Free Follow the Evidence (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 2) by Nick Vellis Page B

Office
parking lot off Colonial Drive right at 6:25. I had forty minutes to spare when
I slid into a spot close to the building. I smoothed down my hair while looking
in the rear view mirror. I dug in the glove box for the red tie I’d left there
the last time I’d gone to court. The damn thing was curled and creased. It
didn’t have any big stains so I put it on.
    I hadn’t been in the Sheriff’s
Office general-purpose room since my own swearing in nearly twelve years ago.
Tonight the auditorium had chairs set out in neat rows. At the front of the
room, loud fussy woman directed the placement of potted palm trees on the dais.
She wore thick black framed glasses rimmed with rhinestones that shimmered in
the bright lights, as did her short spiky hair in an unnatural shade
approximating red.
    That would have to be Marsha
DeHart , I thought to myself as I caught the irritating sound of the woman’s
voice.
    I went up to the stage to get her
attention. “Ms. DeHart,” I said. The woman snatched a look at me over her
shoulder then held up one finger in my direction while she looked in the other,
and continued to fire orders at the two guys arranging the stage.
    “Ms. DeHart,” I said again.
    “What?” she snapped giving her head
a toss, as she looked my way.
    “I’m Mac Everett. Is there
someplace special you want me to sit?”
    “Oh Mr. Everett,” she gushed. Her
tone and her body language flipped from arrogant to deferential covered in
syrup. “Thank you for coming.” She knelt on the stage, like a genuflection, and
offered her hand. It was cold and boney. Her faux Southern accent only added
weight to her pretense.
    Marsha DeHart was a stick thin five
foot nothing woman dressed in a dark ill-fitting suit and shiny flat shoes. I
could imagine her being very unpleasant. “I’m so pleased to meet you,”
she said.
    “Yeah, fine, is there someplace
special you want me to sit?” I said again.
    “Oh yes,” she said. Her enthusiasm
was nauseating. She was all show and about as deep as a kiddie pool. “Y’all are all in the front row and in order. You are,” she consulted her
clipboard. “You’re fifth from the right.”
    “Thanks, I mumbled.
    “Why don’t you have some punch and
cookies? You can mingle with the other guests until we start. Here’s a
program,” She shoved a piece of paper into my hand. “We’ll get started in a few
minutes.
    I didn’t want punch and cookies and
I sure as hell didn’t want to mingle. What wanted was to get this over with and
get the hell out of here. I noticed a few people congregating in the back and
slipped away from DeHart. She’d already returned to firing orders at the two
hapless guys arranging and rearranging the potted palms.
    A clutch of people stood silently
around the punch bowl. It was obvious none of these people knew each other. I
worked my way in, got some punch and was about to take a sip when someone
slammed into me from behind. The cup flew out of my hand, hit the wall, and
bounced on the table.
    “Oh, excuse me.”
    A honey-sweet voice came from
behind me. I turned, intending to give the klutz a piece of my mind, until I
saw her. Standing in front of me was the most surprising woman I’d ever seen.
More handsome than attractive she seemed to radiate confidence. She was
willowy, a tiny knockout. Maybe five-five, she was slim, but not in a boyish
way. A short white dress with a gold braided belt showcased some considerable
curves. Her hair, long, wavy, and golden brown, fell in a casual way over her
shoulders and touched her exposed cleavage. That lustrous main framed a round
tanned face that wore a few miles detectable around luminous brown eyes and a
wide smiling mouth. That smile lit up her face and lifted my spirits.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said.
Her accent was genuine Deep South, maybe Texas, as she drew out the word so.
“You’d never know I was dancer when I was a girl. I was looking one way and
going another. It’s my fault plain as