Carnal Innocence

‘Orange Blossom Special’?”
    Caroline had her first real laugh in days. “I don’t know why not.”

c·h·a·p·t·e·r 6
    T ucker propped his feet on Burke’s desk and crossed his ankles. He didn’t mind waiting—in fact, waiting was one of the things he did best. What was often interpreted as a bone-deep laziness, even by Tucker himself, was an innate and boundless patience and a clear, untroubled mind.
    At the moment his mind wasn’t as unfettered as he liked. And the truth was, he hadn’t slept well the night before. A little catnap while he waited for Burke to come along seemed like a sensible way to pass the time.
    It hadn’t taken long for news of the FBI blowing into town to get down to Sweetwater. Tucker already knew that Special Agent Burns dressed like a mortician and drove a tan Mercury. Just as he knew that Burns was down at McNair Pond doing whatever FBI types did at murder scenes.
    Murder. With a little grunt Tucker closed his eyes— the better to relax. Sitting there, listening to the creak of the ceiling fan and the whine of the useless window air conditioner, it didn’t seem possible that Edda Lou Hatinger was stretched out on a slab a few blocks away at Palmer’s Funeral Parlor.
    He winced, trying to get beyond the discomfort, the plain creepiness of remembering how ready he’d been to go head to head with her. Worse, he’d been looking forward to the battle, to hearing her wail when she finally got it through her conniving brain that she wasn’t going to be the new mistress of Sweetwater.
    He wouldn’t have to set her straight now. Or salvage some of his pride by hacking at hers.
    Now, because he’d made the mistake of finding something sexy about the way she punched keys on the cash register at Larsson’s, because he’d indulged himself by sharing her bed and nibbling on that soft skin, he was going to have to make up an alibi to keep himself from being a suspect in her murder.
    He’d been accused of many things. Of laziness, which was no sin in Tucker’s book. Of carelessness with money, which he readily admitted. Of adultery, which he took objection to. He’d never slept with a married woman—except for Sally Guilford a few years back, and she’d been legally separated. Even of cowardice, which Tucker preferred to think of as discretion.
    But murder. Why, it would be laughable if it wasn’t so scary. If his father had been alive, he’d have busted a gut laughing. He—the only man Tucker had truly feared—hadn’t been able to bully or embarrass his son into shooting anything but thin air on any of their enforced hunting trips.
    Of course, Edda Lou hadn’t been shot. Not if she’d been killed like the others. Because it was all too easy to slide her face over his image of Francie’s, to see what had been done to her smooth, white skin. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette
    He pinched off part of the tip—he was up to nearly a quarter of an inch now—and was just lighting it when Burke walked in with a sweaty, annoyed-looking man in a dark suit.
    Spending the best part of the day with the FBI hadn’t put Burke in the best of moods. He scowled at Tucker’s feet as he tossed his hat toward the pole by the door.
    “Make yourself at home, son.”
    “Doing my best.” Tucker blew out a stream of smoke. His stomach was jumping, but he sent Burke a lazy smile. “You ought to get yourself some new magazines, Burke. A man needs more to entertain his mind than
Field and Stream
and
Guns and Ammo.”
    “I’ll see if we can find some issues of
Gentleman’s Quarterly
and
People.”
    “I’d be obliged.” Tucker took another drag while he scanned Burke’s companion. The dark suit had wilted in the heat, but the man didn’t have the sense to loosen his tie. Though he couldn’t have said why, that simple fact had Tucker taking an instant dislike to Burns. “I thought it’d be a good idea for me to come on in and talk to you boys.”
    Burke nodded, and wanting to take authority, walked behind his desk. “Tucker Longstreet, Special Agent Burns.”
    “Welcome to Innocence.” Tucker didn’t get up, but offered a hand. It pleased him that Burns’s was soft, and a little clammy from the humidity. “What makes you special, Agent Burns?”
    “It’s my rank.” Burns took a measure of Tucker’s scuffed sneakers, his casually expensive cotton slacks, and cocky grin. The dislike was mutual. “What did you want to discuss, Mr. Longstreet?”
    “Well now, we