Did every single person at the Fin and Feather have a reason to want Graham dead? It sure seemed that way. And with so many motives, how would Anarchy catch the killer?

Chapter Five

Anarchy and I skipped lunch. He wasn’t hungry (one of Misty’s staff spent the morning slipping him cinnamon rolls). And I couldn’t eat. Not with the memory of Graham in a pool of blood. Not with wondering who among our friends had killed him.

Instead of tucking into chicken-salad sandwiches, homemade potato chips and fresh cut watermelon, we went in search of Tommy Dodson, the one person who’d failed to show up for Anarchy’s questions. Merit claimed he was under the weather. Anarchy didn’t consider a headache a good enough reason to duck out of assisting a murder investigation.

So, here we stood on the cabin’s front porch. “Tommy?” I used a this-is-a-social-call voice and knocked on the door.

No one responded.

I shot Anarchy a concerned glance and knocked harder. “Tommy, it’s Ellison.”

Still no response.

“This isn’t like him.” The day had heated like a—well, like a day in July, and perspiration trickled down my back and my feet sweat in my cowboy boots. I tightened my fist, ready to bang on the darned door until Tommy welcomed us into the air-conditioning.

Anarchy reached past me and turned the handle.

“Oh. That was easy.”

Together, we stepped into the cabin. The curtains were drawn, and the tiny room was dark and stuffy. There were clothes strewn over the chairs, dirty glasses in the sink, and an open suitcase on the floor. The place stank of sour sweat and gin, and I wrinkled my nose. “Tommy?”

The man on the bunk bed didn’t move.

The single bunk bed.

Merit and Tommy hadn’t slept in the same bed.

Suddenly the loud air-conditioner in our cabin didn’t seem so awful, not if it meant going to sleep and waking up in Anarchy’s arms.

“Dodson.” Anarchy’s voice held a no-nonsense edge.

“Is he dead?” Because finding two bodies in one day—well, if Mother ever found out, I’d never hear the end of it. Also, I’d be genuinely sad. I liked Tommy. Everyone did. They liked him well enough to tolerate Merit. And it took a lot to tolerate Merit.

Anarchy felt for a pulse. “Not dead."

Thank heavens.

As if to prove Anarchy’s point, Tommy groaned.

“What’s wrong with him?” Had he been poisoned?

“According to everyone, he drank himself stupid.”

“Libba and Charlie said he had a few. But this?” There had to be a problem, because adults didn’t drink themselves into oblivion unless they were facing difficulties.

Tommy passed gas, loudly, and the smell in the cabin grew exponentially worse.

“Ugh.” I propped open the front door and waved the cool air outside. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“I do.”