Mr. And Mrs. Wrong

One minute she was single and accepting of it, if not content, and the next—bam! She’d looked into deep-brown eyes and started dreaming about wedding vows and waking up next to him for the next seventy-five years.

Regrettably Jack had proved to be more interested in the idea of marriage than the reality of it.

As he approached, he didn’t take his gaze off her. Even as he spoke to Deaton, he didn’t look away. “Swain, have you secured this scene?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why is there a newspaper photographer inside the perimeter?”

“Uh, that’s Lucky.”

“I recognize her,” he said dryly, the comment so ludicrous she wasn’t sure how he kept a straight face.

She cleared her throat. “I called it in, Jack. I was already here when your people arrived.”

His expression didn’t change, telling her he already knew.

“Wait for me,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He motioned for Deaton to come with him, and they walked off several yards, then stopped. Jack’s posture suggested forced control as he listened to a rundown of the incident and the procedures followed by his department since their arrival.

He asked Deaton if he’d requested an investigator from DFS, the Department of Forensic Sciences.

“No,” Deaton told Jack. “I didn’t see a need to call. The death isn’t suspicious and we have an ID on the victim from Lucky. Some old guy named Charlie Bagwell. Plus, we found his wallet. His car’s still sitting in the parking lot of The Hat with a flat tire. Guess he was too drunk to change it last night and started walking. He only lives a mile or so up the road in that subdivision on the other side of the tracks.”

“Collect the evidence and don’t speculate. Call DFS and get someone over here. Have them take possession of the remains. I don’t want the funeral home leaving with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you get photographs before you moved anything?”

“Uh…no.”

A few seconds passed before Jack spoke again. “Get them now. And get a video of both the scene and the car. Impound the car. I also want you to send someone over to the man’s house and make sure he’s not sitting at his kitchen table eating breakfast.”

“I’ll go myself.” Deaton hurried off.

Jack turned and walked back to her, his face grim. He mumbled an expletive under his breath.

“If I caused trouble, I’m sorry,” Lucky told him. “I grew up with Deaton and most of these people out here, and they’re used to me being around with my camera. They trust me to keep out of the way.”

He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. Did he bother to get your statement?”

“Yes.”

Jack looked at her more closely, and his expression softened. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.” He lightly rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek. “And you’re distinctly green around the gills. What’s wrong?”

“It got to me, I guess.”

“I’ve never known you to let this stuff bother you.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s because I knew the man.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“No, I’ll be all right.” She prayed that was true. She’d hate to embarrass herself by throwing up. Usually she could eat, drink, smell or look at any gross thing and not be bothered. A cast-iron stomach came with the job, and he knew it from experience.

“Can you tell me what you saw?” he asked. “You can come down later and give an official statement.”

“I didn’t see much. I came through about six o’clock on my way to the office and glanced down the track. At first I thought the train had hit a cow again. When I realized it was a human, I called 911.”

“Are you sure of your identification?”

“Reasonably sure. He cut some trees for me a few years ago, and I’ve run into him a few times since. Yesterday afternoon he crossed the street in front of me and waved. I noticed his shirt—pink flamingos and palm trees on a yellow background. Your victim over there has on the same shirt. I can’t imagine there’d be more than one of them around.”

She told him how he might get in touch with his daughter, an old school friend of her sister Shannon’s. Lucky thought his wife was dead, but she wasn’t certain.

“Jack, I…” She hesitated, hating to bring this up, but feeling as if it had to be repeated. “I promise I don’t intentionally get in the middle of things. Deaton said you were on another call. Did you leave it because of me?”

“Not entirely, but yes, I wanted to make sure you were okay. Besides, we haven’t found anything on the other call. They can handle it without me.”

“What was it?”

“A bomb threat at the box factory. Probably called in by some joker who didn’t have anything better to do this morning. Chief’s out there leading the search, so he can reach me if I’m needed.”

“Does he know I reported this?”

He nodded. “Yeah, he asked me what it felt like to be married to the ‘Body Magnet.’ That’s what people are starting to call you.”

She slumped, her misery increasing. “I know.”

“People at work kid me at least once a day that you’re part bloodhound. The sheriff’s department has a pool on when you’ll find the next body in their jurisdiction. I’m told it’s up to six-hundred dollars.”

“I heard.”

“I don’t get it. Why does this happen to you? When there’s trouble, you always seem to be part of it.”

“I’m out taking photos every day, and I cover the whole county. My chances of being involved in any given incident are a hundred times, maybe a thousand times, greater than the average person’s. It’s perfectly understandable.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.”

The argument was an old one. They’d had it many times. The irony was that the thing that had brought them together was now one of the things that kept them apart.