light housings. Finding nothing, I taped the bag under the tank. Minus the stash.

  The Pig’N a Poke just got interesting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BACK AT THE BAR, I signaled Cinda for a refill. Outside, the wind howled and the tin roof sang. My fingers still itched from counting that restroom stash.

  I didn’t need therapy to know I had serious issues. Lex had found that irresistible. And funny. A cop’s daughter who loved a swindle. I’d found Lex irresistible, too. It was the accent. Or the charm. Or the escapades. Whatever. I was done. Now he found himself without a Camaro. And me.

  However, I found myself stuck in the Pig’N a Poke. With Temptation breathing on my neck and Lex nowhere in sight.

  Another customer had arrived during my bathroom sojourn. A forty-ish man, red-faced and brawny. He’d given me a lengthy sidelong, then ignored my ignoring him and decided the weather could induce me into conversation. “I’m Arlo.”

  I kept my gaze on the TV.

  “Where are you from? Have I seen you before?”

  “Doubt it.”

  Cinda refreshed my Coke. “Hey, Arlo.”

  “I’ll take a beer.”

  Accepting the long neck, he made an air clink and smiled. “Looks like we’re not getting anywhere soon. Can I buy you one?”

  “I’m good.” Arlo’s routine seemed forced. Maybe it was the circumstances, maybe he was a weird guy. Or something else was going on. Like money under the toilet. “You come here often?”

  “I live nearby.” He grinned. “I work at the Tru-Buy. If you ever need anything.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Oh my God.” The couple’s female half had brought her check and credit card to the bar. The news had switched from road reports to the airport. Fights had broken out over the lack of seats. “The airport’s been shut down all day?”

  “Terrible, isn’t it?” I said. “Glad I’m not there.”

  She scurried to her table and began a flurried, whispered conversation.

  Her husband patted her hand. “It’s okay. There’s a salt truck somewhere.”

  “Salt truck?” She looked confused.

  As did Arlo and I. Around here, salt trucks hauled Morton’s, not saved people from storms.

  Arlo glanced from the couple to me. “Don’t know why the airport shutting down would surprise anyone. It’d be first to close.”

  I shrugged, studying the broadcast. “Looks like flights have been grounded since this morning. I should have paid attention to the news before venturing out.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Not here.” I glanced at the credit card and check the woman had left. Stephanie Johnson. A charge for two coffees. I shook my head. The Pig’N would pay more for the service fee.

  “Hey, Cinda,” I called toward the kitchen. “You’ve got someone waiting on payment.”

  Against her bright shock of hair, Cinda’s pallor appeared green. “I need help.”

  I hopped from my stool and
circled the bar to grab Cinda’s arm before she teetered in her sneakers. “What happened?”

  She sagged against me. “It’s Dale.”

  “Did he hurt himself? Is there blood?” I sucked in a breath. Kitchen injuries could be nasty.

  Cinda shook her head. “I found him. In the freezer.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  DALE, the cook, still had on his hairnet. I stared at the hairnet a good minute, trying to pull myself together. Dale was bald and I couldn’t understand why he needed a hairnet. Unless he had hair on his forehead, which I couldn’t see due to his face-down position.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” I asked.

  “What happened?” said Arlo. “Did he have a heart attack or something?”

  Cinda’s fingers had remained in her mouth since we had entered the freezer. She pulled them out. “I don’t know.”

  “How long’s he been in here?”

  “I don’t know.” Her words came out in short gasps. “I thought he was having a smoke. Then he never showed to cook the burgers.” Tears ran down Cinda’s face. “I tried 9-1-1. Couldn’t get through.”

  “Inundated with the storm.” I put an arm around Cinda. “We’ll try again later.”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” said Arlo. “Let’s leave him in here.”

  The metal door swung shut on Dale and his frozen tomb. I felt guilty at our hasty retreat, but not guilty enough to sit with him.

  “I’m going to wash my face.” Cinda ran toward the door.

  “Could you see what happened?” I focused on Arlo to keep from staring at the body. “I didn’t want to look.”

  Arlo massaged his face. “Hard to tell. We could flip him over. Maybe he slipped and hit his head.”

  “We shouldn’t touch him. The police…”

  “Right,” said Arlo. “Poor guy.”

  I calculated the odds of a dead cook and a stash of money in the bathroom.

  Not good.

  “Cinda said Dale called her when the couple showed. I wonder if they noticed anything? Only two vehicles in the lot when I got here.”

  “Same here. Actually, three, counting your sweet Camaro,” said Arlo. “Guess I’ll have another beer while we wait. I should check on that couple.”

  “Good idea. Ask them the last time they saw Dale. I’ll wait here for Cinda. She’s upset.”

  I was stuck. Not only for the storm, but we’d have to wait on the police and their questioning.

  Dammit, why did I mess around with that money? I should hightail it. Take my chances with the storm. Let the cops sort it. Unless they find the money bag and asked questions. Then they’d look for me. Even if I replaced the money.

  That stupid Camaro. Even Arlo noticed it.

  My heart pounded. I took a calming breath, placed a hand to keep the door from swinging, and peeked out.

  Arlo had joined the couple at the bar. Stephanie moaned about the ice.

  “How long have you been here?” asked Arlo.

  “About an hour,” said her husband.

  “More like two,” said Stephanie. “The cook let us in. Remember, we had to wait for coffee until the waitress came? Took forever. I swear it took another thirty minutes for the coffee.”

  Dale could have died more than an hour ago. But Stephanie seemed prone to exaggeration.

  “When was the last time you saw the cook?” asked Arlo.

  “Why?” said Stephanie. “Did he leave us here?”

  Real smooth, Arlo.

  I kept an ear toward their conversation, considering my options. I needed to know if the money was related to the cook’s death or a coincidence. His time of death was also important, considering we could be trapped with someone involved with Dale’s demise. Desperate people make for a desperate situation.

  “I want to go,” said Stephanie. “It’s driving me crazy, stuck here. I have to get home.”

  I knew how she felt.

  “The storm’ll blow through in an hour, then you might try your luck on the roads,” said Arlo. “At least we have electricity. Might as well relax. Renee, do you play pool?”

  I blew out a long breath. An hour. I could wait an hour. What could happen in an hour?

  Hang on. Arlo called Stephanie Renee. Whose credit card was Renee using?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I SUPPOSED Renee could be her middle name. Maybe she didn’t like Stephanie.

  Or Stephanie-Renee and her husband stole credit cards. A felony in Georgia.

  Homicide. Also a felony.

  I wished my brain didn’t do these things.

  Cinda had returned from the bathroom. She smoothed the short apron tied around her waist. After offering the husband a drink, she spun toward the kitchen door.

  Before she entered, I’d backed from the door and leaned against a counter. “How about I fry us some burgers?”

  “I can do it.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I called the owner. He’s in Destin. But he’s going to keep trying 9-1-1.”

  “That’s good.” I studied her, wondering if she had checked the money bag. It hadn’t escaped my attention that the pouch had been in the women’s restroom and not the men’s.

  “You’re nervous,” I said. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Hell yes, I’m nervous. I’m responsible for everyone. Who knows when we’re getting out?” She cast a glance at the freezer. “And there’s Dale. I don’t like being here with Dale in there.”

  “That’s understandable. How was Dale when you came in? Did he seem sick or anything?”

  “He sounded fine on the phone.”

  “But you didn’t see him when you got here?” He’d been alone with the couple. Stephanie called Renee. Determined to get away. Still here. Maybe using a stolen card.

  Maybe Stephanie-Renee had put the money under the toilet. For someone to pick up later? Or was she supposed to pick it up? And what happened to Dale?

  Dammit. I had to examine Dale.

  “I’m going to check on Dale. We never felt his pulse or anything. Just to be safe. Sometimes the cold preserves people. Slows down their heart. You never know. Maybe he’s not dead.”

  “What about the customers?”

  “They’re fine.”

  We entered the freezer again, stepping around Dale’s legs. Shuddering, I pulled in air from my mouth and blew it out my nose.

  “What are you doing?” asked Cinda.

  “Trying not to get sick.” I took a deep breath, squatted to Dale level, and placed my fingers on his neck. His hairnet sat lopsided. And he felt like cold gooseflesh. My stomach curdled. I gasped. “Okay, he’s not alive.”

  “Maybe he fell.”

  I took another breath, yanked off the hairnet, and leaned in to examine. Sure enough, there was a slight depression and broken skin over one ear. The purpling evidence of Battle’s sign hadn't begun. He hadn’t been dead long.

  “Shit,” I muttered. “Blunt force trauma.”

  Cinda cocked her head. “What?”

  “Yep, cracked his head.”

  “That’s not what you said.”

  “Same difference.” Except he didn’t hit his own head. “My mother was a nurse. Dad was a cop. I know the jargon.”

  “Was?”

  “Long story.” I popped up from my squat and examined the freezer shelves. “You keep coffee in here. I could use a coffee. Or a drink.”

  “The owner said y’all still had to pay your tabs.”

  “Make it coffee.”

  Cinda exited, but I stayed a moment longer. Patted Dale down. Then popped the coffee—loose grounds, perfect—stashed my emergency twenty, and shut the door. I took a slow stroll around, checking for obvious weapons.

  My father would say, “A smart criminal would get rid of the weapon. Most criminals aren’t that smart.” If it happened between Dale’s call and Cinda’s arrival, they wouldn’t have had much time.

  The couple? Cinda? Arlo arrived after I did. But didn’t I find him odd? Or had I gotten used to his oddness? Circu
mstances like these bring people together.

  I poked my head out the back door. The wind rushed past me and slammed the metal door against the wall. I took a deep breath of frigid pine-scented air and steadied my resolve.

  Here I was, ready to plunge into the frozen Georgia wasteland to look for a weapon. What in the hell was wrong with me?

  Lex had said, “For every scrupulous habit your mum had natured, you have undone by nurturing a criminal tendency. Bravo, Fin.” However, he believed nature would eventually win over nurture. My guilt would end our fun.

  This wasn’t redemption. Finding out who killed Dale was self-preservation.

  Shivering, I took a step off the stoop. No snow, but the iced gravel crackled beneath my feet. My dark hair whipped around my face, stinging my cheeks. A beater car and a van had been parked behind the roadhouse.

  I held my arms and crept across the slick drive to the car. I banged on a window, cracked the ice, and peered inside. Worn seats and trash. Overflowing ashtray. Dale’s vehicle. Cinda said he took smoke breaks.

  Long enough for her not to realize he was dead.

  The dumpster rattled. I spun around. Then lost my balance and fell against the car.

  The shivers wracking my body were only partially cold induced.

  Cheer up Fin, I thought. You’re not being stalked by a chainsaw-wielding psycho. Just trapped with someone who killed a cook for a half grand.

  Five hundred dollars was not worth murder in my book. That meant they had homicidal tendencies. Or they were really hard up.

  Neither were a good sign. Maybe I’d get lucky, find it was an accidental death and the perp had taken off without the couple noticing.

  I trudged to the van. The white paneled van had Georgia plates. Not iced over like Dale’s ratty Pontiac. It had been parked a while but not as long as Dale’s.

  I peered through sugar-coated windows. This driver wasn’t a smoker. But they were an eater. Two wrapped cheesecakes lay in the passenger seat. Already cut. Each serving separated by paper. Wholesale style.