Free The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1) by Phillip Quinn Morris

from Travertine County, the geology was a different land. Winston County was mountainous with sandy soil. Mountains, canyons, and small rivers cut through huge rock formations.
                  That geology was what made Winston County a strange place, physically and politically. Cotton did not grow well in such terrain. No cotton, no slaves, very little commerce. They had no interest in the Confederacy. They had no interest in fighting for the North. But sometimes life played its dirty, ironical games. The men of Winston County did go off to war. Some one side. Some to the other. It was often a literal case of brother against brother.
                  A couple of hours later, Rusty cruised in to the outskirts of Haleyville and there was Skye Market. It had been there ever since he was a small chld and would come to Winston County with his mother.
                  Jonas Skye founded that first supermarket in Haleyville. It went through several remodels over the years and was still a thriving business. Now it was owned and operated by Jonas’ son, Silas.
                  Rusty parked, walked in through the automated doors, and over to the customer service desk. A man named Anthony, who was an assistant manager—both according to his name tag—walked up to Rusty with a smile on his face and asked what he could do for him.
                  “I’d like to see Silas Skye please.”
                  “Mr. Skye is the owner,” the assistant manager said, like it would be impossible to see him.
                  “I tell you what,” Rusty said. “If you would be so kind to tell Mr. Skye that Rusty Clay from Travertine County would like to see him right now I’d appreciate it. If he’s too busy to see me I’ll politely leave.”
                  That ought to make it easy for Anthony, even if Silas had become the President of the United States since the last time Rusty saw him, or if Silas had fallen down a flight of stairs and gotten selective amnesia and forgotten everybody from Travertine County who might be his fifth cousin.
                  “Rusty Clay?” Anthony said. “That’s your real name?”
                  “It’s one of my many aliases.”
                  That seemed to satisfy him. He smiled, turned and walked through an employees-only door.
                  Thirty seconds later Silas Skye walked out, big grin on his face. Still slim, still had a full head of gray hair, still emanated charm.
                  They shook hands. He took Rusty back to his office.
                  How you been doing and all that. Rusty knew he was going to have to hear: Did I tell you about the time me, Daddy, and your granddaddy went out into Bankhead Forest deer hunting? We took twenty-four cans of Beanie Weanies and two gallons of moonshine. Three days later we run out of moonshine.
                  As soon as they sat down, Rusty got right to the point.
                  “Did you know Elmore “Katfish King” King? He was from Winston County.”
                  “Yes, I did.”
                  “Did you know he was murdered?”
                  “Yes, I’ve heard.”
                  “This is confidential.”
                  “Of course.”
                  “A couple of days before he was killed he walks into my office, thinks I’m a private investigator, wants me to investigate who stole his two hundred fourteen pound catfish, hands me five thousand dollars. Then he gets some pressing message on his cellphone and leaves. Next thing I know he’s sprawled all over The Dolopia Democrat as a murder victim.”
                  “If you want to try to figure out who murdered him, get out the phone books of all the three states around