LITMIR.BIZ

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she’d died of breast cancer. She’d encouraged Becca early on to be a tad whimsical. Despite her father’s pragmatic bent, Becca had to admit to succumbing to Aunt Mala’s teachings with the car.

      Besides, it reminded Becca of a time not so long ago when her own business was going great guns, she’d bought her own house and the future looked bright. The car was the one thing she’d kept from her old life.

      Now Becca returned to the present. “Betcha my Mini would beat your old truck.”

      Ryan slid a hand over the dings and scratches. “This isn’t any old truck. This belonged to Gramps. What’s good enough for him is good enough for me. I wouldn’t bet the farm on your little Matchbox toy, not until you’ve looked under the hood of my truck.”

      Maybe it was the way he’d touched the truck with such reverence. Maybe it was because he, too, let his choice of transportation be a way to connect with someone he’d loved. Whatever it was, Becca felt an immediate kinship spring up between them. For the first time, she allowed herself to hope that maybe things weren’t as they seemed.

      

      BECCA KEPT the Mini Cooper well back from the billows of dust Ryan’s truck churned up on the dirt road. She couldn’t decide whether it would be wiser to go slow over the washboard surface and save the car’s alignment, or go fast—thereby missing most of the bumps and saving all the jostles to her neck and shoulders. They were stiff from the three-hour ride from Atlanta.

      She’d stopped just long enough to get a room at the local motel, with its 1960s decor and its view of the pitted parking lot. Becca could have gotten a room at any of the el-cheapo but known motels in Dublin, but her dad had always advised to get a room close to the investigation. You picked up things that way, and you didn’t waste time in transit.

      Up ahead, she saw Ryan’s brake lights pop on and the truck pull off on a narrow drive. It wound through two big pastures dotted with cows that seemed undisturbed by the truck.

      Now she saw the tin roof of the farmhouse glinting in the setting sun. When she pulled to a stop, she gave the single-story house with its steeply pitched roof an appraising look.

      The house was white-framed, with a deep wraparound porch graced by restrained gingerbread trim, a swing and some rockers. The biggest chinaberry tree Becca had ever seen shaded the porch. A cracked and uneven walk curved between two beds full of red and yellow and orange roses.

      This could be Nana and Papa’s.

      The homeplace wasn’t just like Becca’s grandparents’, of course, but the simple, unfussy style of the house was akin to many of the farmhouses in the south. Becca closed her eyes, sniffing in the late-evening air.

      Yep. There it was. The redolent scent of honeysuckle.

      “You gonna stand out here all night, or are you coming in?”

      “Uh, sure.” Becca was embarrassed that Ryan had caught her reminiscing. She closed the gap between them. “I was just admiring the house. It’s beautiful.”

      “Tara, it’s not, but I like it. Gramps built it himself, just after he came home from the Pacific theater. He was in World War II.”

      “He seems to have been quite a guy.”

      “He was.”

      Again she heard that prickle in Ryan’s voice, that note of defensiveness. But before she could address it, the front door swung open.

      “Ryan, that you? What you doing coming in the front door? Oh! You got company!”

      The words, strong and vibrant and with a country twang, held a note of pleasure and came from the tall woman at the screen door. Her hair was thick and white and scooped up in a bun. Her tanned face seemed curiously smooth, except for a few deep crevices.

      “Mee-Maw, this is Becca Reynolds. She’s a crop-insurance investigator.”

      Amusement rippled over the old woman’s features at the sour warning in Ryan’s voice. “Well, Ryan, I guess everybody’s gotta do something to keep body and soul together. Child, come on in. My grandson did invite you to supper, didn’t he? Or did he completely forget his raisings? I sure hope you like chicken-fried steak.”

      “I do appreciate the offer, but I can get something in—”

      “Hush, child. You won’t get anything at all like my chicken-fried steak in town, so you might as well come on in and wash up. I was just getting ready to put it on the table, so you can get the ice in the glasses, how ’bout that?”

      Ryan grinned at Becca. “Told you. When Mee-Maw gets her mind set on anything, you might as well just go along with it.”

      A hint of the supper wafted out, and suddenly Becca did want to sample Mee-Maw’s cooking.

      Or maybe you just miss your grandparents. Don’t get too close, Becca.

      Aunt Mala’s whimsical nature—and the promise of a good homecooked meal—got the best of her. “Sure,” she said, deliberately not looking at Ryan. “That sounds great. Just point me in the direction of the glasses and the ice.”

      

      “C’MON, CHILD, you know you can eat more—one little piece of steak is all you’ve eaten. There’s plenty more.”

      Becca shook her head. The “little” piece of steak that she’d eaten was twice what she’d needed. To go with it, she’d tucked away a mountain of mashed potatoes floating with gravy, butter beans and thick slices of tomatoes.

      “No, ma’am. I couldn’t hold another bite. Besides, it’s getting late, and I’d like to take a look around before dark.”

      “Pshaw, honey. It won’t get dark until nearly nine. But you two young folks go ahead. I’ll get the dishes.”

      That led to a tussle between Ryan and Becca to see who would take the kitchen cleanup task away from Mee-Maw. It at once felt odd and right to Becca to think of her target’s grandmother as Mee-Maw, but that was the name the woman had insisted she use.

      “It’s what everybody calls me,” Mee-Maw had said. “The only Mrs. MacIntosh I ever knew was my mother-in-law—God rest her soul, ’cause I don’t want that old battle-ax comin’ back from the grave!”

      Ryan ungraciously conceded that Becca could at least assist him with the dishes. They worked in silence. His familiarity around the kitchen told her that he’d done this before.

      Maybe Dad was wrong. Maybe Ryan’s not involved. I’m wasting my time here. It’s Murphy I should be going after.

      According to Ag-Sure’s people, the insurance company was betting that the dodder vine had been planted intentionally. Since Ryan and Murphy had been the first in the area to submit a claim, Ag-Sure had tagged them as the most likely suspects.

      Now Becca wasn’t so sure. Maybe it wasn’t a scam.

      The last pot dried and put away, Ryan picked up a platter of table scraps. “Let me just feed Wilbur and I’ll show you whatever you need to see.”

      “Wilbur?”

      “That ol’ dog!” Mee-Maw shook her head. “He’s an old sooner that came wanderin’up last winter, nothin’ but skin and bones. Ryan found him slippin’ round the hog pen, survivin’ off what food he could steal from my sows. I named the old mutt Wilbur after that pig in Charlotte’s Web.”

      “So you have hogs and cows?” Becca’s research hadn’t turned up this.

      Ryan shook his head. “After Gramps passed away, the guy who helped us took off. Guess he didn’t think I could make a go of the farm. Anyway, it was too much work for one person, taking care of hogs, so we sold them. But we kept Wilbur. The name suits him—he sure thought he was a pig.”

      Hmm…a disappearing hired hand. That’s a bit convenient. I wonder if this hand knew about the scam and was persuaded to get himself

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