“The lawyer one has a stick up his ass, huh?” Logan pulled a can of snuff from his shirt pocket.

“Not in my car.” I gave a firm shake of my head. “You know this.”

“Come on.” He tapped the lid on the Skoal. “Just one little dip.”

“Not a chance.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as we cut through Azalea’s square. The city hadn’t changed much over the years, and the square still served as the hub of commerce and government. Large oaks lined the park and fountain at the center, and mom and pop storefronts, some of them older than I was, formed the backbone of Azalea’s small-town shopping district.

Many of them had fallen into disrepair over the last decade or so, the paint fading from their signs and business evaporating as big box shopping centers opened on the outskirts of town near the Interstate. Despite the downturn, a few of the businesses had managed to revamp within the last couple of years—the drug store converting to a coffee shop, the old Sears becoming an antique store, and the florist undergoing a flashy renovation. The windows of the brand-new burger joint glinted as we rode past, though I had no idea how it stayed afloat. The food was terrible and the clientele slim.

Logan stuffed the can back into his pocket with a hrmph. “Porter and his brother couldn’t be more different.”

“I know. I had no idea those two were so night and day.”

“Not all different.” A sly smirk twisted the corner of his mouth. “They were both eyeing you a little too much.”

I arched a brow. “Jealous?”

“Amused.” He sighed and settled back into his seat as we passed the older homes along Main Street, their antebellum look heightened by all the columns, balconies, and never-ending azalea bushes along the walks.

“They might look at me differently if I arrest one of them for their father’s murder.”

“You got a bead on one of them for it?”

“No.” In fact, I didn’t get a gut feeling about either of them. Nothing bad, anyway. Benton looked down his nose with a haughty arrogance I should have expected from the eldest King, and Porter was the same old jokester I remembered from high school. Neither of them sweated my questions, though I had no doubt they had something to hide. Everyone in a small town like Azalea had more than a few skeletons in the closet, myself included.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out. The daycare was calling.

“Detective Matthews.” I answered.

“Hi Arabella. Vivi is running a fever and complaining about her throat being sore. Seems like whatever crud she had over the weekend isn’t letting go. I’m afraid we’ll have to send her home for the day.”

Bad timing. I sighed. “I’ll send May Bell to get her, but make sure and help her get Vivienne into the car seat for me, would you?”

“Sure thing. Sorry about this, but we can’t keep her with the fever. State regulations—”

“No, it’s cool. Not your fault at all. I’ll give May Bell a call. She’ll be there soon.” I hung up and flipped to my mom’s number.

“Vivi?” Logan asked.

“Still sick. Has a fever.”

“Poor thing.” Logan was like an uncle to her, and he gave her more attention and love than her actual father ever had. “Can May Bell handle it?”

“She’s going to have to.” I called her number. She answered right before it went to voice mail. “Belly?”

“Hey Mom. Can you do me a favor and pick up Vivi from daycare? They called. She’s running a fever.”

“Sure, of course.” She coughed a little.

“Make sure you take your oxygen tank with you.”

“This thing is like an albatross around my neck, always trying to drown me.” Mixed metaphors were one of my mother’s specialties.

She’d lived with us for the past four years, ever since Vivienne was born. Her lung cancer diagnosis came just a year later, but she kept fighting the disease, sending it into remission after a series of treatments that almost claimed her life. Helpful and loving, she was also foul-mouthed and had a penchant for gambling. And did I mention fiercely independent? I could hear her voice, the one that used to be as clear as a piano note, in my mind: “I never could be just one thing, Belly. You don’t have to be, either.”

“Just put the oxygen tank on your little pull cart and take it, okay? I can’t have you gasping for breath while you’re behind the wheel with Vivienne in the car.”

“Fine.” She grumbled, but I knew she’d do whatever was necessary to keep Vivienne safe. Sometimes it seemed like Vivi was just as much her baby as mine. “Enough jawing. Let me go get her.”

“Okay. Drive safe.” I hung up and got the sneaking suspicion that May Bell would solve Vivi’s sore throat with copious amounts of ice cream.

Logan watched as I turned down a lane situated between two long stands of pecan trees. “You know where the Kings live by heart, huh?”

“Everybody knows.”

The smooth road unfurled ahead of us like a long black tongue, dappled here and there with patches of sunshine. I knew the way because I’d been out here before. Several times, in fact. When I was younger, poorer, and with a little more time on my hands, I’d drive my old beater down this road and simply sit and stare at the grand King house. It was one of the few truly antebellum homes in Azalea, its white columns rising two stories along the front porch and wide windows casting light out into the sultry summer air.

We passed the spot beneath a magnolia where I’d sit in my car and daydream about living in such a beautiful place. I’d stare for a while, give away my time like it was pennies through my fingers. Then, once I’d been there long enough to feel creepy about it, I would leave and go back to my mom’s place on Razor Row—a line of shotgun houses built so close together and so thin that the locals likened them to razors stacked against each other.

The sun was high by the time we rolled up to the side of the house, and my stomach gave a rumble as we exited the car.

Logan didn’t seem to notice as he kept his head on a swivel, peering at the carriage house, then the grounds, and finally back to the white mansion. “I’ll check out the garage and then the back. Wait for me.”

My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out and pressed the button to answer. “Detective Matthews.”

“What the hell is going on? Randall King dead?” Chief Garvey’s weathered voice crackled like dry logs on a fire.

“Yeah. Pauline is doing the scene now. We’re out at Randall’s place to have a look. How’s Lina?”

“About the same.” He coughed. “Hasn’t opened her eyes. But they’re going to keep trying.”

“Sorry Chief.” I frowned at Logan, who shook his head, then turned to walk to the garage.

Chief Garvey cleared his throat, the strain evident. “Found anything out yet?”

“No. Both King sons have alibis. We haven’t met with their sister yet, but it looks like she was out of town when the killing happened. Got involved in that whole cleanup going on in Browerton where they found those bodies.”

“The Blackwood thing? What a mess.”

“Yeah. Anyway, King was found slumped over at his desk, one shot through his head. A safe in his desk was open, but empty. And one last thing, there was a note stabbed into his back, post mortem, that said You’re next.”

“Holy shit. I should have been there.”

“No, you needed to be with Lina. It’s all right. Logan and I are your detectives. Let us detect.”

“I’m going to catch hell from Benton King for not showing up personally. I’ll head on over to the law firm now. See if the tech has turned up anything.” He cursed under his breath. “In my town, and now of all times.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“You better.” A hint of the gruff Chief Garvey reappeared. “I’ve got voicemails from Judge Ingles, half the city council, Mayor Baker, and Letty Cline, just to name a few. Word’s spread, and people are already hovering around like flies on shit.”

“We’re on it.”

“One more thing.”

“Yeah?” I stepped out of the car.

“Millie Lagner’s left me a shit ton of messages about her missing okra.”

I shook my head. “Logan will be all over that as soon as we’re done with this King business.”

“He better. I’m tired of hearing about it. The woman’s a nutjob. Logan needs to get his goddamn ass in gear and handle this shit!”

“Yes, sir.” I smirked at Logan as he reappeared from the side of the house.

“And be careful.” Chief Garvey ended the call.

“What’s funny?” Logan cocked his head at me.

“Oh, nothing.” I followed him to the front steps. “How’s the house look?”

“No signs of forced entry. Everything’s clear. Garvey doing okay?” He pulled on a pair of gloves and handed me a set.

“About as well as could be expected. Lina still hasn’t opened her eyes yet.” I headed up the steps and grabbed the key from my pocket. “Front door looks fine.”

The wide oak doors had glass transom windows along the top, and two large brass knockers in the center of each. Going inside seemed like some sort of transgression, like I was pushing through the veil of my daydreams and entering the reality of the house. Would I be disappointed?

“Weren’t we supposed to wait for Benton King?” Logan eyed the door.

“I told him when we’d be here. If he doesn’t show up, that’s on him. We can’t sit around and wait while the case goes cold.”

“You’re the boss.” He snapped the wristband of his glove. “The doctor is in.”

The door opened with a low creak, and beyond lay a sunny foyer with dark wood floors and a chandelier hanging two stories overhead. I’d always imagined marble and overwrought woodwork, but instead the house was a bit simpler. Wood moldings and light gray walls matched with plain, and somewhat worn décor gave the house a casual air.

Logan peered into a sitting room off to the right. “I’ll start here.”

“Let’s work from the front rooms to the back and then head upstairs.” I turned left and entered what seemed to be another sitting room along the front of the house, a piano in one corner and elegant—if uncomfortable-looking—furniture flanking a fireplace. A portrait hung on the back wall, and I paused to study it. A young Benton, his back straight and his unmistakable stoic gaze already dominating his young face, sat at the piano, his fingers poised on the keys. On the rug behind him, a boyish Porter played with a toddler girl with long dark hair.

Apparently, Benton King had always been a serious type. The portrait gave me some insight into his mannerisms and what I’d initially perceived as coldness. His refusal to turn over the files from his father’s office made more sense as I studied the lines and curves of the painting. Benton played by the rules, and it seemed he always had.

I swept the rest of the room, flipping through the music books inside the piano bench and going through a writing table. Finding only pens and empty notepads, I closed the drawers and returned to the main hallway. “Logan?”

“In the dining room.” His voice floated to me from a doorway down the hall on the right. “Do you have any idea how much this bourbon is worth?”

Peeking in the doorway, I found him standing with a bottle held up to the light. “Focus. We aren’t here to raid the liquor cabinet.”

“Speak for yourself.” He smirked and replaced the bottle inside a wide buffet to the side of an even wider dining room table.

Sunlight filtered through high windows that gave a clear view of the side yard and a massive magnolia tree, its creamy blooms browned and withered. I continued down the hall and found the kitchen. Though well-maintained, the kitchen had a vintage flare, the double ovens on the wall a light blue with a matching refrigerator. Each room I visited readjusted my vision of the house. Instead of the grand mansion with stainless steel everything, granite everything else, and perfection around every corner, it was a well lived in home, not the showplace of my imagination.

I went through each drawer in the kitchen, methodically checking for any scrap of information that would assist in our investigation, not that I expected to find a smoking gun among the forks and whisks. Once satisfied, I moved on to the main living area at the back of the house. Logan and I searched together, combing through a wide bookcase along the wall, the magazine rack next to a well-worn recliner, and a chest full of keepsakes that included baby pictures of all three children, Porter’s letterman jacket, a stack of awards with Benton’s name on them, and Charlotte’s diplomas.

“Nothing.” I sighed as we re-entered the hall. “I’ll take the office down here. You head upstairs.”

“Alone?”

I arched a brow. “Scared, Detective?”

“Damn right.” He faked a shiver. “Why do I get the feeling I’m about to discover a sex dungeon with tons of kinky costumes?” He waggled his fingers. “I’m going to be real glad that I’m wearing these gloves.”

“There is something wrong with you.” I fought my smile.

“I’m just saying. If I get up there and find some mannequins in BDSM gear or a suit made of human flesh, I want you to know that I already called it.”

I pushed open the windowed French doors to Mr. King’s office. “Just don’t steal anything for your own collection. That’s all I ask.”

His grumbling faded as he headed for the stairs.

The office was neat with leather couches and chairs in front of a wide, dark desk. The smell reminded me of the library, which made sense given that the walls were lined with books, most of them legal reporters full of cases. The desk had a few neat stacks of paper, a laptop, and a photo of Randall King’s Dancing with the Stars win from last year. He smiled in the picture, his arm around Lina Garvey’s waist, her sparkling dancer’s outfit glittering in the flash. I’d forgotten she’d won that year, and I brushed away the comparison of the Lina in the photo versus the broken girl I’d found at the bottom of a ravine a month ago. An accident. One that hit too close to home and had Chief Garvey spending more time at the hospital than he did at the station.

Sighing, I pulled the curtains back from two windows, letting light flood the room. Starting with the documents on top of the desk, I flipped through each piece of paper and thumbed through the books scattered on the edge of his desktop day planner. Bills, junk mail, and receipts from a recent trip to Tupelo constituted the majority of items.

“I thought I told you to wait for me.” Benton strode in the doorway.

I jumped but tried to play it off as I flipped through some more mail. “You weren’t here, and I had the key and permission to search.” I shrugged. “So I searched.”

“Find anything?” He sank down on the nearest couch and folded his hands in his lap. He’d ditched his suit coat, and was dressed in his black pants, light blue button-up shirt, and dark blue tie. I wondered if this was as casual as he got.

“Not yet.” I opened the desk’s top drawer and found several common office items—pens, stapler, scissors, paperclips. Nothing of interest. “Does anyone else have frequent access to this house or this room?”

“Other than my siblings and I, the only person who comes in here is Mrs. Denny, the cleaning lady.” He let out a long breath and rubbed his eyes, the first intentional sign he’d given that his father’s death was weighing on him. “Unless he has visitors. Sometimes Judge Ingles will stop by, Mayor Baker, Letty Cline, or the Reynolds.”

“Your dad was quite popular.”

“He was.” The ‘s’ sound lingered, as if he were tasting the past tense and finding it sour.

A fledgling burst of pity rose in my breast. I paused my search and met his gaze. “I really am sorry about your father. I didn’t know him, but I did know of him. He seemed like a nice man who did a lot of good for Azalea.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” He shook his head. “None of this makes any sense. Dad didn’t have any enemies. And no one would have known about the safe unless they worked at the firm, or possibly a client who saw him open it years ago. Not to mention, I have no idea what could’ve been in it.” He seemed to be talking it out to himself instead of me.

My detective mode kicked back on, and I asked, “But it’s possible that there was something of value in the safe that you didn’t know about?”

He threw his hands up. “Sure, but I can’t imagine what. I’m pretty sure he didn’t have the Maltese Falcon tucked away in there. And like I said, all the firm money is in an account down at First Mississippian.”

“The Maltese Falcon? I didn’t peg you as a detective novel sort.”

“I’m not, but I enjoy old movies, especially noir.” The corner of his lips almost snuck up into a smirk. “Femme fatales and adventure, what’s not to love?”

“I see.” I realized that Benton King had a lot of layers underneath his unyielding exterior. As far as my investigation was concerned, I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Returning my focus to the desk, I closed the top drawer and checked the ones on the left side and then the right. After finding more of the same—bills and random documents—I closed the final drawer. As I pressed it all the way shut, something struck me as off. I pulled it out and examined the unused letterhead and envelopes inside. Nothing amiss. Pulling out the drawer above it, I discovered the difference. The top drawer was a few inches deeper. Not enough to notice unless you were truly paying attention.

The bottom drawer had a false back.