Description : Halfway to the Grave
I STIFFENED AT THE RED AND BLUE LIGHTS flashing behind me, because there was no way I could explain what was in the back of my truck. I pulled over, holding my breath as the sheriff came to my window.
"Hi. Something wrong?" My tone was all innocence while I prayed there was nothing unusual about my eyes. Control yourself. You know what happens when you get upset.
"Yeah, you've got a busted taillight. License and registration, please."
Crap. That must have happened when I was loading up the truck bed. Speed had been of the essence then, not daintiness.
I handed him my real license, not the fake one. He shone his flashlight back and forth between the identification and my face.
"Catherine Crawfield. You're Justina Crawfield's girl, aren't you? From the Crawfield Cherry Orchard?"
"Yes, sir." Politely and blandly, as if I didn't have a care in the world.
"Well, Catherine, it's nearly four a.m. Why are you out this late?"
I could tell him the truth about my activities, except I didn't want to sign on for hard time. Or an extended stay in a padded cell.
"I couldn't sleep, so I decided I'd drive around."
To my dismay, he ambled to the bed of the truck and shone his light in it.
"Whatcha got back there?"
Oh, nothing unusual. A dead body under some bags and an ax.
"Bags of cherries from my grandparents' orchard." If my heartbeat were any louder, it would deafen him.
"Really?" With his flashlight he poked at a plastic lump. "One of 'em is leaking."