Robin Caroll - Framed!

Max stood silently as the reverend said a final prayer over the casket containing Dylan Renault, then the casket was lowered into the grave. Max’s gut knotted.

People weren’t supposed to die so young. And murdered! In Loomis. The third one in a month. Plus, Leah Farley was still missing, although the general consensus was that she was dead as well.

The town fed on gossip and suppositions. FBI agents and investigators had barraged Loomis and set up base in the downtown area. Just two weeks ago, they’d focused on Dylan Renault as a suspect in Angelina Loring’s death. Now he’d been shot and killed. What was the city coming to?

Max headed to his truck, his steps dragging as much as his heart. With everything going on, all the deaths and Dylan Renault’s cryptic dying words, the town hummed with rumors of what was happening. The fact that his and Ava’s mothers continued to feud just added to all the tension.

And Ava Renault sat right in the dead center of it all.

He parked outside his condo, the property his mother owned. At least her condo was across the complex from his. He had to agree with Charla Renault on one thing—his mother had made the complex quite a sight with its baby blue paint and gaudy design. He still couldn’t figure out if his mother really had such bad taste or if she’d done it on purpose just to annoy Charla. Their generations-old feud, fueled by competitive business deals and now the lonely older women with nothing to do but stir up trouble, was never-ending.

Max unlocked the door, tossed his keys onto the buffet in the entry and headed to the kitchen.

“How was the funeral?”

Max startled and then faced his mother. “Why are you here?”

She sat at the dinette table, sipping tea as if she belonged. But she didn’t. This was his home, not hers. Yet she’d never seemed to have gotten the message. “I wanted to know how the funeral went.”

He opened the fridge and poured a glass of orange juice. “You don’t care. You hate Charla Renault.”

“Well, of course I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know who all turned out for the funeral. Anything interesting happen?”

“Mom, I can’t believe you’d stoop so low. I’m not going to gossip about the funeral.” He shook his head.

“Don’t make it sound like I’m some horrible person. Charla Renault would be just as curious if it were your funeral.” She sniffed and stood, taking her teacup to the sink and rinsing it out. “I wonder what the police are thinking now since Dylan was their prime suspect in that poor Angelina’s death.” She tsked.

Max slugged down the rest of the orange juice. “That’s not a very nice attitude, and you know it.”

“But it’s the truth.” She lifted her purse, sarcasm dripping in her words. “I’ve seen you with that Ava Renault several times in the last month or so. I recognize the look she’s giving you. She’s trying to get her claws into you again.”

“We’re working together on the Mother of the Year pageant committee, that’s all.”

Her eyes narrowed for a moment. “Awfully defensive, aren’t you? Maybe you know I’m right.”

Nope, she was wrong. Ava couldn’t get her claws into him again…she’d never retracted them.

Yesterday left scars upon her soul.

Ava hadn’t had such a horrible day since her father died. Not only had she buried her brother, her only sibling, but she’d also been hugged by Max Pershing. Not just physically, but a soul hug. Talk about scars.

Initially, she’d been appalled to find he was her co-chair for the Mother of the Year pageant committee. On uneasy footing, they’d awkwardly stumbled through a couple of weeks of working together. Then, as if the planets were all in alignment, they’d fallen into a comfortable pattern of being together.

It felt an awful lot like old times.

Now, her heart fluttered just thinking about being in his arms again. Had she made a mistake in honoring her mother’s demands for so long? Could Max still have feelings for her, or was she merely misinterpreting his kind condolences yesterday?

“Ms. Ava, Bosworth says Sheriff Reed is here to see Ms. Charla, but she refuses to open her door when I knock.” The maid hovered in the doorway to the dining hall, literally wringing her hands.

Ava stood. “Don’t worry, Bea. I’ll let the sheriff know Mother isn’t feeling well.” She smoothed down her suit pants. “Tell Bosworth to show him into the library and let him know I’ll be along shortly.”

“Would you like me to serve coffee?”

“Please.” Ava smiled as the woman left, then sucked in air. What could the sheriff want? Did they have a lead on Dylan’s killer? Or was he here to try even harder to link Dylan to Angelina Loring’s death? Since her brother was dead, how could they? She straightened her shoulders and headed to the library.

St. Tammany parish’s sheriff, Bradford Reed, stood with his back to the door, facing the marble fireplace. He touched the gold frame on the mantel holding Dylan’s picture. She recalled the manner in which he had focused on Dylan in regards to Angelina’s death. He’d been so wrong. She knew that in her heart. Resentment clawed at her chest. She said a quiet prayer, hoping to grasp a measure of peace.

Ava said “amen” and entered the room. “Sheriff Reed, how may I help you?”

He faced her, a stoic look pasted onto his aging features. “Ava.” His gaze ambled over her shoulder. “Where’s Charla?”

“Mother isn’t feeling well today, Sheriff.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Would you care to have a seat?”

Dropping to the sofa, he nodded as she sat in the high-back chair diagonal from him. “Well, I appreciate you seeing me.”

After the way he’d treated her brother, she had to stretch to put on politeness. “But of course.” She picked imaginary lint from her pants as she fought to remain poised, the urge to ask why he was here nearly suffocating her. But she wouldn’t. It wasn’t deemed proper hostess behavior.

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your brother, if I may.”

“Certainly.” More questions, but no answers. After burying Dylan yesterday, she’d hoped for at least some promising news.

“Good.” Sheriff Reed pulled out a notebook and pencil. “First, what can you tell me about the relationship your brother had with Angelina Loring?”

So much for hoping. Ava shifted in her seat. “Didn’t you cover all of this when you centered your attention on him as a suspect in her death?”

A little tic by his eye was the only visible reaction. “We just have to check every angle, every clue.”

“Then, as I told you before, they went out socially together some, but it wasn’t a serious relationship by any means.” She paused, recalling how Angelina seemed to cling to Dylan as hard as she could. “Well, it might’ve been for Angelina, but Dylan never got serious in any relationship.” Ava tilted her head. “Do y’all now think the murders are related?” Were they finally realizing Dylan had nothing to do with Angelina’s death? His death had to have them scrambling for answers. Unraveling their loosely knit theory.

Dylan was dead. Correction, murdered.

“We’re just looking at any and all possible connections.”

“But she was found dead in the swamp, and Dylan was shot in the back. Do you think they’re related?”

Sheriff Reed fingered the edge of his notebook with calloused hands.

“Angelina was shot in the back, too, wasn’t she?” She refused to give in to the urge to glare at him. No wonder they’d searched the mansion when they’d convinced themselves Dylan had killed Angelina. But they would’ve never found a gun—there wasn’t a firearm in the house. Not since her father had died and all his hunting shotguns had been destroyed.