Love Can Be Murder

against wooden tabletops. Zydeco music jostled out of mounted speakers in far corners.
    When she saw the man at closer range, she was tempted to keep walking—she didn't need the hassle of a cop on her back. Still, she'd danced around a herd of lawmen over the years. And in her experience, they weren't nearly as bright as they looked, although at least this one didn't move his lips while he read.
    "Good afternoon," she offered. "What can I get for you?"
    Still chewing on the unlit cigarette, the man scanned her slowly from her dubious hairstyle to her red polyester blouse and skirt to her bare legs and sensible black lace-up shoes. At his slight grimace, she bit back the retort that she had better-looking shoes at home, because she wasn't sure she did. His hair was dark auburn, as thick as a pelt, and touched with silver above his ears. His skin was tawny, his eyes brown, his lashes pale—unusual coloring for a redhead. Striking, but a scowl short of good-looking.
    He yanked out the cigarette. "You Roxann Beadleman?"
    No Saint Christopher's medal. No academy ring. No badge. Still, she'd bet a week's pay that he was a uniform. "Yes. And you are?"
    "In need of an ashtray." He spoke with enough of an accent to betray him as a home-grown Biloxi boy. He wore faded Levi's and black Tony Lama boots. The only question that remained was whether his king-cab pickup truck was a Ford or a Chevy.
    "You can’t smoke in here, sir."
    "Hell. Trying to quit anyway. How about coffee?"
    "Just coffee?"
    "Black, hi-test. And make it quick."
    Roxann bit her tongue at his tone and walked to the coffee station. She certainly wasn't in danger of the man charming information out of her.
    Rigby rounded the corner, his big face purple. "Where the heck have you been?"
    She pulled an apologetic face. "Car trouble. Sorry, it won't happen again."
    He wagged a finger. "I got girls lined up wanting to work here, Roxy. I don't have to put up with you coming in late." He looked down. "How come you're not wearing black panty hose?"
    "Rigby, it's two hundred degrees."
    His head periscoped. "The hose are part of the uniform —customers don't like bare-legged women serving them vittles!"
    She didn't dare laugh. "It won't happen again."
    "I'm warning you, the very next time—"
    "I'd better get back to my customer," she cut in, holding up the coffeepot.
    He frowned, then snapped his fat fingers in succession. "Well, don't just stand there—can't you see we're swamped?"
    The things a woman put up with for major medical. She returned to her mysterious customer and filled the white mug in front of him. "One black coffee."
    He drank deeply and swallowed hard. "Not bad."
    "Will there be anything else?"
    He set down the cup. "I need to ask you some questions, Ms. Beadleman."
    She glanced around at hungry customers who shot daggers her way. "Unless it's about the menu, sir, I'm a little busy at the moment."
    "What time do you get off?"
    She frowned. "I'm not interested."
    His frown mirrored hers. "I'm not hitting on you."
    "Then who are you and what do you want?"
    "Detective Capistrano, Biloxi PD." He gave her a sardonic smile. "I'd show you my badge, but I'd hate for the people you work with to think you're in some kind of trouble."
    Despite the spike of her pulse, she manufactured a plausible laugh. "Am I in some kind of trouble?"
    "Could be. I'm looking for Melissa Cape."
    Two weeks had passed since she'd escorted Melissa and her daughter to the airport—all along she'd had a bad vibe about the case, but she'd finally started to relax.
    "Roxy!" Rigby jerked his thumb toward a six-topper waiting to be served.
    She looked back to the detective and shook her head. "Sorry, the name doesn't ring a bell. And I really have to get back to work."
    His hand snaked out and encircled her wrist loosely before she could react—a fact that distressed her much more than his gesture of intimidation. "Not before you explain why the last call Melissa Cape made before she disappeared was to your cell phone."
    Roxann wet her lips. "I get lots of wrong numbers on my cell phone. Now, Detective, unless you want your hand amputated, I suggest you let go."
    His casual smile belied the pressure of his wide fingers. "Not until I get a straight answer."
    Having worked most of her life with bullied women, she conceded that she was a tad more sensitive to being manhandled than the female population at large...but it was one of her character flaws that she could live with. Roxann