Rita studied the apple orchard. “Jose, we need to hurry,” she ordered. Jose nodded his head and took off. Billy looked at Rita, studied her eyes, and then hurried away.

  Ten minutes later Jose slid to a stop and pointed at a row of apple trees. “Over there between those rows of Granny Smith apple trees.”

  Rita began to reach down and retrieved her gun and then remembered she had left her gun at home. “Today was supposed to be peaceful,” she whispered in a miserable voice.

  “What?” Billy asked.

  “Nothing,” Rita told Billy and eased over to the row of Granny Smith apple trees on cautious legs. Billy followed. “There,” Rita said in a careful voice, spotting a man face down on the ground.

  “I see him,” Billy moaned.

  Rita nodded. She carefully approached the body and stopped. “Looks like a city man.”

  “Yep,” Billy said pulling a fancy gray suit into his worried eyes. “His haircut ain't country, either. And look and at them shoes...shoes like that cost a pretty penny.”

  Rita felt impressed by Billy's observation skills Then again, she reminded herself, the man was a farmer who could spot a rotten apple a mile away. “Do you recognize this man, Billy?”

  Billy shook his head no. “Afraid I don't,” he said. “Jose, you better go find Rhonda Knight and tell her to scoot over here and then call the sheriff.”

  “Brad is out of town,” Rita told Billy. “He left Charlie Murray in charge.”

  Billy lifted an aggravated hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I forgot the sheriff took his wife to see her family and left that no good Charlie in charge.” It was no secret that Billy Northfield and Charlie Murray were sworn enemies. Hard feelings between the two men began while they were in high school together. Charlie swore Billy took his place on the football team and Billy swore Charlie didn't get a position because he was a lousy player. The truth was—a truth everyone in town knew—Coach Ridgeland had cut Charlie from the team because Charlie was, in fact, a lousy player who couldn't block, catch or kick worth a flip. Still, Charlie blamed Billy and Billy—well, being Billy—didn't take lip from a smart mouth know-it-all. “Reckon the law is the law, though...no matter who is wearing the badge.”

  “I'll find Rhonda and then call Charlie,” Jose promised and dashed away like a streak of lightning.

  Rita knelt down and began searching the dead body for wounds. “Back is clear,” she said and then cautiously rolled the body over. The face of a handsome man appeared, covered with dirt. Rita looked into the face, sighed, and continued her search. “Here,” she told Billy in a quick voice and pointed to the man's neck. “He's been strangled to death.”

  “Strangled...” Billy bowed his head and closed his eyes. “You mean this fella was murdered.”

  “I'm afraid so, Billy,” Rita nodded her head. “I'll see if I can find his wallet.”

  Billy opened his eyes and watched Rita check the dead man's jacket. He saw a skilled cop hard at work—a woman who was no stranger to murder. “Reckon you've seen a lot of murders, huh? Not counting the ones you've seen since moving to Clovedale Falls.”

  “My sister and I are no strangers to it, for sure”, Rita told Billy as she continued to search for a wallet. “I have to admit the case of the ‘Clovedale Falls Retirement Home’ as my sister and I call it, was one of the strangest. There were a lot of different actors involved in that murder. Rhonda and I really pulled that case off by the hair of our chin.” Rita stuck her hand into the inside pocket of the jacket and felt a piece of paper. “Found something.” Billy watched Rita pull out a folded up piece of computer paper, glanced around, and then start reading. “Oh…”

  “What is it?” Billy asked, reading the surprised expression in Rita's eyes.

  “Uh...Billy...” Rita paused. She raised her eyes and looked up into a worried, innocent, face. “You...better read this.”

  Billy bent down and took the piece of paper from Rita, read the typed words sitting on the paper, and then looked at Rita with confused eyes. “I don't get it?” he confessed.

  Rita took the paper back and read the typed words aloud.

  “Billy, come to the old deserted town or more people will die.”

  Rita shoved the piece of paper into the front pocket of her dress and focused back on trying to locate a wallet but came up empty handed. “No wallet,” she said, stood up, brushed off her dress, and looked around.

  Billy stood up, shoved his hands into the pockets of his overalls, and shook his head. “Why, I don't even know who this fella is. Why would someone go leaving a note for me in his pocket?”

  Rita rotated her eyes over to Billy, examined the man's worried, confused and frustrated face, and then felt a sense of helplessness wash over her. “I don't know, Billy?” she confessed, wishing she could put her arms around Billy and help the man the way a loving wife struggles to support a worried husband during a difficult time. “We're going to find out, though.”

  Billy continued to stare at the dead man. “Don't make a lick of sense...no sir, don't make a lick of sense at all, I tell ya.” Billy shook his head. “My daddy said things that don't make sense ain't worth worrying over...but I reckon I ain't got no choice but to worry.”

  Rita quickly pushed her personal feelings for Billy aside, realizing that Billy needed a cop present and not a romantic interest, and strapped on her cop mind. “Billy, do you know what deserted town this person was referring to?” she asked.

  “Only deserted town I ever been to is one way out west that my folks took us kids to when were still young enough to get our butts blistered behind the wood pile.” Billy kept his eyes low. “I reckon I was...oh...fifteen or sixteen? Somewhere down that road.”

  “And you're not aware of any other deserted town?” Rita asked.

  Billy shrugged his shoulders. “All the towns I've been to had life in them,” he replied and then added in a tired voice: “I reckon a town can have life but still be dead on the inside...like a town in south Georgia. Town has plenty of folks in it, plenty of life, but it's deader than a skunk laying on the side of a road.”

  Rita understood what Billy meant, but decided not to dive into the pale side of living. “Okay, Billy,” she said, keeping her eyes busy, searching the apple orchard with quick scans as she talked, “can you tell me about the deserted town you visited?”

  “Been a mighty long time,” Billy told Rita. He finally whipped his eyes away from the dead body, searched the apple orchard, and shook his head again. “My folks took us kids to a place out there in Nevada,” he explained. “You know, to one of them old gold mining towns and such. Have to admit it wasn't what the movies and books make it out to be, no sir. The town was dry, hotter than tarnation, and dustier than a closed down house that ain't been opened in over a hundred years. The old buildings were barely standing...windows all smashed...wasn't much for the eyes to enjoy.”

  “Why did your parents take you to Nevada?” Rita asked.

  Billy shrugged his shoulders. “My daddy made it a point to take us kids away from Georgia two weeks out of the year. Said we needed to see other parts of the country in order to appreciate what we have here in Clovedale Falls.” Billy looked around. “I guess folks would call what my daddy did a family vacation, but daddy called what he did teaching us kids about life.”

  Rita struggled to make sense of Billy's statements. Why, she wondered, would a killer ask Billy to return to an old gold town in Nevada? The idea seemed odd, if not down right illogical. But, Rita reminded herself, the mind of a deadly killer worked under the hissing mouth of shadows rather than under a brightly lit light of truth and logic. Rita knew in order to ask the right questions she had to think like the killer—whoever the killer was. “Billy, did anyone else go on the trip with you to Nevada? Besides your parents and sister, I mean?”

  “Nope.”

  Rita nodded her head. “Did you meet anyone in Nevada...in the gold mining town?”

  Billy rubbed the back of his neck and pushed his mind back through the doors of time. “I reckon we might have met a lot of different kind of folks...but no one stands out as being special enough to remember.”

  Rita lowered her eyes and studied the dead body. “Billy, someone killed this man and left you a note. This is very serious.”

  “I reckon it as serious as walking up on a mighty cranky copper mouth snake,” Billy agreed. “I've had to kill my share of snakes and let me tell you that chore never sits well with the belly.”

  Rita kept her eyes on the dead body. “This man was killed as a warning, Billy...as a way to make you obey the order left for you on the note.”

  Billy shoved his hands back into the pockets of his overalls. “Billy Northfield ain't gonna go running off to some old gold mining town, if that's what you're trying to say.”

  Rita turned to Billy. “Billy, whoever killed this man has proved that he...or she...is a very deadly person who is fully capable of killing again. And that person is walking around without any restrictions. And even worse, that person could be on your farm right now, mingling among the other tourists.”

  “What you're saying is we're bobbing for apples with a mouth that ain't got no teeth,” Billy told Rita.

  “I'm afraid so,” Rita nodded her head. She pointed to the dead body. “There lays a man who has been strangled to death, a man without any identification on his body. We don't know who is, how he's connected to the killer or you, Billy. This man could have been a random target? We won't know who he is until we run him through the system. In the meantime the killer remains at large, unseen, and in control.”

  “Don't seem right does it?” Billy asked. “Don't seem right for a person to have that much pull on another person?”

  “It's never right,” Rita concurred. “But right now, we have to focus on the note that was left for you. That's all we have to rely on...and hope that you come up with something.”

  Billy kicked at the ground. “I already told you all I can remember. I ain't been to no other deserted town.”

  Rita wanted to reach out and pat Billy's shoulder but stopped when she saw Rhonda hurrying her way with a frantic woman chasing behind her. “Nathan,” the woman cried out in sheer panic and grief, “Nathan...no!”

  Rhonda slid to a stop beside Rita. The woman brushed past, ran to her husband, dropped down onto her knees, and began crying. “Found her wandering around when I left you to go to the apple house. When Jose located me and told me what was happening and gave me a description of the victim...she flipped out on me.”

  Rita watched the woman grab the man’s hand. “No...Nathan...no...” she cried.

  Billy eased forward, knelt down, and put a caring arm around the woman. “Ma’am I know sorry don't mean a hill of beans right now...but I swear we're going to find the skunk who killed your man and put a rope around his neck.”

  Rita slowly reached into the front pocket, brought out the note left for Billy, and handed it to Rhonda. Rhonda took the note, read it, and then looked at Rita with shocked eyes. Rita nodded her head. “This isn't good, sis,” Rhonda whispered. “Billy is in deep trouble.”

  “Deep trouble indeed,” a deadly voice grinned, watching the scene from far away with a pair of binoculars. “But don't worry, the fun has just begun.”

  Chapter Two

  Rhonda sat down in an old fashioned 'Granny's' kitchen that felt quaint, cozy, and very warm. The smell of apples, flour, pumpkins, and coffee filled the kitchen, floating by sunflower wallpaper, old wooden cabinets, a light-yellow linoleum floor, old appliances that were bought in the 1950s that still somehow worked and a wooden door leading down into a pantry full of all kinds of goodies. The kitchen was simply delightful—a wonderful vintage dream that put every modern kitchen to shame. “Billy, I love your kitchen,” she said.

  Billy picked up an old coffee percolator off a Westinghouse stove, filled three brown mugs, and put the percolator back, and looked toward the backdoor. “Momma liked her kitchen just fine and daddy didn't have no want to change what was good in her eyes. Reckon it don't make sense to go changing what was once good.”

  Rita could see that Billy was upset. “Come sit down, Billy.”

  Billy bit down on his lip. “Reckon my legs could use a rest,” he said, walked the three mugs of coffee over to a round table covered with a sunflower tablecloth Billy's mother had sewed by hand, and sat down facing the backdoor. “Charlie Murray don't have enough sense to tell the difference between a ladybug and a fly...he sure ain't gonna catch whoever killed that poor Mr. Michenson.” Billy shook his head. “Poor fella.”

  Rita patted Billy's hand. “It's not your fault, Billy.”

  “I ain't so sure,” Billy replied in a guilt eaten voice. “That poor woman...what she told us about her husband...seems like the fella was a mighty decent type. Sure, he was a city man, but lots of good folks live in cities. I reckon...I'm grateful that the poor fella didn't have any children. At least no child will shed tears.”

  Rhonda looked at her sister. It was plain that Rita was struggling to be more of a friend to Billy than a romantic interest. The only problem for Rita was that she struggled when it came time for her to open the chest of her personal feelings. Rita was a reserved woman who kept people at a distance; a woman who loved but with extreme caution. Billy, Rhonda knew, allowed Rita to feel at ease, comfortable with herself, and not pressured to be someone she wasn't. But still, even though Billy offered Rita everything a good woman needed, she still struggled to open her heart. “Billy, the person who killed Mr. Michenson is to the blame,” she said in a firm voice. “You didn't kill that man.”

  Billy glanced down at his coffee. “I reckon it don't matter who killed him...he's dead.”

  Rita gave Rhonda a worried look. “Billy--”

  “I know, I know,” Billy waved his right hand into the air, “this whole mess ain't my fault,” he said in a low voice. “Truth of the matter is...a man can't help but feel the weight of responsibility when a bad case of apples is sold on his farm. I reckon every now and then a few bad apples do slip into a bag...but that don't change the fact that a man is responsible for his own land and what goes on. My daddy said it don't matter if a man steps into a hole a million miles away, what matters is when a man steps into a hole on your land.”

  Rita respected Billy's statement—and respected him even more for taking the weight of responsibility upon himself. Billy Northfield was a good man; honest, strong, decent, and truthful. “What are you going to do about Mrs. Michenson?” she asked, realizing that trying to console Billy was out of the question. With a man like Billy it was wise to talk about challenges that he was preparing to tackle.

  “Poor woman don't blame me or my farm,” Billy told Rita and began turning his coffee mug around and around with his hands. “She's a good Christian woman. Ain't hard to see that,” he continued. “That poor woman ain't interested in taking me before a judge...she was the one telling me how sorry she was. Women like that are rare.”

  “But?” Rhonda asked, reading something in Billy's voice.

  Billy kept turning his coffee mug around. “My daddy said it ain't right to let a man walk off limping without offering him a stick to lean on,” he told Rhonda. “Wouldn't be right to let that poor woman walk off limping. I'm going to send her a nice check in the mail...enough to cover her husband's funeral and get her by for a bit.”

  Rita felt a sweet love for Billy sweep over her heart. “That's very kind of you, Billy.”

  “Nothing to it,” Billy promised. “I've been saving for a rainy day. That money ain't doing nothing but sitting around collecting dirt.”

  A hard knock at the backdoor made Billy's head jerk up. Charlie Murray stuck his head through, looked around, spotted Billy sitting at the kitchen table with the two lovely cops he dreamed of marrying, and quickly tossed on a tough 'cop' face, even though he was a thin, scrawny man with a slight boney face that reminded Rita and Rhonda of a funeral home director. “Dr. Downing has the body,” he said. “I have John following the ambulance to the hospital.”

  Rita and Rhonda glanced at Charlie with worried eyes. Charlie Murray was a single man in his forties that still thought he was the most popular kid in high school. The man was trapped in a sad arrested development state of mind filled with cool cars, popular hangouts, pretty girls, and endless high school days. Of course the man's dorky grayish black hair and shaggy sideburns could have told anyone with a little bit of common sense the man was still trapped in his high school years. “Where is Mrs. Michenson?” Rita asked.

  “Andy drove her to the station,” Charlie said, trying to sound tough and in control. The truth of the matter was he didn't have a clue as to what to do? He was a deputy, sure, but so what? The only reason Brad left him in charge was because no other deputy—whether full time or volunteer—accepted the mantle of responsibility. The Pumpkin Festival was in full bloom and no one wanted to add more stress to their daily routine. The full time deputies, which consisted of a handful of men, was already having enough trouble making sure the volunteer deputies were doing their job. “I called Brad. He's heading back to Clovedale Falls first thing tomorrow,” Charlie explained and then added in a voice that made it seem like he was superior to Brad: “I told Brad he shouldn't have left with the festival in full bloom. Looks like this town needs a new sheriff.”

  “Oh shut up,” Billy snapped at Charlie. “Brad has more sense in his right butt cheek than you do in that empty head of yours.”

  Rhonda let a desperate giggle slip from her lips. “Uh...sorry,” she said, grabbed her mug of coffee, and took a sip.

  Rita, fighting back her own laughter, snatched up her coffee mug and dived in. “Thanks for the update, Charlie,” she said keeping her mouth dipping down into the coffee mug.