Tempting The Sheriff. Kathy AltmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
Thanks, but no thanks.
“I’ll only be around long enough to clean out the house,” Vaughn said. “Unless I decide to sell it as is.”
“But that’s against the terms of your inheritance.”
Vaughn shifted his weight, and the chair groaned a threat to break into pieces and dump his ass on the floor. “How do you know that?”
“I helped Emerson draft it. Listen, your uncle wanted the house to stay in the family. More than that, he wanted you to stay in Castle Creek. I promised I’d do my best to talk you into both.”
Tension threaded its way through Vaughn’s muscles. “He knew better.” Besides, the old man had left only half the house to Vaughn—the rest of the estate went to charity. Even if he wanted to, there was no way Vaughn could raise the money to buy the house outright. If Uncle Em had been so gung ho about Vaughn staying, the old man should have left him the whole house.
Not that Vaughn deserved it.
When Whitby spoke again, his voice carried a pout. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
“I’m sorry you’re understaffed, but I don’t have time to help, and I have no interest in relocating.” Even if he did, it would be to another city, not to a geriatric community that was about as dangerous as a stuffed animal. Yeah, Uncle Em had made noises about Vaughn holding on to the house, but he’d been well aware his nephew could only take so much quiet. By the end of every summer visit, Vaughn had been twitchier than a teenage girl caught speeding in her daddy’s brand-new Beemer.
Vaughn liked crowds. Traffic. Noise. Action.
“Emerson said you were going to take a leave of absence.” The mayor’s tone bordered on accusatory.
“I did.” Sort of.
“At least let me set up a tour. Show you the facilities, introduce you around.”
“Maybe another time.”
Vaughn ended the conversation and tossed his phone on the table then zigzagged his way back to the living room. After snagging a box cutter off the tattered seat of a bar stool, he sliced open the Kitchen Crap box. Might as well locate the coffeemaker, because no way was he going to check out the second floor without a hefty dose of caffeine. And maybe a shot of whiskey, if he could find it.
In the dining room behind him, something heavy tumbled to the floor. Vaughn whipped around, automatically slapping a hand to his empty hip. Easy. He squinted across the hall and saw that a box had fallen off a stack. Obviously the contents had shifted and gravity had taken over.
Guilt niggled. Had his uncle really counted on his settling here?
He shook his head. Way to let the mayor work you.
Ten minutes later, he was rifling through dish towels and pot holders when he heard another thud. Next came a series of scraping sounds, like something being dragged across a sandy floor. What the hell?
He grabbed the box cutter and strode into the dining room. “Who’s in here?” he demanded.
More thumping, muted this time. He looked to his right. Another box had landed on its side, spilling half-empty bottles of lotion and shampoo. A third carton had fallen behind it. Whatever was in here had to have been inside for a while—the place had been closed up for weeks.
A vision of a rabid raccoon latching onto his jugular while blood sprayed everywhere had him thinking about calling 911. But only for a split second. He couldn’t let the overzealous sheriff lock up another Fulton for no good reason.
With a tight grip on the box cutter, Vaughn carefully skirted the mess on the floor, bent down and peered into the upended box.
A black cat stared up at him while kneading the lace tablecloth Aunt Brenda had saved for holidays. Sheepishly, Vaughn retracted the blade on the box cutter and slid the tool into his back pocket.
“Uncle Em might be smirking down on me, but Aunt Brenda’s trying to swat you with a broom,” he told the cat. The animal yawned and tugged a paw loose from a clinging thread. Vaughn squatted. “How the hell did you get in here?”
The cat hissed and backed farther into the box. Vaughn held up his hands. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to make you nervous.”
Jesus. He was talking to a stray cat.
He headed back to the kitchen. As soon as he made this call, the entire county would know he was in town. But someone was missing a pet, and he didn’t have time to go knocking on doors.
“Hello, Miss Catlett? This is Vaughn Fulton, next door.”
“How are you, Vaughn?”
“Good. Thanks. You?”
“Better if you call me Hazel, sweet cheeks.”
While Hazel shared the details of her plantar fasciitis, the cheese ball recipe she’d recently tried and something about a new boyfriend and old lube—wait, what?—Vaughn returned to the dining room and checked on his intruder. The cat remained crouched in the corner of the box.
Hazel took a breath and Vaughn took advantage.
“Did my uncle have a cat?”
“No, hon, not that I know of. You have one hanging around outside?”
“Inside, and I have no idea how long he’s been in here.”
“Oh. Well, if I were you, I’d avoid going barefoot.”
“Thanks,” Vaughn said dryly. “Any clue where he might have come from?”
“What’s he look like?”
“Black, with a white diamond on his chest.”
“That could be Franklin. He belongs to the Hockadays, two doors down. But how on earth would he have managed to get in?”
“Probably through one of the big-ass holes in the roof,” Vaughn muttered.
“Beg pardon?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Like my Pete.”
“Pete?”
“My sweetie. Pete Lowry. Remember him? Runs Lowry’s Garage?”
“Sure do.” With a silent huff of relief, Vaughn perched on the windowsill. That explained the lube comment.
“And yes, we do enjoy wild grease monkey sex.”
Or not.
“Hazel. I have an idea.” Please stop talking about your sex life. “Mind coming over and taking a look at this cat? See if you recognize him?”
She gave a knowing chuckle. “Sure thing, hon. I’ll be right over.”
Vaughn returned the cat’s wary stare. “Franklin. That your name?” When the cat started working his paws into the tablecloth again, Vaughn nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He went back across the hall and resumed his quest for the coffeepot.
It took him a few seconds, but he finally recognized that half-buzzing, half-wheezing sound as the doorbell. He set aside the coffee filters he’d discovered in a box marked Cleaning Crap and maneuvered his way back to the front door.
The Catlett sisters stood on the porch, each holding a foil-covered plate, their grins as wide as their makeup was bright. He smiled back, careful not to peer directly into their eye shadow.
The seventysomething Hazel and June, or Hazel and Nut, as some called them, couldn’t have been kinder to him when he was a kid. They’d made numerous trips across his uncle’s yard during Vaughn’s summer visits, toting cakes and casseroles and platters piled high with those round Devil Dog things they called gobs. It wasn’t until after Aunt Brenda died that Vaughn realized