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incident.”
    “Sure, and I’m the queen of Sheba.” Violet shoved her hands on her hips. “Hey, Henry Horatio Whitehead,” she hollered. “Get your butt-skee out here.” She smirked at Lexie. “He hates when I call him that.”
    Lexie noticed Violet’s chipped front tooth and her dirty fingernails. As unpleasant as Violet was, and as much as she seemed to dislike her ex, Lexie still figured she would not want to see him laid out on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. She was the mother of his children, after all.
    “He can’t,” Lexie said.
    “Can’t what?”
    “Come out here. Like I said, there’s been an incident.”
    “Oh, I got it.” Violet tossed her dark head. “You two had a hot and heavy night so he’s sacked out cold in bed. Far be it from me to disturb his lordship. So do me a favor, toots, and go get the jerk for me.”
    The wail of a siren sliced through the air and Lexie decided there was no point in trying to spare Violet Whitehead any longer. She pointed into the kitchen. “Go get him yourself. He’s in there.”
    Swearing like a sailor, Violet stomped into the kitchen, complaining about the filthy stench. Suddenly she fell silent, then stumbled back into the front room, her face drained of all color. “I knew hewas a son of a bitch, but why’d you go and kill him?”
    Lexie hugged herself and shivered. “I didn’t. I found him like that.”
    “God damn.” Violet shook her shaggy dark head. “I always told the butthead he’d better watch out where he poked his pecker or some pissed-off husband was going to fix his bucket.” She blinked several times, made a gagging sound, and ran outside.
    Lexie heard her dousing the bushes with her breakfast.

    After what seemed like a million years, the ambulance from Westonville arrived and the paramedics hustled over to have a look at Whitehead. As they hovered above him with their medical equipment, Lexie slipped outside. The sunlight was a welcome relief and she breathed deeply of the fresh morning air.
    She sidestepped past poor Violet, who was sitting on the edge of a brick planter chewing her nails and crying, and went out to sit in her truck. Swallowing over and over, she finally banished her hiccoughs. Then she glanced around, noticing that several of the neighbors were up and staring out their windows or standing on their front porches rubbernecking.
    Lexie recognized Axel and Janie Dimspoon, who must have been at least in their eighties, exit the house next door. Dressed in thick terry bathrobes and slippers, they came up Whitehead’s drive andapproached Lexie with questioning glances.
    “What happened?” Axel queried.
    “An incident,” Lexie said. “You’ll read all about it in the paper.” When they continued to look at her with prying glances, she added, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to tell you.” She watched as they shuffled back into their homes, shaking their heads and whispering to themselves.
    The community had one small newspaper called the Moose Creek Junction Chronicle. Lexie figured it wouldn’t be long before one of their reporters caught wind of trouble and came around snooping. And what a story this would be—murder in Moose Creek Junction. The second one in just a little over a year.
    Otis’ sheriff’s car finally appeared, lights flashing and siren screaming, slamming over the curb and coming to a halt on Whitehead’s lawn.
    Lexie rolled her eyes. That man just had to make a dramatic entrance. He was so ridiculously proud of his position as town sheriff, Lexie wondered if he wore his tin star in bed. Probably rolled over on it and cut himself all the time. Maybe that’s why he was so crabby.
    Otis heaved himself from the car and slapped his hat on his head. His pig-like jowels working furiously as he barked at his skinny deputy, Cleve Harris, to call for back up from Westonville. Westonville was about fifty miles away, but it was much larger than Moose Creek Junction and had a decentsized