Free Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 01 - Hurricane Season by Michaela Thompson Page A

(the last was for Lily’s benefit) “would call up like that and leave no name?” one of the group wanted to know.
    “The one that did it, that’s who,” retorted another.
    Snapper shook his head. “Let Woody and Cecil figure it out. They’re the experts.”
    Lily doubted Woody was an expert in anything except grunting for earthworms on the courthouse lawn. Something else was bothering her, though. “You mean they found out about the murder because of this telephone call?” she asked.
    “Yes ma’am,” said Snapper. “Cecil took it, like I said, but when Woody came in after his supper he thought maybe they should see about it. They took a run out there, and—” He bent his head and reached for his handkerchief.
    “Hold on, boy,” someone said.
    Snapper mopped his face. “Lordy,” he said.
    “What time did the call come in?” asked Lily.
    Snapper shrugged. “Six or so, I reckon.”
    Brother Chillingworth gripped Lily’s shoulder and whispered, “Don’t make him talk about it.” Lily lapsed into silence, but not because of Brother Chillingworth. A picture had come into her memory. A young man, black curly hair, dark eyes, holding out a wrinkled dollar bill. At six o’clock, or thereabouts.
    “Where’s your old man?” Snapper had to repeat his question before Lily realized it was addressed to her.
    “Aubrey? Oh he wasn’t feeling well enough to come. He said to give you his condolences.” Only after the sentence was out did Lily realize she hadn’t thought twice about the lie. Aubrey, at his apiary since dawn, didn’t even know about Diana.
    Lily rose. “I’ll be going.”
    Snapper stood and took her hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Lily. You can tell that old man of yours I said to take care of himself.”
    Lily picked her way through the crowd and let herself out the front door. When she got the Nash started, she didn’t turn toward the beach and the store. Instead, she swung the car toward town, the courthouse, and the office of Sheriff Woody Malone.

Bo and Sue Nell
    “She made a humming noise in the back of her throat,” said Bo Calhoun.
    It was late afternoon, the same hour Lily was sipping coffee at Snapper’s house. Bo was drunk. He was sitting on the front steps of his house, a jar of pale liquid and a glass at his feet. The air was heavy, sweet with honeysuckle that overhung the porch and made, where the sun shone through it, dappled patterns on Sue Nell’s yellow blouse.
    She stood behind him, taut, near the front door. At her feet was a worn duffel bag. She was going, she told Bo, to stay at the Calhouns’ fish camp on Tupelo Branch. The only access to the camp was by boat. When she told him she was leaving Bo said only, “Take your boat this time. That’s what I bought that damn bateau for. I’m sick of you going off in mine.” The house was empty, the children sent to visit their cousins at Uncle Sonny’s. On the floor inside, glittering where the light picked them out, were shards of crystal goblets that had belonged to Bo’s mother’s mother, goblets that had been carefully portioned out to Miss Myrna’s sons as each married. When Sue Nell had smashed the last one on the wall next to the chair where he was sitting and drinking, Bo had picked up his jar and glass and stumbled out. He had only gotten across the porch to the steps before he had to sit down. “A humming,” he repeated.
    “What else?” Sue Nell’s voice was harsh. Bo didn’t reply. She strode down the steps and turned to face him. When he refused to meet her eyes, she slapped his face, the solid sound of the blow attesting to the strength behind it.
    Bo swayed to one side slightly, his head still bent. When he regained his balance, he said, “She would say things. Call out.”
    “Call what?”
    “Call me, I guess I mean.”
    “When you were doing it? When she got her feelings?” Bo closed his eyes.
    Sue Nell leaned close to him. Almost whispering, she said, “She must have told you how