Free Dead Giveaway by S. Furlong-Bolliger Page B

stare, because she turned and shot me a murderous look. I glared right back. There was no doubt in my mind that my stepmother killed my father. And, now she was going to run off with some hick from nowhere and live the high-life off my insurance money.
    I really hated that woman.
    I quickly excused myself, leaving Marge and Agnes as they were still pondering the identity of Mr. Mysterious, and started across the room with one thing on my mind—ripping those Clairol-red strands right out of that murdering, two-timing, witch’s skull.
    I was almost there, too, when I was sidelined by Jake Buford, owner of Lake Loon’s only gas station.
    Jake was a likeable fellow, even though he was perhaps one card shy of a full deck. He always reminded me of Gomer Pyle, well actually a combination of Gomer and Willy Wonka (the new one) all rolled into one and crammed into a pair of Carhart overalls.
    “Julie, I have to talk to you,” he blurted, grabbing a hold of my arm.
    “Can it wait, Jake? I’ve got something to do.”
    “No,” he persisted. “It’s important.”
    I sighed. I guess mutilating Rose would have to wait. “Okay, what can I do for you, Jake?”
    He nervously pushed a mop of black bang out of his face, just to have it fall back over his eyes again. “Well, first off, I’m real sorry about your loss.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And, I just wanted you to know that I don’t cut corners. I did a good job on your dad’s brakes.”
    I was confused. “His brakes? What are you talking about, Jake?”
    “I worked on his brakes just a few days before the accident.”
    Jake’s station had two pumps out front and a small automotive shop in the back where he took on side jobs.
    “I’m still not sure what you’re talking about. Was there something wrong with the brakes on my father’s car?”
    “You don’t know?”
    “Know what?”
    “Well, they say that his brakes failed when he was coming down the pass between here and Cowlick Junction. That’s what caused his accident. But, I swear—”
    I held up a silencing hand. “Slow down. Who said that the accident was caused by failed brakes? I was told that he lost control of the car. No one said anything about his brakes.”
    Jake shrugged. “I don’t know. Just people around town, I guess.”
    “Really?” I mulled this new information over for a second before asking, “Any chance they could have given out for some other reason?”
    Jake made another swipe at his bangs and shifted nervously from foot to foot. “No, not unless something happened to the brake line. Even if they were wearing down, they wouldn’t just give out like that.”
    “Is the brake line easy to get to?”
    “I suppose, if you know what you’re doing.”
    I peered over at Rose again, who was putting on a stellar performance as the grieving widow for her groupies. Looking at her, I just couldn’t imagine that she would know the difference between a brake line and a gas line. No, she had to have had help—more than likely from that boyfriend of hers.
    There was one person who I could trust to straighten this mess out—Sheriff Maddox. Scanning the crowd, I found him next to the buffet table, heckling up with the local geezers.
    Sheriff Wade Maddox was another person who hadn’t changed much in the years I had been gone. He was still dressed in his usual attire—a stained plaid shirt and worn-knee jeans hiked up to his chest and held in place with rainbow-colored suspenders. However, despite his less than professional appearance, Sheriff Maddox was a good law man. He was just the person I needed to talk to.
    “Sheriff,” I said, wading right into his group of cronies, interrupting what I bet was the ending of a dirty joke. “I need to speak to you.” I peered suggestively at the good ole boys around him. “Alone, please.”
    There were a few disgruntled grunts before the men dispersed.
    “Sheriff,” I started. He acknowledged me with a nod and continued chewing on a chicken leg. “I