KATHY HOGAN TROCHECK TO LIVE & DIE IN DIXIE A CALLAHAN GARRITY MYSTERY Dedicated with love to my mother, Helen Hogan, and to the memory of her mother, Edna Rivers Waymire. Happy Birthday, Mom; miss you, Gram. Contents 1 THE LUMP UNDER THE SHEET stirred, ever so slightly. I… 1 2 MAC LEFT SOON AFTER Neva Jean; trout season was in… 7 3 EAGLE’S KEEP IS AN ATLANTA landmark: a Victorian Gothic behemoth… 15 4 EDNA SPRAYED A HEAVY MIST of window cleaner on the… 24 5 THE DOORBELL RANG AGAIN. I looked around for someone to… 32 6 THE WELCOMING SCENT of bacon grease and hot biscuits wafted… 44 7 WHAT?” EDNA DEMANDED, as I put the receiver back on… 52 8 71 GEORGE KOTERAS WAS SHORT and stocky, with a shiny bald… 9 THE FAINTEST PROMISE of a breeze wafted down the street,… 85 10 INSTEAD OF SLEEPING THE SLEEP of the righteous, I tossed… 94 11 THE HIGH-PITCHED WHINE of our heavy-duty Electrolux coming from inside… 99 12 THE COLD BOTTLES OF BEER made a welcome clinking noise… 105 13 A BEAT-UP RED HYUNDAI was parked at the curb in… 112 14 SHANE DUNSTAN, THE HEAD of Emory University’s special collections, returned… 125 15 I SAT IN THE VAN OUTSIDE the Rebel Yell offices… 135 16 WHEN I GOT HOME MY OWN house was blast-furnace hot… 149 17 JOCELYN DOUGHERTY AND Edna sat across the kitchen table from… 159 18 CALLAHAN, GOOD TO HEAR from you,” Jake Dahlberg said warmly. 167 19 JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT, I decided to cruise… 177 20 WHEN I WENT OUT TO GET in the van, Ping-Pong… 186 21 CALLAHAN,” A VOICE SAID softly. “Callahan. Wake uuuup, your dinner… 198 22 LOOSE ENDS, I THOUGHT, AS I drove back downtown, toward… 202 23 THURSDAY MORNING, RUBY’S blood pressure was up and Neva Jean… 210 24 I LEFT EDNA STANDING THERE, stalked to the back bedroom,… 222 25 ELLIOT LITTLEFIELD HADN’T mourned “my little Bridget” for long. Eagle’s… 230 26 I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I crouched there in the… 239 27 245 WHEN I WOKE UP around ten the next morning, coffee… 28 I GOT MYSELF ALL SPRUCED UP for dinner at Jake… 253 29 FRIDAY MORNING I WAS UP and out early. We’d been… 262 30 I WAS JUST BASTING THE CHICKEN with Edna’s secret barbecue… 274 31 WE FINALLY DID GET a new roof on the house,… 290 Acknowledgments About the Author Praise Other Books by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Cover Copyright About the Publisher 1 HE LUMP UNDER THE SHEET stirred, ever so T slightly. I poked it with my toe. No response. I poked again. Put my lips up to his ear. “Give you a hundred dollars if you’ll get up and put the coffee on.” The only response was an exaggerated snore. “A hundred dollars and I’ll scratch your back for five minutes.” He pulled the sheet up over his head and turned his back to me. I sighed. “Okay. A hundred dollars, back scratching, plus…” Before I could finish the offer he turned and put his arms around my neck, lazily running a finger down my bare spine. I slapped his hand away. “Forget it, MacAuliffe,” I said. “A hundred dollars, back scratching and first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.” He groaned loudly but sat up, pulling half the covers with him. It was June, but we’d cranked up my air-condi- tioner the previous night and the room was chilly. I snatched the covers back. 2 / KATHY HOGAN TROCHECK “Deal,” he said, then padded, naked, toward the bath- room. I dozed a few minutes, until the doorbell rang. “Get the door, Mac,” I called, but the shower was still running full blast. “Damn,” I muttered, feeling around on the floor for my robe. “Who the hell’s here this early in the morning?” By the time I’d groggily made my way through the hallway to the front door, the bell ringing had been re- placed with a persistent knocking. I put one bleary eye to the front door peephole, took a look and tried to shake the cobwebs away. I looked again, but she was still there. I shot the dead- bolt and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on. A Southern belle from hell stood on my doorstep. She’d poured her two-hundred-pound-plus self into a long hoop- skirted ball gown made of some kind of white-and-green flowered imitation satin. The sleeves had been pulled down over her shoulders, forcing the double-D bosom forward at a gravity-defying angle. A green velvet sash was wound tight around her waist, so tight that her chubby cheeks were stained an unnatural pink. Her head was wrapped turban style in a faded yellow towel. She fluttered a pair of half-inch-long fake eyelashes and smiled coquettishly at me. “Hey, Callahan,” she said sweetly, trying to push the door open. “Tell your mama I’m here for my combout.” I held the door steady. “Edna’s still in Swainsboro, at my cousin’s wedding, Neva Jean,” I said. “What the hell are you doing in that getup at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning?” She fluttered the eyelashes again. “Come on and let me in, Callahan,” she said plaintively. “It’s eighty-five