Free Rogues & Rascals in Goose Pimple Junction (Goose Pimple Junction Mysteries Book 4) by Amy Metz Page B

kidding.”
    “No. I saw him throw something into the trash and walked over to see what it was. I’s just curious, you know. And guess what I found?”
    “Spray paint.”
    Pickle confirmed his guess. “Spray paint.”
    “All right, Pickle. It just so happens my officers are about to bring the suspect in.” Johnny raised an eyebrow at Hank. “We’ll see what he has to say for himself. But we won’t let on what you told me.”
    Johnny put the phone down as Hank said, “But we don’t have anything to go on, Chief. Pickle’s right . . . it’s one person’s word over another’s.”
    Johnny shrugged. “We can still question him.”
    “Seriously?” Hank gaped.
    “Why not?”
    “Well, his daddy’s a lawyer.”
    “What does his father’s crookedness, I mean occupation, have to do with the price of eggs?”
    “He’ll just figure a way to buy or lie his son out of the problem.”
    “Does that mean we stop doing our duty? The one we were sworn to uphold?”
    “No sir, I take your point.”
    “Take Officer Witherspoon with you. And keep me apprised of the situation.”
    “Roger that.”

Mama always said . . . Rudeness and ignorance go hand in hand. Never be either one.

H ank and Velveeta drove to the Howe residence on Clyde Bird Road, the richest road in or around Goose Pimple Junction. They were in the countryside now, and the few houses they spotted were far from the main road at the top of hills that made them look extra palatial.
    “Shewee, how do these people take care of that much land?” Hank gawked at the landscaped acreage of each property.
    “They have gardeners, that’s how.” Velveeta craned her neck to gawk at one house as they drove past. “And they have hired help to take care of the inside just like they have people to care for the outside. All the owners do is sit around and count their money.”
    Hank slowly shook his head. “I’ll tell you what, it’s another world out here.” He turned the cruiser onto a freshly paved driveway and stopped at a speaker in front of a big iron gate. Moments later, he heard a British accent:
    “How may I help you?”
    “Officers Beanblossom and Witherspoon to see Jimmy Dean Howe?” Hank spoke it as a question, and Velveeta whispered for him to act with authority.
    “And what should I tell the master this is regarding?” The voice dripped with snootiness.
    “Police bidness.” Hank looked at Velveeta, and she nodded her approval.
    “One moment, please,” the disembodied voice said.
    “I’ll bet he ain’t even English,” Hank whispered to Velveeta.
    After about two minutes, the eight-foot-tall gates slowly opened, and Hank proceeded up the long winding driveway lined with trees that appeared to be at least one hundred years old.
    When the house came into view, Velveeta gasped and Hank said, “Whoa! Would you look at that house? I’ve been to resorts that weren’t as nice as that.”
    They parked in front of the house and were met at the door by a proper English butler, complete with a tuxedo, British accent, and snooty air. Standing very tall and erect, he led them down a hall and into a gourmet kitchen where Jimmy Dean sat, stuffing his face with a submarine sandwich. A bottle of Heineken beer sat on the table.
    “Officers Beanblossom and Witherspoon, sir,” the butler announced and then quietly retreated.
    Hank’s eyes went from the beer to the defiant face of the teenager. “Aren’t you still in high school, son?”
    “Number one, I’m not your son. Number two, yes, I am. Why do you ask?”
    “It’s illegal for a minor to drink alcohol.”
    “Who said I’m drinking it? You’re assuming since it’s sitting on the table that it’s mine?”
    “Is someone else at home?”
    “Do you have eyes? Someone else just brought you in here, didn’t he?”
    “Are you telling me your butler is drinking that beer that sits right in front of you?”
    Jimmy Dean spread his arms out wide. “Now there you go assuming again.”
    Hank