Read The Jezebel Remedy for Free Online

faded plastic flowers next to a bridge where months earlier a teenager had wrecked his car and died on the spot, the concrete patch in the abutment brighter than all the dreary gray that bordered it. A rawboned man with a mechanical voice box was buying lottery tickets when she stopped for gas, and he told the clerk the numbers he wanted to bet, touched a black tube to his throat and spoke in a froggy, metallic monotone. He also had a tin of sardines and a breakfast malt liquor on the counter. The man was short a few cents, and Lisa made up the difference for him, discovered she knew his uncle, a retired bailiff named Garland Kinney.
    At the office, she was antsy, easily diverted. She scanned the newspaper, played Bejeweled on her computer, put Brownie through his dog tricks and drank a diet soda. She cracked a window and lit a cigarette, then shoulder-propped against the window frame and watched a crew of city maintenance men as they decorated streetlight poles for Christmas, winding artificial holly from top to bottom. She read phone messages. Dictated a letter. Paid a credit card bill well before it was due. Joe was in neighboring Patrick County for a district courttrial, and when he returned around noon she sat in his office and asked about the case, whether he’d won or lost.
    “Not guilty for our defendant,” he said. “I’m pleased to report that I helped bring justice to yet another roadhouse assault-and-battery brouhaha. By my math, I’m now four victories away from receiving my expert certification in redneck bar brawls. We’ll have to get our cards reprinted to include my accomplishment.”
    “Same old stuff?” she asked.
    “It was pretty much what you’d expect,” he noted drily, “from a pair of drunk women in a boyfriend tussle. The usual cursing and spitting and hair pulling and eye scratching, plus the crowd-pleasing, shirt-rippin’ topless grand finale. Of course, despite walking away scot-free, my client was pissed because her Sam’s Club faux gold chain was broken and Judge Gendron wasn’t of a mind to order restitution.” Joe chuckled. “Gotta love this business, huh?” He put his feet on his desk, rubbed and squeezed the base of his neck. “Lunch? You hungry?” His tie was loose, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
    “Yeah. Sounds good.”
    While they were deciding where to eat, Betty appeared to tell them the sheriff and a state police investigator were in the lobby and needed to speak with them. After almost two decades of practicing law, it was the kind of occurrence that raised their interest but didn’t cause any particular alarm, and they continued to discuss diners, restaurants, fast food and blue plates until the cops arrived at the door. Joe and Lisa stood, and Joe gestured for them to come in.
    Sheriff Lane Perry was a large, amiable man with close-cropped hair and a physicality that was pronounced and obvious but not threatening. The Stones considered him honest and conscientious, and he and Joe both enjoyed quarter horses and trout fishing, occasionally crossed paths at the saddle club or on the banks of the Smith River. The state police officer, Clay Hatcher, was younger, maybe thirty-five, a brash, noisy, spring-loaded hotshot who was, it seemed, always itching for a high-speed chase or a chance to bust into a house at 3:00 a.m. and scream commands as he brandished his pistol, though it was safe to assume he wouldn’t be the first through a dangerous door, or even the second.
    “Hey, Joe,” the sheriff said. “I think you know Special Agent Hatcher from the state police.”
    “Yeah. Sure. Good to see you both.”
    Sheriff Perry then nodded at Lisa and said, “Mrs. Stone.”
    Hatcher had his hands on his hips and wore his silver badge on a chain around his neck. His weapon was apparent in a shoulder holster. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Stone,” he said. “And pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
    “What brings you gents by?” Lisa asked. “Sit down if you’d