Free Beckett's Convenient Bride by Dixie Browning

mean the murder.”
    And so she proceeded in her own unique style to relate the happenings of the past few hours. “See, first I heard these two men arguing, only I didn’t see anything because I was on the other side of the church in the cemetery and there’s this big grove of cedars, but then I heard this shot. I thought it was a backfire—at least I did at first when I heard someone drive away. I thought the engine backfired. It had a funny sound, like it might be groaning.”
    â€œThe gunshot?”
    â€œThe engine. Sort of a zoom, zoom, and then a low whining noise like a jet plane flying really far away.”
    Right. Muffler pack. Carson listened without further interruption, having gradually concluded that at least a portion of what she said made sense when taken in context.
    â€œOnly when I got to the parking lot, there was my car and this—this dead body. So I came home and called the sheriff. At least I called nine-one-one and…well, that’s about all, really. Except for seeing a man messing around my car.”
    He jumped on the simplest part of her statement. He did know she had a car—knew she’d left it out on the road. “You didn’t retrieve your car yet?”
    She shook her head. Now that she had decided to open up, she had that childlike expression of trust that gave him all sorts of misgivings.
    â€œBut it’s locked and everybody here knows it belongs to me, so I was pretty sure no one would bother it.”
    Don’t trust me, he wanted to say. Trust implied involvement, and involvement was something he didn’t have time for. Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed indulging in a little meaningless sex—he’d been through a long dry spell where sex was concerned, andas reluctant as he was to admit it, there was something about the lady. As long as you didn’t try to make sense of what she was saying.
    After a night of inventive, uninhibited sex, he could hand over the check and walk away. Limp away. Crawl away.
    Only you didn’t do that to someone who trusted you. At least, Carson didn’t.
    Back to the issue at hand. “In other words, you can vouch for the locals. What about strangers?”
    â€œWe don’t get many of those, not this time of year. Boat traffic, mostly, but people who tie up to refuel and eat at one of the restaurants don’t go any farther than the waterfront. Not that there’s that much more to see, just miles and miles of wetlands with a few wooded knolls. We don’t even have a gift shop. Jeff sells T-shirts and souvenir mugs and things like that, but most people stop farther south where there are better facilities and more to see.”
    Carson had an idea that these small, hidden stops along the waterway served another purpose, but there was no point in bringing that up. Reluctantly, he gave up on the sex and set aside his reason for being there. It had waited a hundred years; it could wait another day. “Where’s your phone book? First thing we need to do is make a few calls.”
    Rotary dial. Why wasn’t he surprised? This whole place was an anachronism. While he waited for the call to go through, Kit paced. She’d told him to call her Kit. It suited her, he thought, watching as she moved around the room, pausing now and then to glance out the window. Foxy lady.
    â€œDad? How’s Mom?” A long pause, and then, “Yeah, I found her.” Another pause while his father asked if hewas doing his exercises and had he known about the epidemic that had laid out half of Charleston’s finest. He assured his father that he’d avoided that particular bug. And he had, for the most part, other than a few minor symptoms. His dad didn’t need anything else to worry about.
    â€œLook, I might be a day or so late getting home. How about calling the post office and—sure, that’ll be fine. Thanks.”
    He hung up after accepting the