Free Sweet and Deadly by Charlaine Harris Page A

fiancée, was fully aroused. Catherine could tell she wasn’t going to get out of answering his question.
    â€œOh, she likes you,” she said reluctantly, regretting she had introduced the subject. “I can’t believe you haven’t noticed it.” But he hadn’t, that was plain. He stroked his villainous mustache in a pleased way.
    â€œShe’s a pretty girl,” he said thoughtfully.
    â€œAnd just out of high school, and never been out of Lowfield,” Catherine said warningly. Now shut up, she told herself. You’ve already made one mistake.
    She didn’t want to compound it by being fosterer and confidant to a relationship she thought would surely end in trouble. Tom was vain and immature; and Leila was too far gone on him before any relationship had even begun, and so very young.
    Who am I, God? Catherine asked herself harshly. Quit predicting. You’re not exactly the world’s authority on men and women. How many dates have you had lately?
    â€œDidn’t you go out on Friday?” she asked Tom, changing the subject so she could stop feeling guilty. “Have a date?”
    â€œNo,” he said sharply.
    â€œI wasn’t spying,” she said indignantly. “I heard your car, and you know how hard it is to mistake any other car for yours.” (A defensive jab; Tom’s Volkswagen was notably noisy.) “I noticed it because I was trying to go to sleep.”
    Tom relaxed in a cloud of pungent smoke. “Sure you won’t have some of this?”
    â€œNo,” she said impatiently.
    â€œIt’s pretty good stuff for homegrown,” he said. “No, I didn’t have a date. I went out to buy this. It’s not easy to set up when you don’t know anybody. Took me forever.”
    â€œDid you see—anything?” Leona had been killed Friday night, the doctors said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI don’t know, Tom. Anything?”
    â€œYou know what Lowfield is like on Friday night. I saw the high school kids riding around and around over the same streets. I saw the blacks who live out in the country coming into town to drink. I barely saw Cracker Thompson” (who was something in the position of the village idiot) “riding around on his bicycle without any reflectors, wearing dark clothes. If that’s what you mean by ‘anything.’ I presume,” said Tom, drawing out the words lovingly, “you mean, did I see Leona Gaites dragged out of her house screaming, by a huge man with a two-by-four.”
    Catherine shuddered. Though Sheriff Galton had told her that Leona was beaten to death, the reminder conjured up the same horrible pictures: Leona’s outstretched hand; the flies.
    Tom observed her shudder with bright eyes. “Jerry told me that something heavy and wooden was probably the weapon, a baseball bat or something like that—the traditional blunt instrument. Anyway”—and Tom hunted around for his point—“no, I didn’t see ‘anything.’”
    Foolish, Catherine said to herself. I was foolish to ask. That must be good dope. Maybe I should have taken it. I could have had hours of entertainment just sitting and laughing to myself.
    â€œBut I might have,” Tom said suddenly. “Maybe I can use that.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    But Tom waved a hand extravagantly and laughed. Catherine eyed him as he slid lower in his seat. His spider legs were sprawled out in front of him. If he relaxes any more he’ll pour off that couch, she thought.
    â€œTom,” she said uneasily.
    â€œMy lady speaks?”
    â€œDon’t…” she hesitated. She was not exactly sure of how to put it. “Don’t let anyone think you know more than you do.”
    â€œLittle Catherine!” He grinned at her impishly.
    â€œI’m not kidding, Tom. Look at what happened to my parents. Look what happened to Leona…though the sheriff