LITMIR.BIZ

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looked over his shoulder at her. She had her thumbs hooked in the pockets of her shorts, her head tilted slightly. “Running a business the size of mine is hardly a game.”

      Her tone grew mocking. “So you haven’t kept track of who has landed the hottest contracts. Come up with the most impressive technology.”

      She saw, he thought, entirely too much. “It’s not something that can be reduced to win-loss columns.”

      Tori smiled knowingly. “You’re ahead?”

      “By three in this year alone.” He shot her a feral grin before turning and going through the door. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

      There were worse ways to spend the afternoon than lolling on a grassy bank, fishing. Tori had an innate appreciation for life’s little bonuses, and she was enjoying this one to the fullest. It wasn’t often that she could work a case and indulge her love of fishing at the same time.

      She cast her line and kept a watch on the man seated forty yards to her left, closer to the pond’s edge. The former Tangipahoa Parish sheriff had been retired for almost six years, and from the size of his girth, his love for food at least matched what she’d heard about his fondness for his favorite pastime. It had taken surprisingly few phone calls to elicit the information she’d needed on the man. And the small group of elderly men playing cards in front of his hometown diner had been more than happy to share favorite local fishing spots and directions to them, once she’d provided some winsome smiles and small talk. Picking up their lunch tab hadn’t hurt, either.

      She’d spotted him on her third stop, on a secluded shady knoll on the banks of the Atchafalaya. For a while she was content to keep her distance. She didn’t want him to feel crowded and leave.

      Selecting a bright-green lure, she baited the hook and cast her line, settling into a comfortable position to wait. It wasn’t for long. Within just a few minutes there was a tug on her line and she surged to her feet, reeling in slowly.

      The yellowed speckled sunfish on the other end was a good size, at least sixteen inches, and she allowed it to thrash on the line just long enough to capture ex-Sheriff Halloway’s attention. When she was sure she had it, she made a show of landing her prize, holding it up before her to admire it before deftly releasing it in the fish pail she’d brought along.

      Thirty minutes later that fish had been joined by two others, and the man down river disgustedly reeled in his empty line, packed up his tackle box and began making his way to a new spot, one a great deal closer to hers.

      “Looks like you found yourself a hot spot here.”

      “Caught three beauts and haven’t even been here an hour,” she said casually. “This is my first time fishing in this area. Is it always this good?”

      Halloway wiped his brow, then adjusted the brim of the straw hat he wore. “Not for me. Not today, anyways.”

      “Well, you’re welcome to try your luck here.”

      It was the only invitation he needed. Minutes later he had his equipment situated and was settled in a portable folding chair. He cast his line and it fell soundlessly into the river. “You’re not from these parts.”

      “New Orleans.” Tori leaned back in the grass, propped on her elbows and toed off her sandals. “Every day off I get I head to new fishing spots.” She shot him a sideways glance, a bit concerned at his flushed expression. The sun was searing overhead, though it wasn’t yet noon. For the first time she thought he might have been equally attracted by the shade nearby as he was by her fishing success. “Guess you must spend your free time same as me.”

      He grunted, reeled in his empty line and rummaged in his tackle box to choose a different lure. “I got nothing but days like these. I been retired now near ’bout seven years.”

      There was a tug on her line. Tori pretended not to notice, although the fact hadn’t escaped Halloway. “I’m figuring you must live around here.”

      “How you figure that?”

      “No lunch with you.” She smiled easily and pointed to the small basket she’d packed. “I came ready to make a day of it.”

      “Born and raised ’round these parts,” he admitted. “Gal, you got something bitin’ at your line, there.”

      “So I do.” With a nonchalance that seemed to set the man’s teeth on edge, she straightened, cocked her wrist back and reeled in her fourth and biggest catch of the day.

      “Well, if you aren’t having Sam’s own luck,” the man muttered, narrowed gaze envious. “What’re you using there?”

      She added the fish to her pail, and held the lure up for him to see. “Something my dad used to make himself. Sunfish go wild for it. What do you use?”

      “Straight fly lure. Ain’t seeing the kind of luck you’re having, though.”

      Seizing the opportunity, Tori reached into her tackle box. “You’re welcome to try one, if you’d like.” She held out one of the neon lures and it took only a moment before Halloway pushed himself from his chair and came to get it. “I always put a bit of bacon on mine.”

      “Always use grubs for sunfish, myself.” Nevertheless, he accepted the piece of bacon she offered and gave her a smile before lumbering back to his chair.

      “So, what’d you retire from?”

      “Used to be sheriff of this parish. Got myself elected unopposed every term but two, and neither of them elections was close. Don’t know if that means most folks got more sense, or that I got the job done right, but put twenty years in office.”

      “People must have been satisfied,” she said, with an obvious stroke to his ego. “I suppose things stay pretty quiet around these parts, though. Not like in the cities.”

      “You’d be surprised. Just a couple years ago, Cooter Beecham shot his wife, Emma, stone cold after being married thirty years. That got the parish buzzing, I can tell you.”

      “I’ll bet.” Although Tori could care less about Cooter or his questionable ancestry, which Halloway described at some length, she let the man talk. And when he pulled in a sunfish a good foot long, he got even more expansive. “’Course no one was surprised overmuch,” he concluded, his story winding down. “Got himself drunker ’n Bessy Bug most Saturdays. Went home after he’d tied one on and thought he saw a ghost standing in his doorway. Ran to get his shotgun from his truck and squeezed off three shots afore he figured out it was Emma in her nightdress.”

      She took advantage of his pause for breath to say, “I’ll bet that created some excitement around here. Did it bring all the reporters in from the city to interview you?”

      He looked a little crestfallen at that. “Well no, just the reporter for the local paper. But,” his face brightened as he recast his line, “I was on WDSU once, you know the New Orleans channel? Near ’bout twenty years ago, it was. Everybody wanted to talk about that case, yes sirree. There was a mite more interest in the Tremaine family than in Cooter’s.”

      “I think I remember that. It was a car accident, wasn’t it?” Tori nodded, her nonchalant manner at odds with the jitter in her pulse. “I’ll bet that did bring the reporters crawling.”

      “Reporters, photographers and more gawkers than a body could shake a stick at. Gruesome scene, it was,” he said, shaking his head. “By the time I arrived there was nothing to be done for any of the passengers. Car ran off the road, over an embankment and landed fifteen feet below. Terrible sight.” He looked, Tori thought, just a little green at the retelling. “The Tremaines have done a lot for folks ’round these parts. The tragedy was talked about for years. But an accident’s all it was, just like I told ’em, and despite all the digging by journalists and P.I.s, that’s all they came up with, too.”

      Since she’d spent the better part of the night reading the reports in the file, Tori was well aware of the conclusions

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