Lindsey and Ike Mysteries


Series: Lindsey & Ike Novella Series, Anthology
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: Nov 14, 2017
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Available Formats: eBook, eBook and Print
Digital: 9780996770668
Hardcover: 9780983361404
In this three-novella anthology, an amateur sleuth and her dog return home to a town of secrets … and murder.

“Really, Truly Dead”
Lindsey McKay has no intention of being Sheriff Ike Harper’s girlfriend when she returns home with her dog to bail out the family newspaper, but Ike has his eye on her. The murder of a local judge proves to be a boon for the newspaper, but the bad news hits when her father’s arrested for the crime. Will saving her father’s life cost Lindsey hers?

“Turtle Tribbles”
The Turtle Girl, a college intern named Selma Crowley, begs newspaper editor Lindsey McKay to write about the theft of turtle eggs from their nests. Lindsey agrees but asks for more proof. Selma disappears and is soon found dead. Lindsey blames herself because she demanded concrete proof, so she noses into Sheriff Ike Harper’s investigation. Can she discover the truth before time runs out?

“Dead Men Tell No Tales”
Newspaper editor Lindsey McKay’s small town is rocked when a suspicious hunting accident proves to be premeditated murder. Sheriff Ike Harper vows to get his man and keep Lindsey safe. Only, the more Lindsey and Ike dig, the more questions they uncover. People aren’t what they seem. If only a dead man could tell tales.

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Dead Men Tell No Tales


Series: Lindsey & Ike Romantic Mystery, Book 3
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: Nov 2017
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Available Formats: eBook
Digital: 9780996770651
In this third installment of the Lindsey & Ike romantic mystery novella series, things don’t add up after a suspicious hunting accident. The more Sheriff Ike Harper and newspaper editor Lindsey McKay dig, the more questions they find. Will a dead man tell tales?

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© Copyright 2012 – Maggie Toussaint

Chapter 1

Despite the distant rumble of thunder, the first dinner in our new home on River Road was amazing. I couldn’t stop smiling at Ike and his eight year old son Trent. Sure, we’d grilled burgers and hot dogs here before, but tonight everything tasted extra special.

I’m Lindsey McKay, editor of the Gazette, Danville, Georgia’s, weekly newspaper. Sheriff Ike Harper is my partner in housing and love. He’d been burned in matrimony once so we were trying a less traditional route with our nearly nine-month romance. We’d joined our names on a property deed and called it good.

In principle, I agreed with Ike. A piece of paper saying we were married wasn’t a guarantee of happiness, but I also valued tradition. Living in the moment was challenging.

Forks clanked on plates, drawing me from my musings. I passed the platter of grilled meat since the baked beans and watermelon bowls were empty. “Seconds?”

Trent dug in like he hadn’t eaten in a week. Ike settled back in his seat, a goofy smile on his face. “We should’ve done this months ago.”

We’d struggled with our commitment level this summer, or so I’d thought. Turned out we had communication and processing issues. Since summer had turned to fall, I’d been learning to speak guy, and he’d been doing his best to make me happy. How was it possible to be deliriously happy and yet worried that I might mess it up?

“What?” Ike said. “You scowled.”

“I did? Sorry. Thinking of something else.”

“You must not like that something else.”

“It’s no big deal,” I said, hoping he’d let it drop.

Lucky for me, Trent distracted his dad with a question about football tryouts, and less than five minutes later, an emergency call came in for Ike. Hunting accident.

After Ike left, I thought how my role had shifted. Before, I’d chased cops to a scene to get the story for the paper. Now I lived with a cop and had more information than I could print. Best of all, I chose to stay home with Trent when these afterhours calls occurred.

From the incident details I overheard, one man accidentally shot the other in the swamp when he heard a noise. I didn’t know the name of the shooter yet, but Dispatch mentioned he seemed broken up about the tragedy.

The victim, John Starling, tended bar at Fiddler’s at the north end of the county. I’d met him once when he came into the office to buy a newspaper, not long after he moved here this spring.

Time flew as Trent and I played cards, bathed, and got ready for bed. Ike returned in time to tuck his son in for the night. “Was it bad?” I asked when we were cozied up on the sunporch sofa.

He drew me into his arms. “Seemed straightforward. Both men were hog hunting in the swamp. Neither was aware of the other. Sonny Mowrey shot the bartender, thinking he was a hog. Mowrey was so upset he could barely hold it together to give his statement.”

“I’ve shot a gun before, at targets mind you, but I’ve never shot a person, and I hope it never came to that. I’d be a wreck too.”

“Seemed cut and dried to me. Accident all the way.”

An accident. Many people today thought “accident” meant no one was responsible. Surely that wasn’t the case for a human life. “Will Mowrey face charges for killing someone?”

“I’m running his fingerprints right now, something he isn’t happy about.”

“Why? He said he shot the guy.”

“Learned this lesson a long time ago. Tie up loose ends or they’ll bite you in the butt. Whatever happened out there, I’ll get to the bottom of it. It’s always best to follow procedure.”

“I want to see the police report tomorrow.”

He nuzzled my neck. “I expected no less, Madame of the News.”

I swatted him playfully, enjoying his attention. “You make me sound like something dirty.”

“You make me think wild thoughts.” His hands drifted lower. “How about we take ourselves up to our bedroom and let the world take care of itself?”

“Sounds good, but I have one more question.”

Ike groaned. “What is it?”

“Where was the bullet hole?”

“Straight through the heart. Two kill shots.”

Swamp hogs came in all sizes and were ferocious. You did not want to be charged by one, so you made sure you aimed at the right spot. “A person is taller than a hog.”

“So?”

“Shouldn’t Mr. Mowrey have aimed lower if he was hog hunting?”

“Good observation, but these people barely knew each other. Let’s not look for murders. The simplest explanation is usually the best.”

“I’m not looking for anything. My mind went there on its own.”

He studied me for a long moment. “You have good instincts, Linds, and I’ve learned to trust them. We’ll find out the angle of the shots at autopsy. Now, can we let the dead sleep long enough for us to have some privacy?”

I pulled free of his embrace and rose. “Race ya.”

Chapter 2

Cousin Janey, my best friend and sleuthing buddy, stopped by my office first thing in the morning. Her face glowed from all the time she was spending with Junior Curtis, so things between her and the bail bondsman must be going strong. “I heard.”

Though I was pretty sure I knew where she was headed, I couldn’t resist teasing her. “About what? The first night Ike and I spent in our home?”

She slouched in a guest chair and propped her sandal-clad feet on my desk. “Well, that too. Nothing like buying property to cement a relationship. Or destroy it.”

Janey was a Realtor. She’d seen it all with the clients she’d chauffeured around in hopes of a sale. “We’re going for cementing our relationship. Don’t jinx us.”

“Got it, but you guys are golden. With home ownership, you and Ike are legally bound. You’re as good as married now.”

“Keep that on the down low. Ike’s scared to death of the M-word.”

“At least you got a commitment out of him. My guy goes home every night. No hint of a ring or a future.”

“Junior makes you happy, and he lights up when you enter the room,” I said. “I’m glad he turned out to be a nice guy.”

“Me too. If he’d been with the mob as rumored, I’d be in deep trouble by now because I can’t stay away from him. He’s got this magnetic pull.”

I chuckled. “They’re called pheromones, Cous, and you are hooked on his.”

Janey took her time answering, as if she were considering the matter at great length. “Junior’s all-consuming. We talk, we make out, we, you know, and then he goes home. Both of us want that so we don’t have to explain that he slept over to my daughter or to my ex.”

“Y’all are finding your way. It’ll work out.”

“I suppose, but I didn’t come over to talk about either of our relationships. I heard about Sonny Mowrey. I know him.”

My curiosity spiked, and I leaned forward. “You do?”

She nodded. “I sold Sonny and Deena that foreclosure house out on the point a few years ago.”

I grabbed a notepad and a pen, eager to take notes. “What can you tell me about them? Where’d they come from?”

“They were vague about their hometown, but they moved here from Florida. Just wanted a place on the water that was off the grid.”

“Lot of people come here for that reason. Who’d they get their loan through?”

“No loan. They paid cash.”

Even though my folks gave us a good price on the house, Ike and I had to get a mortgage to buy this place. “Cash? For a house?”

“It was an easy sale and a quick closing. They offered on the house and owned it less than a week later. They told the people they could leave any furniture they didn’t want in the house. First I ever heard of anyone doing that.”

The furniture part wasn’t too weird. Mom and Dad left a lot I still needed to go through. But we were family. “Weren’t you suspicious?”

“I needed the money,” Janey said. “But now, I’m wondering if I should mention it to Ike.”

“Ike already believes I read murder into every 9-1-1 call. Are you thinking Sonny Mowrey didn’t have an accident? That he meant to kill John Starling?”

“Something is strange about the Mowreys. Both of them had short bleached blonde hair when they moved here. Now Sonny’s totally dark-haired with a full beard and a ponytail. Deena’s sporting a pink doo at the moment. I don’t know how she walks with so many rings on her toes. Have you ever worn a toe ring?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. What’s wrong with us?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Seems like with our racy ancestress, we’d be on the forefront of every trend. Guess the Episcopalian upbringing trumps the Beulah McKay exhibitionist genetics.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ve been letting my inner exhibitionist have free rein lately. It’s more fun, and Junior likes it.”

I did not want to know what they were up to at her place in the deep dark of night. “Enough about us. Can you think of any reason Sonny Mowrey might’ve shot John Starling?”

“Well. The obvious thing is two men and one woman.”

“Deena came between them?”

“Not saying she did. You asked if there was any reason. Deena seemed very flirty and . . . accessible when she was my client.”

“She flirted with you?”

“She turned on the charm everywhere we went. I always had the sense she was working a room when we hit a restaurant or the Bar and Grill for lunch.”

“Extroverted wife. Introverted husband.” I weighed the ideas in each hand. Given Janey’s observations, I had no trouble picturing a love triangle. “What was Sonny’s response?”

“He didn’t react to her flirting, but he always sat beside her in the back of my car.”

“Doesn’t sound like he’d go into a killing rage if she strayed. Do you ever see them out and about in town?”

Janey studied the ceiling for a moment. “I waved to them at last year’s Fall Festival, but I was in the kid area with CeeCee. They didn’t wade through the screaming children to speak to me, and I couldn’t leave my daughter there alone to go speak to them.”

“So they keep to themselves. They haven’t been in trouble with the law since I moved back home last fall. I ran their name through our archive and there’s never been anything in the paper about them. Then it occurred to me that I was looking in the wrong place. I searched for their names online. You know what I found?”

Janey grabbed my orange stress relief ball, squeezed it several times, and returned it to my desk. “What?”

“Nothing. I even checked the Census listing. I was stunned. They should have some digital footprint other than property ownership. Is Sonny a nickname or his legal name?”

“It was the name he signed on the contract and the name on his Florida driver’s license.”

“I wonder if Ike knows about this,” I mused, thinking out loud.

“He doesn’t like you nosing around in his cases.”

“I’m fact finding for my feature story. He can chase all the bad guys he wants. I want nothing to do with that end of things.”

“I’m sure he’ll discover this much on his own,” Janey said. “How come there’s no other information on the Mowreys?”

“Perhaps they’re not newsworthy people. If not for Aunt Fay’s membership in the DAR and her property deed, I couldn’t find her online. I checked.”

“Get real. The Mowreys are our age. Look up any late twenty-something online and you get a ton of hits from the search engine. Something’s fishy about this duo.”

“I’m getting that sense myself. What about the bartender? You know John Starling?”

“He asked me out once. I was attending a high school classmate’s birthday party at his bar not two months ago.”

“Did you do it?” I reached for the stress relief ball and massaged it absently.

“Nah. No chemistry. After my divorce, I thought I wouldn’t date again. I was devoting myself to being the best Mama ever.”

“And look at you now. How do you explain Junior to your daughter?”

“I just say we’re seeing each other. CeeCee doesn’t have a problem with it one way or another.”

“And your ex?”

“He’s steamed about Junior, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. Junior’s badass reputation is serving me well.”

“My, how the tide has turned.”

We were grinning at each other like silly fools when the front door burst open. I heard my assistant’s voice go from placating to loud in the lobby. Ellen is a good gatekeeper, and she keeps the public at bay when I’m busy. She only allows people back if they’re blood relatives, Ike, or someone we’re interviewing for our next paper.

A buxom woman appeared in my doorway. She was pretty in an overdone, big pink hair and fake eyelashes kind of way. The short dress, bare legs, and high heels made a feminine statement. A closer look revealed shiny rings on her toes.

Deena Mowrey had come to me. Oh, joy.

Turtle Tribbles


Series: Lindsey & Ike Romantic Mystery Series, Book 2
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: May 1, 2017
Genre: Cozy Mystery
Available Formats: eBook
Digital: 9780996770644

In Book 2 of the Lindsey & Ike Novella Series, newspaper editor Lindsey McKay must decide if she’s ready to take the next step with her boyfriend, Sheriff Ike Harper. He’s anxious for her to move in, but she worries something is missing. Meanwhile, the Turtle Girl, a college intern named Selma Crowley, begs Lindsey to cover her turtle story. Someone is stealing federally protected loggerhead turtle eggs off a Georgia barrier island, and it has to stop.

The earnest young woman convinces Lindsey of the story’s potential, and the next day Lindsey ferries to the island to see the nests and take photos. Selma promises she’ll have tangible evidence of the theft on Friday, but the revelation doesn’t occur. Worse, Selma’s missing, and no one’s seen her since Wednesday evening. Because she demanded proof from Selma for the newspaper story, Lindsey blames herself for the intern’s disappearance.

When Selma’s body is discovered, Lindsey vows to get justice for Selma and her turtles. Selma’s tribbles are over, but the tribbles are just beginning for Lindsey and her trusty sidekick, Labrador retriever Bailey.

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© Copyright 2017 – Maggie Toussaint

“I’ve got turtle tribbles,” an athletic young woman said.

“Come again?” I glanced up from the ad log I’d been wrestling with to see a visitor in my office doorway. I waved her in as I tried to remember her name. Selma Crowley, our Turtle Girl, a summer posting coveted by college interns. Each of the Georgia barrier islands had students who monitored the yearly loggerhead turtle migration to our shores and subsequent egg hatching.

She perched on the edge of a chair. Her bright blue eyes matched the skin tight tank she wore over running shorts. From her boyish haircut to the rings on both second toes, this gal set her own style.

Selma made a funny face. “Oh. Sorry, Miss McKay. I forget everyone wasn’t raised with geeky parents in suburbia. Mom and Dad are whacko about Star Trek everything. I grew up on a steady diet of the TV shows, movies, and Trekkie conventions. The episode about tribbles is my favorite.”

I closed my laptop and reached for a pad of paper. “Please, call me Lindsey, Selma. We’re not big on formalities here at the newspaper. What are tribbles, and what do they have to do with our endangered loggerheads?”

“Tribbles are adorable space creatures, but they multiply faster than rabbits. Just like the TV show, my tribbles are out of control. I desperately need your help.”

I sat in stunned silence. No way was she talking about space creatures on the island, was she? There would’ve been sightings of spacecraft. Unless they were sneaky and were just here for our turtles. Crazy possibilities spun through my head. Selma and her boss could’ve called the TV networks in Savannah or Jacksonville to break this story. Instead, they’d chosen our small weekly? The skeptic in me raised its ugly head.

I settled on what I hoped was a professional expression of interest. “You’ve got alien creatures in the turtle nests? Do you have photos?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to alarm you. Substituting tribble for trouble is a bad habit I picked up ages ago. So far, I haven’t seen aliens, but we can’t rule them out either.” Selma shook her head, her expression glum. “I don’t exactly know who or what is causing the tribble, I mean trouble, but eggs are disappearing from the turtle nests. It happens every year, but this year’s been the worst ever.”

Disappointed, I absently rolled my pen in my fingers. “So we may or may not have aliens on the island, but we positively have fewer turtle eggs?”

“You got it.”

It wasn’t much of a story, except for an earnest young woman’s word that eggs were disappearing. “You sure it’s not natural processes?”

“Real sure. When raccoons, feral hogs, or fire ants invade a nest, they don’t cover everything back up. But, the nests with the missing eggs look undisturbed.”

“How do you know anything’s missing? Do you have a device like ground penetrating radar to detect the eggs?”

“All you have is a geeky kid’s word. I know when the turtles lay their eggs because of the crawl marks on the beach. I dig up each new nest to make sure it isn’t a false crawl, then cover up the eggs and mark the location. We’re still early in the nesting season, but more nests should’ve hatched already. I dug up two of the first nests I marked before I decided to come over here.” She passed me her hot pink cell phone and showed me the images of sandy holes. “Look at the photos. No eggs.”

All I saw was a sandy pit in each image. Was there a story here? If the egg theft didn’t pan out, I could slant this into a nature piece about turtle nesting. “I’d like copies of relevant images, including those of an egg hatch for the story, and your permission to use them.” She nodded eagerly. I hated to bust her bubble, but this question had to be asked. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but could you have missed the hatch?”

“Nope. I hit the beach first thing every morning and monitor the nests after dark each night. If turtle eggs hatched, I would see the signs. Eggshells would be cracked and left behind. The sand from the nest to the sea would be full of turtle tracks. The nests would look disturbed. I didn’t see any of that at those locations. It’s like the eggs got beamed into outer space.”

I leaned back in my chair and briefly contemplated the domed ceiling light. No way was I writing a headline about turtle-egg stealing aliens. I needed an angle for this story, or else I should encourage Selma Crowley to leave. Time was always in short supply now that I ran the Gazette.

Though it was technically my family’s newspaper, I was editor in chief. Daddy had retired last fall, and Mama lit out for seminary after their divorce. So the newspaper became mine, and I loved the work, loved telling people’s stories. Selma’s tribbles appealed to me, but I needed more from her. Sometimes it was a matter of asking the right questions.

“You mentioned this happened before,” I said, returning to the missing egg puzzle at hand. “Are there historical records of empty nests I can report?”

“The last two turtle girls made notes about nests that didn’t hatch, but only last year’s gal documented that eight of the no-hatch nests were positively empty. The previous year, several nest markers went missing, which dropped them out of the count, so the stats don’t reflect those occurrences.”

“Eight out of how many?”

“The number of nests on my island are usually a hundred or so. As you may know, turtles return to the same beach every time they lay eggs. I’ll scrounge up the data and email it to you.”

I sensed she was holding back. Time for me to tighten the screws. “I need concrete facts for the paper, Selma. I can’t report on feelings or impressions.” And I certainly couldn’t report on aliens with transporter machines. “Why would anyone steal turtle eggs?”

“Because there’s a black market for the eggs. Some claim they’re an aphrodisiac, while others say they’re a delicacy. With about a hundred and twenty eggs in each nest, a poacher can pocket several hundred dollars off the theft of one nest.”

Black market. Egg heist. I was starting to get an idea of where this story could go if it got legs. “Can you use a hidden camera to catch the thief in the act?”

“Too many nests to monitor. They’re along the entire length of the beach. That’s a couple of miles.”

Disappointed, I blurted out the first thought in my head, unfiltered. “Too bad we don’t have drones to keep watch or something.”

“Too bad we can’t afford armed drones to shoot poachers,” Selma said. “They have no right to do this.”

The cute little blonde had a bloodthirsty bent. Interesting. “What can be done about this issue? Who have you notified?”

“Only my co-workers, my boss, and a wildlife agency contact know about the thefts. We didn’t want the news getting out at first, but my boss gave me the go-ahead to contact you for an article. Dr. Jernigan said it would be cheaper to scare the thief away than it would be to prosecute him or her.”

Hmm. I didn’t like being used, but I was in the business of selling papers. A photo of this pretty girl on the beach would be eye-catching. Unless we had a deluge of homicides or other major news, there was no reason her picture couldn’t be above the fold on page one.

“Do you have a plan going forward?” I asked.

“Sure do. I’m in the process of removing the traditional markers from the nests. First, I have to record all of the nests’ GPS coordinates in my phone and in my spreadsheet. If that thief doesn’t already know where the nests are, he or she will have a lot of digging to do to find eggs.”

“What do the nest markers look like?”

She showed me an image on her phone of a small wooden stake. Not much of a thing, really, but if you knew what to look for, the stakes reveal the location of the nests.

“That should stop your thief all right. Anything else?”

“The wildlife folks have been monitoring ferry passengers for a few days. They’re especially interested in people who might suddenly carry a duffle bag or cooler on or off the island. According to apprehension reports elsewhere, stolen turtle eggs are usually transported in plastic bags inside a container. They’ve made a list of folks who carry these containers infrequently on our ferry. They have a way to detect the eggs, but I can’t talk about that yet.”

“Why not?”

“Until they catch the thief, I’m sworn to secrecy. They don’t want to tip anyone off. The goal is to get this poacher, not send him or her underground for a few weeks.”

A secret. All my journalistic instincts were firing as I scribbled down her words. This could be big. If I was this excited about the story, everyone else would be too. I flashed a bright smile her way. “I’d love to see the nests firsthand. Let’s set a time for me to catch the ferry over to the island this week. What’s a good day for you?”

Selma waved off my question, her lilac nails catching the light. “My schedule is flexible. You tell me when you want to come.”

Sooner was always better in my book. “Let’s plan for tomorrow. I’ll take the early ferry. Meanwhile, send me the stats from past years on turtle nests and counts. Oh, and I’d love a quote from your boss. Will you share her phone number with me?”

A few minutes later, I had Dr. Jen Jernigan’s number at the university, and Selma had my business card tucked in her hand.

Once she left, my office manager, Ellen Mattingly, joined me. “I heard most of that. You believe her?”

I shrugged. “What’s not to believe? She thinks aliens are stealing her turtle eggs to light up their nights.”

“I’d love it if someone lit up my nights,” Ellen said, “but mostly nighttime is about getting my three kids out of my bed. At least you have a boyfriend, though I haven’t heard an Ike report recently.”

Sheriff Ike Harper had swept me off my feet when I moved home last fall. I enjoyed his company and our extracurricular activities, but I valued my independence too. “He’s still pressuring me to move in with him and his son.”

“I don’t see why you’re resisting the idea. You’re at his place all the time, or else Alice Ann is staying with his son. Why not go all in on the Ike train?”

Indeed. Why couldn’t I move in with him? I’d pulled out a suitcase several times, but I’d never packed a thing. Something about our relationship wasn’t to my liking. Darn if I knew what it was.

Really Truly Dead


Series: Lindsey & Ike, Book #1
Publisher: Muddle House Publishing
Release Date: Feb 2017
Genre: Mystery
Available Formats: eBook
Digital: 9780996770637

An amateur sleuth and her dog return home to a town of secrets…and an ugly murder

In this novella, science writer Lindsey McKay takes a leave of absence from her job and returns home with her dog to save the family newspaper. She left Danville ten years ago and she trusts she can wrap this up quickly. She promises her Atlanta boss she’ll return in two-weeks.

Sheriff Ike Harper is thrilled at Lindsey’s homecoming. She’s the gal who got away, and now he has a second chance at the woman he’s always admired.

Lindsey encourages her father to fight for the paper’s survival, but he won’t cooperate. Meanwhile, the murder of a local judge is a boon for the newspaper, but it’s too late. With her leave running out, neither the tragedy nor Lindsey’s hard work can save the failing business. Then the sheriff arrests her father for the murder, and she faces a new challenge.

Determined to clear her father’s name, Lindsey stirs up a hornet’s nest of trouble. Will saving her father’s life cost Lindsey hers?

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© Copyright 2016 – Maggie Toussaint

Chapter 1

The two a.m. call from my aunt got my blood pumping. Daddy’s drinking had the family newspaper on the rocks, and now he’d totaled his car. By the time I emailed my boss to let him know I was going home, packed, and hit the road, it was nearly three. The miles between Atlanta and Danville rolled by with me alternating between being thankful Daddy survived and being worried about his mental health.

My first stop in town was the Morrison County Sheriff’s Office. My family was a tad off-beat, but we were law-abiding citizens. Until now. I’d never been inside the jailhouse before. For courage, I clipped the leash on my black lab so she could accompany me.

An attractive blonde deputy rose from the reception desk when we entered. Her crisp uniform and bright smile contrasted with the worn-out lobby. “We don’t allow dogs in here,” she said. “Hey, I know you. You’re Lindsey McKay.”

I smiled, aware my carrot top had given me away. “Guilty as charged.” I squinted discreetly at the shiny name plate on her pocket flap and startled at the familiar name. Sister or wife, I wondered. “Sorry, Deputy Harper. I drove through the night, and I wasn’t thinking. Excuse me, while I return Bailey to my car.”

“Never mind. It won’t take two shakes to out-process your Dad. Bailey can stay.” The woman smiled. “I’m Alice Ann Harper. You were in my brother’s class.”

My jaw dropped. Ike’s sister had grown into a beauty. “I didn’t know you were a cop.”

Alice Ann reached under the counter and withdrew papers and a brown paper bag with Daddy’s name on it. “The employment opportunities are somewhat limited in Danville.”

I nodded. An office door banged open, and a brawny male in a close-fitting white polo shirt navy slacks, and a holstered gun swaggered my way. Age had been kind to Ike Harper. He’d filled out through the shoulders and chest, but his waist was as trim as ever.

“How’ve you been, hon?” Sheriff Ike Harper crushed me in arms of steel.

Masculine warmth made my cheeks burn. Uh-oh. He still had it, and I didn’t want it.

“I’m good. Nice to see you, Ike.” I gently pushed against his chest until he released me. “I’m here for my dad. What can you tell me about his wreck?”

Ike squatted and gave my dog the same effusive welcome I’d received. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Mr. McKay clipped an oak and rolled his car on Oldham Road at one a.m.,” Ike said.

How odd. “What was he doing out so late?”

“He kept muttering about a deer in the road. EMTs checked him out, and he refused transport. My guys brought him here. He has a court appearance for the DUI and a fine. Shouldn’t be too bad for his first offense.”

My thoughts whirled at the news. “This feels . . . surreal. I mean I knew his drinking increased over the years, but he always drank at home. I’m stunned. Thank you for getting him checked out. That’s one thing off my mind.”

“He’ll come him around now that you’re here. On another note, want to get a cup of coffee while you’re home? We missed you at the ten-year class reunion last month.”

With those lady killer eyelashes and luminous brown eyes, Ike had been a player in high school. That wasn’t for me. “I had a conflict with reunion weekend, and no thanks on the coffee. Between tending to Daddy and salvaging the newspaper, my time won’t be my own.”

Alice Ann slid papers my way. “Sign these forms.”

Ike leaned against the counter as I signed. “You still working for that science magazine in Atlanta?”

“Yes. The Georgia Journal of Science. I like it there.”

“They’re lucky to have you. If you need anything while you’re home, just ask. I’m swamped today coordinating the search teams looking for Judge Sterling, but I should be free soon.”

“The judge is missing?”

“His wife reported his disappearance at dawn.” Ike waved and headed to his office. “Good to see you, Linds.”

I collected the bag of Daddy’s things and trailed Alice Ann down a long corridor, Bailey padding silently beside me.

My plan was to be stern, but I caved when I saw my father behind bars. In the seven hours since his accident, the cuts on his face and arms had scabbed over. Both eyes were blackened. Alcohol fumes permeated the air. “Daddy?”

He perched on the narrow bottom bunk. “Lindsey? That you?”

Alice Ann waved me inside the unlocked cell. “Take your time.”

Bailey trotted in and licked my father’s toes. “Who’s this fine retriever?” my father asked, as he patted my dog.

“That’s Bailey. I told you I’d rescued her from the shelter when we talked in March. On your birthday.” I knelt and pulled his shoes from the brown bag. He’d lost more weight since I’d seen him at Christmas. With Mama overseas, was he even eating regularly? My heart sunk. Why didn’t Aunt Fay call me earlier?

“Where’s your brother?” he asked.

The question caught me off-guard. “Colin’s dead, Daddy.”

His brow furrowed, and then he nodded. “Forgot.”

Oh, dear. My father was worse off than I thought. I helped him with his shoes. “How do you feel?”

“Sore. And hungover.” He met my gaze. “You going to yell at me?”

“You’re making bad choices. That wreck. You could’ve died. We’ll discuss this later, when you have a clear head. Let’s get you home. Can you stand?”

Together we walked down the corridor. Why was he thinking about Colin now? After my brother was lost at sea ten years ago, my family fractured. At least I’d gotten counseling in college and started over. For years, my father had refused to talk about Colin.

A young boy burst in the sheriff’s lobby. He looked to be about eight and he had Ike’s eyes and hair.

“Dad, hurry,” the boy shouted. “There’s something dead under the bridge. Can I have it?”

The blood drained from my face. I froze in mid-step. What father allowed his kid to collect dead animals?

Ike ruffled the boy’s hair. “Easy, Trent. You’ve shocked Miss McKay. She doesn’t know the animal refuge needs road kill for their injured hawks.”

My heart started beating again. “Thanks for the explanation.”

Trent tugged on Ike’s arm. “Come on. Someone else might get it. I wanna feed the hawks.”

Reassured all was well, I waved goodbye, loaded my father in my car, and headed home.

We took Dock Road to River Road, passing the bronze historical marker outside St. Paul’s. My crazy ancestor, Beulah Lindsey McKay, had saved the church from fire-wielding Yankees over a hundred and fifty years ago. Other towns had bats in the belfry. We had Beulah in the bell tower.

“What’s going on with the newspaper?” I’d helped with the family paper in high school so I knew the routine. This was Tuesday. The Gazette should be already made up. If not, I’d need a miracle to launch this week’s edition by tomorrow.

He hung his head. A lot of gray silvered his hair. Seemed like he’d aged twenty years in the nine months since I’d last seen him.

“A fellow writes a few editorials, and everyone’s a critic,” Daddy said. “Cut me some slack here. I’ve got one heckuva hangover.”

I made a mental note to read those columns as I parked in front of our two-story Victorian home. “That reporter still with you?”

“Robert quit months ago.”

Swallowing a bitter retort, I helped my father up the porch steps. I should’ve been reading the online edition to follow the news from home, but I stayed so busy, I’d deleted the latest links unread.

White paint curls furred the plank siding and the gingerbread trim. “The house needs work.”

“So it does.” Dad grunted and continued to his bed, nudging his shoes off with his toes. “Ellen’s at the paper.”

My dad’s assistant had been two years ahead of me in school. According to Aunt Fay’s emails, Ellen’s divorce had been finalized six months ago.

“I’ll check in with her next. Get some rest. We’ll talk later.”

I lugged my suitcase in and then drove up River Road to the brick newspaper building. The shoulder of the road by the Gazette was jammed with cars. What now?

Bailey and I hurried into the Gazette. “Ellen?” My voice echoed through the building. How odd. Maybe Ellen was out back. With growing unease, I clipped on Bailey’s leash and trotted out the side door to the waterfront. A murmur from the crowd reached me just before the Danville River Bridge. A pungent odor brought tears to my eyes, and a dark stain marred the embankment. Summer flies buzzed.

I threaded my way through the throng, my dog at my side until Ellen Mattingly snagged my arm. Despite the August heat, my father’s assistant looked cucumber-cool in her khaki pants and white blouse. Long hair hung down her back.

“Lindsey,” Ellen said. “Hold up. This is a crime scene.”

“Hey. Good to see you.” I hugged her. “What’s the story here?”

Moisture brimmed in her blue eyes. “Judge Alan Sterling is dead.”

News reporting ran in my veins, but I wasn’t prepared for this. “Oh, no. What happened?”

“Leroy Brown over at the shrimp docks saw him before all the cops arrived.” Tears rolled down her face. “Judge Sterling was stabbed to death.”

My thoughts hit turbocharge. The judge was dead. Really, truly dead. Stabbed. Not an accident.

I patted Ellen’s back. “It’s going to be all right.”

My gaze traveled to the concrete pillars supporting the Danville Bridge. Overhead traffic thumped by in a blur. I understood their haste. Ten years ago I felt the same need to hurry out of town.

Bailey tugged the leash out of my palm and bolted inside the forbidden zone. My stomach knotted as she headed straight for the dead man.