“Like I said, Bruce completely freaked and he got it in his head that he was going to get blamed for the murder even though he had nothing to do with it. So he grabbed the crowbar and brought it home. Then he called me.”

“Whose idea was it to hide the crowbar under the house?”

He hung his head and refused to look at me. “It was mine. Bruce wanted to throw it into the river, but I convinced him to keep it.”

“Why?”

“I thought he could use it to prove who the real killer was.”

I shook my head in confusion. “How were you goin’ to do that?”

“How should I know? We just planned on usin’ it as insurance.”

Look what good that did. But beating that fact into David’s head wasn’t going to solve anything. “Did Bruce hear anything while the killer and Frank Mitchell were arguing?”

“Yeah, Frank was shouting that he’d told the guy a million times he was never gonna sell. And the guy told Frank that he was gonna get what was owed to him.”

“I thought you were going to wait in the car,” Joe said behind me.

I jumped and spun around and clasped my hand to my chest. Way to not look guilty. “Oh, my word! You scared me!”

Joe balanced two bags of groceries in his arms. He had his cop face on, the one that told me he suspected I was up to no good. “I can see that. Care to introduce me?”

“Uh…” I looked from Joe to David, who gaped, wide-eyed. “Joe, this is David, and David, this is Joe Simmons. My boyfriend. A state policeman.”

David’s face paled and his hands shook before he took off running for the Piggly Wiggly entrance.

Joe titled his head. “What just happened there?”

“David’s a nervous guy.”

“So it would seem. I meant with the two of you. You seemed to be deep in conversation.”

I grabbed his arm and steered him toward the car. “David? We were just catching up. Did you get what you needed? I’m starving.”

Joe looked over his shoulder at the grocery store entrance. “Are you sure everything’s all right with that guy?”

“Yeah, oh yeah.” I waved my hand. “He was nervous because you’re a cop.”

“Why on earth did you tell him that?”

I unlocked the car and Joe put the groceries in the backseat.

“Because David doesn’t exactly trust law enforcement officers, and if he found out that I hadn’t told him, he might never speak to me again.”

“And how exactly do you know him?”

“Church. I know him from church. God bless ’im.” I tried to ignore the guilt that rushed in from lying to Joe. I swore I wasn’t going to do it and yet the lie just fell out of my mouth.

“Huh.”

Joe obviously didn’t believe me, but he didn’t press it either. Instead we drove home while he told me everything he was going to cook over the weekend. Crepes for breakfast. Chicken Parmesan for dinner on Saturday.

“Where in the world did you learn to cook?”

His smile fell. “Our housekeeper.”

“Your housekeeper?” I leaned closer, curious. Joe had hardly told me anything about his family or growing up, usually changing the subject whenever I asked. I wasn’t going to let him get away with it this time. “You had a housekeeper when you were a kid?”

He shrugged. “It was no big deal. Everyone in the South has someone clean their house.”

“We didn’t.”

Joe smirked. “No offense, but your mother was hardly the average Southern woman.”

The Southern tradition of having a cleaning lady was usually reserved for bigger houses and working women. Definitely not the people in my neighborhood. Joe had to have been raised with money if his housekeeper cooked fancy food. “From what I hear, housekeepers don’t cook.”

“Well, ours did and she was good. I loved to hang out in the kitchen with her while she worked. She taught me everything I know.”

The way his voice softened, it was apparent he had felt close to her. “You said your parents live in El Dorado?”

“Yeah.” His back stiffened. I’d delved into territory he didn’t want to discuss. But there was little doubt there were families with money and influence in El Dorado. Oil money. I decided to back off. For now.

“Well lucky for me your housekeeper taught you some delicious recipes. You know I can cook, but just home cooking stuff. Nothing fancy.”

He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I love your cooking.”

I had to admit that I liked someone cooking for me for a change, but it was only fair if I did my share. “Tell you what. On Sunday, I’ll make fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. Homemade biscuits even.”

He shot me a wicked grin “I say we move fried chicken to Saturday. And I’ll have the rest of the weekend to work off all those calories.”

I rolled my eyes. Did he ever think of anything else? But then again, now that he’d introduced me to it, I thought about it a lot too.

When we got home, Joe suggested I take a shower to wash away the grime of the jail cell while he made dinner. I emerged ten minutes later with towel-dried hair, wearing a pair of shorts and a spaghetti-strapped shirt.

Joe watched me for several seconds. “Perfect timing, I just finished.”

A plate of sandwiches sat in the middle of the table. I put a hand on my hip. “What’s this? Just fifteen minutes ago, you were beratin’ me for eating turkey sandwiches.”