Free Steps to the Altar by Earlene Fowler Page B

wasted on her. “But really, I’ve already worked it into my schedule.”
    “Not another word,” she said, clapping her hands together sharply to shut me up. “He’s your assistant and that’s that. Now, I’m off to see about your gramma’s shower. We’ve rented the upper room at Baxter’s Bungalow.”
    “You didn’t tell me that at the meeting,” I said. Baxter’s was a popular and often rowdy college bar downtown. Not at all the place I’d expected a senior citizen wedding shower to be held. Apprehension scratched at my insides. “Why are you having it there?”
    She looked at me as if I had suddenly grown antennas. “Because it’s got a karaoke machine, of course.”
    Before I could ask more, she had breezed through the door, calling to us to stay in touch and let her know if we found anything interesting in Maple Sullivan’s trunks.
    “So, boss, where do you want the trunks?” Detective Hudson asked.
    “Detective,” I said, making my voice as firm as I could. “As much as I enjoyed working together with you a few months ago . . .”
    He broke into my lie with a huge guffaw.
    I glared at him. “Okay, who are we kidding? You bug the crap out of me and I don’t want to work with you. I can’t even guess why you’d suggest it to Edna.”
    “Hey, what do I have to do to get you to call me Hud? And maybe I missed you.” His dark brown eyes twinkled.
    Before I could comment, he continued, “Look, you haven’t even seen the trunks. Take a look at them and then decide. There’s a lot of stuff there and two people could get it sorted and cataloged faster than one.” He closed the distance between us with two long strides and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “And I don’t have to be telling you what a nag Miz McClun can be. If you really are that busy, you should be grateful for my help. There’s nothin’ says we have to work on it at the same time.”
    Thinking about the two weddings, two showers, the Mardi Gras ball, and that somehow I was going to have to deal with the fact that my husband’s ex-girlfriend was sniffing around did tempt me into accepting his help. He was right, we didn’t have to work on it at the same time. I could teach him the cataloging method, give him a key to the folk art museum—he was a sheriff’s deputy, after all, I could trust him not to steal the silver—and he could work on it when he could. Maybe this would work out and I could get Edna off my back that much sooner.
    “How many trunks are there?” I asked.
    His grin returned, as if he had heard my thoughts and knew he’d won out. “Four. I’ve got them in the back of my truck. Where do you want them?”
    I sighed. “Over in the corner there.” I pointed at the far end of the room, next to the oak credenza that still held Scout’s ball captive. “I’ll show you how we catalog things for the museum and we’ll divide up the trunks. After we’re through, we’ll go over each other’s lists to double-check that everything’s been properly cataloged. Also, we’ll wrap any linens, quilts, and clothes in acid-free paper to preserve them better. I’ll show you how.”
    He nodded, his face turning serious. “I’m fascinated by this Maple Sullivan’s life and I’m bettin’ you are too.”
    “I’m too busy to be fascinated,” I snapped. “So the woman killed her husband. So what? I’m sick of a society that finds murderers and criminals more fascinating than people who go through life not giving in to their baser instincts.”
    “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “People givin’ in to their baser instincts is what puts gas in my truck.”
    “Just go get the trunks,” I answered, not wanting to get into any kind of philosophical discussion with him.
    He came into my office about a half hour later, his sleeves rolled back and his face rosy with perspiration. “Thanks for the help,” he said, flopping down in one of my visitor’s chairs without asking.
    “You forget, I’m the