CHAPTER TWO
T he rank of lieutenant in a small town like Magnolia Springs was different than in the big city. My job was to command the small team of officers, to act as the officer in charge of my specialised entities throughout the department, and act as the commanding officer in Captain Griffin’s absence. I found myself supervising patrol sergeants and helping my officers carry out day-to-day investigative functions, as well as attending calls.
In my job description it stipulated that a lieutenant was only to attend serious crimes like officer shootings, homicides, and major robbery. However, Magnolia Springs’s serious crime rate was 41 per cent lower than the national average, which meant my job was relatively quiet. I took pride in knowing my town was a safe place to live.
I was the youngest in my family to reach the lieutenant position and don the silver bar on my uniform. My dad had been thirty-six and my grandfather thirty-four. Did I wish to one day be a Captain, Deputy Chief, and then sheriff of Magnolia? Yes, if the opportunity presented itself. I wanted to make a difference to the lives of the people in my town.
The need to protect and serve had been present from a young age. I could only assume it came from my father. If I wasn’t helping a toad to safety, I was aiding our elderly neighbour Mrs. Johnson with her groceries. When the time came to wear my police uniform for the first time, I swelled with pride. I still did.
My beige trousers were snug. I attempted a squat or two to create some movement. The brown short-sleeved shirt hanging on the outside of my wardrobe was ironed within an inch of its life; southern summers called for a weather-appropriate uniform, but the long to short sleeve switch was like reducing a boiling pan from high heat to medium—I would still be cooking.
The weight of my protective vest, my boots, and my duty belt with all the trimmings added an extra 25–30 pounds. They don’t tell you when you join the police force that you should be prepared to carry the weight of a small person on your back at all times. The weight made it hard when attempting a chase on foot, but over the years my body learnt to distribute the extra weight, until I became as quick as Usain Bolt—almost.
The sheriff’s department took great pride in the appearance of its officers. A clean well-cared for uniform showed a level of professionalism.
My shift wasn’t due to start for an hour, which gave me enough time to make my first pit stop of the day as requested by my mother. My sandwich of choice was my grandfather’s famous BBQ pulled pork with a dollop of Mr. Henderson’s freshly made peach chutney. The saliva in my mouth was enough to water the jungle in my garden. Most of the residents in Magnolia had at least one famous family recipe—who needed a grocery store?
The Magnolia White Bed and Breakfast was the only place in town for visitors to stay, unless you were lucky enough to find an Airbnb. The popular vacation rentals company was finding traction in Magnolia as of late. Cindy White owned the B he had dark peppered stubble, a concrete jawline, and a gentle voice. He took over his father’s landscaping company in the late 2000s after the manual labour became too much for Mr. Henderson Senior. The company’s colourful wooden signs were hammered into communal ground across the town like he was running for U.S senate. I did wonder how effective a wooden sign was in the age of radio, TV, and social media, but James was never short of work. He was the best landscaper in Magnolia Springs.
A young couple were laughing and joking on the front porch as I approached. The woman was gently nudging herself back and forth in the dark wooden rocking chair I’d picked up for Cindy two months ago; the old one had seen better days. The couple sounded Canadian, but I couldn’t be sure. They smiled politely. Cindy came waltzing out of the front door with the grace of a ballet dancer; she dodged the small circular table, the woman’s backpack, and the bounce back of the spring-hinged door.
“Riley, honey, how are you?”
“I’m good, hot, but good.”
Like much of the contiguous U.S. mid-July through mid-August was a never-ending onslaught of summer sun. The constant heat advisories and above-average temperature warnings were ignored by most residents who created their own cure for heatstroke and dehydration by jumping in the Magnolia River.
“Let me fix you a drink.” Cindy ushered me inside.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee drowned my sense of smell as soon as I entered the lobby. The house was in pristine condition. It was rustic, and the style reflected its age and history, but the old oak furniture was perfectly polished. The walls were covered in beadboard, and the comfortable sitting area in the lobby provided views of the live oaks on the other side of the wavy glass windows.
She handed me a glass slick with condensation; the contents were a deep amber colour.
“Is this your famous lemon iced tea?” I asked.
She nodded. “Freshly made this morning.”
The chunks of ice clinked against the side of the glass, and I felt immediate relief from the heat. The taste was slightly bitter but sweet, the earthy flavour of the tea prominent.
“Wow.” I exhaled.
Cindy looked me up and down, and I could’ve predicted the words before they left her mouth.
“Do you have to turn up in uniform when you come and see me?” she asked.
“The visual presence of . . . ”
“The visual presence of a patrolling officer is the best form of deterrent,” Cindy said sarcastically.
“It’s true!”
Cindy White wasn’t just the owner of Magnolia White B she was my godmother. Her friendship with my mother spanned four decades, two divorces, five children, three lawsuits, and countless life-altering tornados.
“The couple on the porch think I’m about to get arrested,” Cindy whispered.
“At least they won’t think about stealing another pen whilst I’m here,” I mocked.
“Hey. That’s not funny. I loved that pen.” She scowled.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I smirked. “Where do you want me to install this camera?”
The instruction manual contained adequate diagrams to guide me through the installation process. The far corner offered the widest view of the room and most notably the reception desk where the mystery of the pen remained unsolved. The drill bit created four neat holes with little disruption. I attached the mounting bracket to the wall, tightening each screw fitting securely. The camera slid into the bracket perfectly. I adjusted the angle to suit Cindy’s request, connected it to the power source, and voilà.
“Excuse me,” a voice called out.
I stepped down one rung on the ladder, struggling to spread my weight evenly. In hindsight I should’ve removed my duty belt, but it proved a useful place to store the screwdriver.
“Sorry, just a sec.”
I moved the ladder to one side allowing a clear path through the reception area .
“Just watch out for the—”
It happened in slow motion. The glass of iced tea crashed across the wooden floor, cubes of ice catapulted across the surface like they’d been fired from a pinball machine.
“I’ll clean it up,” I said.
“Use this.”
The woman handed me a cloth of some description. I soaked up the liquid whilst she captured the ice cubes. I frantically mopped from left to right, edging forward until we collided in the corner.
“I think I got all the ice,” she whispered.
She couldn’t have been much older than me. Her curly leaf-brown hair tumbled over her shoulders. She had burnished olive skin, a dainty nose, and a delicate half-circle scar that curved away towards her cheek.
She dropped the dripping cubes of ice into the glass.
“My apologies . . .” She observed my badge. “Lieutenant.”
“It’s my fault, I should’ve put the glass in a more appropriate place,” I admitted. I wiped my tea-stained hand against my trousers.
“Riley Wilson.” I extended my hand.
“Amelia.”
Her forest green eyes held a certain warmth.
“Is this your first night at the B I hadn’t informed Mr. Henderson of that, yet.
It took me less than five minutes to reach the edge of town. The eerie Baker home had been neglected for years. The house had been built in the early 1900s, and as I stepped onto the grounds it felt somewhat frozen in time. I pictured the house once representing such wealth and stature in the community, but now it portrayed a state of deterioration.
The once-beautiful Greek revival mansion certainly lived up to the haunted aesthetic. The four impressive columns were decaying, and the second-floor balcony railing was no longer intact. I traced the gravel path to the entrance. What was once a welcoming route was now barely visible beneath the wild foliage. The formerly manicured lawns were overgrown with weeds. I suspected the mere sight drove Mr. Henderson into a frenzy.
The grand white exterior had faded, and the dull paint stripped itself from the facade in large chunks to reveal the rotted wood beneath. I saw a source of light flicker in the shattered downstairs window. When I got closer, I noticed the door was ajar. I unclicked the leather strap from my holster, and my breathing eased. My feet felt unsteady on the rickety veranda as it groaned under my weight, but it looked—clean? Well, cleaner than the rest of the exterior. A wooden sweeping brush leant up against the railing. Huh?
The hinges creaked as I gently pressed against the door; the sound echoed through the halls.
“Hello?”
The wood floors in the grand hallway were barely visible beneath the thick layers of dust, but the dust emphasised the footprints. I measured them against my own. They were small. A woman?
“Hello? Is anybody there?” I called out. No response.
The silence was deafening; the occasional rattling of a loose pipe and an unidentified drip coming from the second floor broke the quiet.
I followed the footprints. The grand staircase was framed by moulded columns and a discoloured green carpet runner. The white-panelled walls maintained a classic feel. The beautifully carved wooden spindles on the staircase were the only thing free from the effects of rot. The vast double doors to my right were half-open, inviting someone to enter the reception room, but who? The arched windows allowed the moonlight to cast its shadow, creating an airy sense of space. I crept inside, the fireplace was the symmetrical centrepiece; it was unused. The wallpaper hung in tattered strips, only the Queen Anne style furniture maintained a sense of elegance in the otherwise distressed room. The furniture was unspoiled, I suspected the plastic coverings had been removed recently.
Suddenly, a boisterous crash echoed through the house. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I unholstered my gun. The cold metal was a reassuring weight in my hand. I moved cautiously towards the source of the crash, thankful I had opted to slip on my running trainers as opposed to my boots.
I paused, listening intently. I waited with my back pressed up against the door to regulate my breathing.
“Who’s there?” I yelled.
There was someone else in the house. I heard a faint rustling coming from the kitchen. The pounding in my chest became so loud my own voice sounded like a whisper. My job required me to be calm in trying situations, and I was no stranger to confrontation or threatening individuals, but the eerie atmosphere made for an uncomfortable showdown.
I crept through a small room. Large wooden cabinets covered the walls. Perhaps it had once been a library, or a study of some kind, but I couldn’t be sure. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet, my trainers crunching against the peeled paint. I flicked on my flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness in the kitchen.
I moved cautiously, one step at a time. Whoever was in the house was hiding. I had to remain alert. The beam of my flashlight illuminated the distressed wooden units and the fallen wedges of plaster on the floor. The electrical wires dangled dangerously from over the top of the island unit, which explained the need for the hurricane lanterns. Whoever was in the house had forgotten to fully switch off the lantern in the far corner. There was a small wooden drawer detached from the cabinets. Its contents were strewn across the tiled floor. Had that been the source of the crash?
I heard a soft rustling. I spun to my left.
I froze. My breathing hitched.
My flashlight landed on a petite shadowy figure.
“Don’t move,” I warned. It was a young woman, her eyes widened in fear.
“I’m calling the police,” she quavered. My flashlight landed on the small wooden box cheese grater she clutched tightly to her chest.
“I am the police,” I said.
“Lieutenant?” The voice questioned. She stepped out of the shadow, revealing her face. I recognised her—
“Amelia?”
What was the woman from Cindy’s B untamed vines grew along the floor and up the walls, slowly trying to manipulate their way inside.
“The swing is in good condition,” I pointed out. It looked out of place on an otherwise dishevelled porch.
“I restored it yesterday,” Amelia smiled.
“It looks great,” I complimented. It was freshly painted black in contrast with the light oak rocking chairs.
“Thank you.”
“What do you plan on doing with the place?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s too big for me, and I have no attachments to the area, so I’ll probably look to spruce it up a little and sell it on.”
“Do you have experience flipping homes?”
“I am useful with a paint brush, which is as good experience as any, right?” She tilted her head .
“Sure.” I nodded.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say what you’re thinking,” she probed.
I stepped back a few paces, my feet crunching on the gravel path. The grand entrance was weather-beaten. The windows were lifeless. The roof dipped to create a damaging slope. It wasn’t neglected beyond repair, but the potential was deep down beneath the years of decay.
“It’s going to require a bit more than a lick of paint.” Amelia followed my gaze.
“You don’t think I can restore it to its former glory?” she challenged.
“I think you can. I just think you’ll need some help. I can give you all the recommendations you’ll need; we have a lot of great contractors in the area.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“I can bring this old girl back to life, restore her to her former glory, all isn’t lost,” Amelia whispered, as though she was making a silent promise to herself.
“How long will you be in town?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
I nodded.
She continued, “I’m between jobs right now. I just sold my business, so I have some free time.”
“What was your business?”
“I owned a coffee shop.”
“Why did you sell it?”
She sighed. “My heart wasn’t in it.”
“Maybe your hearts into flipping homes instead?” I countered.
“Yeah, maybe.” She smiled a tad reluctantly .
My stomach grumbled, a clear reminder that my dietary requirements were insufficiently met yet again. The slow-cooked pork would soon fix the complaints.
“Anyway, I won’t take up anymore of your time. I’ll stop by next door and let Mr. Henderson know he can rest easy.”
“I will come and introduce myself, if that’s okay?”
“Sure, are you leaving now?”
Amelia nodded. “I need to eat, and I don’t fancy eight-year-old tomato chutney and mouldy crackers.”
Yikes. I cringed.
“You can say no, but I just had the grill going before I got called over here. I have enough food for you too if you would like to join me?”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” I smiled. “Just a friendly, overenthusiastic , small-town lieutenant trying to make a newcomer feel welcome.”
Amelia climbed the four steps back up to the brightly lit porch.
“You forgot attractive.” Her lips curled into a playful smirk.
“I don’t like to brag.”
“Okay, I’ll join you for dinner.”
Amelia turned on her heel and disappeared into the darkness of the house. She left nothing but the scent of her perfume and the echo of her words.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, whose got the worst hair of them all? Me.
Where is my brush .
The harsh overhead light only highlighted my dark eyes. I could blame it on a long day at work, but, in reality, it was down to years of neglecting sleep. My straight hair was parted perfectly in the middle and tied back in a small bun at the back of my head. I was accustomed to the style now, after three painful years of attempting to grow it. However, my unruly split ends were trying their best to break free of the smoothing hair wax I’d applied that morning. I safely stowed away my firearm, dowsed myself in perfume, and returned to the garden to find Amelia observing the climbing roses.
“It took the previous owner three years of care and attention to grow them,” I said.
The climbing roses tangled around the rustic wooden gazebo. They softened what was otherwise a tattered old structure. The graceful pink flowers were the only reason I refused to knock it down when I purchased the house.
“They’re really pretty,” Amelia said.
“Can I get you a drink?” I asked.
“Sure, what do you have?”
I listed the entirety of liquid options in my kitchen.
“I’ll take a bourbon, please.”
“On the rocks?”
“Is there any other way?” Amelia asked.
What is your story? I thought. Rarely did I come across another woman who enjoyed bourbon straight.
“It’s the best way to experience its full flavour,” I agreed. I promptly returned with two glasses.
The smell of freshly mown grass hung heavy in the warm summer air. I opened the lid of the grill, the hinge creaking in protest. It was still relatively warm. Several small flames jumped to life, and a heady mix of smoke and meat mingled together. It smelt like home.
“Would you like chicken or pork? Or both?” I asked .
“Surprise me.” Amelia smiled.
As the grill roared to life, I turned back towards Amelia. She watched me intently, legs crossed, with a small smile playing on her lips. She looked comfortable with her arm slung over the back of the three-seater garden sofa.
“So, Riley...” Amelia sipped her drink. There was no recoil in her expression.
“Yes?”
“Did you always want to be in law enforcement?”
I nodded. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“What’s the dream?” she asked.
“To be sheriff of Magnolia,” I said, no hesitation.
“Why?” she questioned.
“Is this an interview?” I laughed.
“I’m curious.” Amelia shrugged.
“This is my hometown. It’s filled with the people I love. It’s filled with nostalgic memories, some successes and many failures. It’s the reason I am who I am today. I would dedicate my life to protecting that,” I admitted.
“I admire that,” Amelia said.
“What about you? Do you dream of opening another coffee shop?”
Amelia shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure of the purpose. I loved coffee, so I opened a coffee shop, but I never really understood why. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, but when I searched myself, I couldn’t understand why, out of all the jobs in the world, all the businesses I could’ve started, I went with a coffee shop. My mom hates coffee, and my dad is a banker.” Amelia shrugged.
“You know your grandma had a coffee shop, right?”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “She did? ”
“Sure, it was a staple of our town for years. The shop closed when I left for the police academy. Mrs. Baker couldn’t run it anymore; she sold it to a young woman who worked there called Grace. She kept it going for five or six years after that, but it eventually closed.”
“I can’t believe that.” Her eyes held a distant look. “What was it called?”
“Baker’s Coffee House.”
“I like the sound of that.” Amelia reached for her drink. “What’s the unit used for now?”
“Nothing currently, it’s still empty.”
“Huh.”
Using two forks I pulled at the pork. It fell apart with ease. The tender strips were cooked to perfection.
“You’re good with the grill,” Amelia observed.
“I have my dad to thank for that. He always used to say, ‘We take flame grilling very seriously here, Riley.’ He wasn’t kidding.” I smiled, picturing the way my grandfather used to hover around my dad when I was younger. He offered unwanted grilling tips, and my dad did the exact same thing with me.
“My dad used to say, ‘We take our credit score very seriously, Amelia’, I used to roll my eyes, but he was right.” She laughed.
“A credit score is considerably more important than a grill.”
“It won’t feed you though, so I think it’s up for debate.”
“True.” I smiled.
I piled the tender pork high onto a soft warm bun and added a spoonful of coleslaw.
“Would you like some sauce?” I asked.
“Ketchup, if you have it. ”
I turned to face Amelia with two jars of sauce, she must’ve noticed the bemused look on my face.
“What?” she asked.
“I’ve just never heard anyone request anything other than white or red.”
Alabama natives were fiercely loyal to their preferred style of sauce.
“Okay . . . what do you recommend?”
“You don’t really recommend. The sauce just sort of chooses you.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Yes, I am.” I smirked.
“Oh, thank God.” She sighed.
“The white sauce is tangy and creamy. The red is sweet and spicy. I like the red, but it really does come down to personal preference.”
“Is the white sauce like ranch?” Amelia asked.
“No, no, no.” I laughed. “When you taste it, you’ll understand the difference.”
“Okay, I’ll go with red, please.”
A drizzle of sauce added the final touch. My mouth watered, the sweet and spicy flavour melding with the tender slow-roasted pork was my favourite taste on earth. I added another dollop of coleslaw on the side, a generous helping of grilled corn, and a marinated chicken breast. I handed Amelia a plate as I took a seat across from her, eager to see the look on her face when she took the first bite.
She sighed. “Wow.”
“It’s good, right?”
“How on earth do you get the meat to taste like that?”
There was a chorus of satisfied groans as Amelia devoured the food .
“I have a question.” I wiped at the edges of my mouth, conscious I didn’t want any leftover sauce on my face.
“Fire away.”
“You said Mrs. Baker was your grandma, but you thought she died when you were a child? Why?” I raised my eyebrow. It was a loaded question; the investigator within wanted to know so I could corroborate her story, but a large part of me just wanted to know more about her.
“My parents told me she had a heart condition.” She paused. “I recently found out that wasn’t true.” She stared at the glass of bourbon, swirling the contents. “She didn’t die, she just left.” Amelia sighed.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She moved here to Magnolia after my grandfather died, started a new life, and I have no idea why. My mom won’t elaborate.”
“So, she left the house to you, even though you’d not seen her since you were a small child?” I asked.
“Not exactly.” Amelia took a sip of liquid courage. “She left the house to my mom. I found the deed a while back, which is when all this came to light. She’s been to visit the house once, my mom.” Amelia sighed. “But she doesn’t want any part of it. So, she gave it to me.”
Something didn’t add up.
“How do you feel about that?”
“It’s taken me three months to build up the courage to come here. I’m angry at my mom for keeping me in the dark all these years. I’m equally confused with my grandma, and I will never be able to ask her the truth. That’s probably the hardest part.”
I nodded. “It’s okay to feel those things. It’s a lot to process. ”
“What’s your relationship like with your mom?”
I may have been overstepping the mark, but I was intrigued.
“That’s a deep question for a first meeting.” Amelia rubbed at her forehead.
“Sorry, you don’t have to answer.” I tried to keep my tone gentle. I pulled my chair forward a few inches and sat back comfortably with my gaze steady on her.
“It’s not as simple as you think,” Amelia began. Her eyes held this distant look. “My mother has very rigid principles and high expectations of everyone and everything,” she said.
I didn’t intervene.
“I grew up with this unhealthy need to gain her approval, but no matter what I did, it was never enough.” She looked frustrated. “And then—” she scoffed.
“What?”
“I had to tell her I was closing the business due to financial difficulty. My mom has never in her life experienced failure, except indirectly through me. I have never seen such disappointment.” She sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass.
“That’s rough,” I sympathised.
“It wasn’t all bad; growing up she provided me with everything I needed. She loved me in her own way, but her constant need for perfection will always overshadow that. I’ve learnt to live with it.” Amelia shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“What are you saying sorry for?”
“You didn’t get the chance to know Mrs. Baker. I couldn’t imagine never knowing my grandma.”
“What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you, right?” Amelia countered .
“You could argue that, but I hope you can get some closure one day. I hope your mom gives you the information you need to make sense of everything.” I crossed one leg over the other.
Amelia seemed to contemplate my response. I didn’t know Mrs. Baker’s daughter, but I tried to relate. What would my mom have to do for me to ignore her for twenty-three years? For me to actively tell people she was dead? I foresaw no family controversy worthy of such repercussions.
“Yeah, me too.”
We spent the rest of the evening exchanging stories over a bottle of brandy. She was charming. Our conversation turned more playful as she teased me about my vegetable patch. Her infectious laughter filled the warm summer air. I found myself drawn to Amelia; maybe it was the brandy heightening my senses, but I was genuinely interested in her opinions and her experiences. I eventually walked her back to Cindy’s, unable to categorise the evening, but fully able to appreciate it for what it was: two strangers meeting under unusual circumstances and finding comfort in each other’s company.