A Ruler in Disguise novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Twenty Minutes

One phone call from the delivery boy frees them both, Clover refuses the family's confession deal in public, and an eviction notice is taped to her shop door.

They put us in the same holding room at the Chatham County sheriff's office.

It had a steel bench, a floor drain, and a camera in the corner.

The deputy at the desk read my name off a form without looking up.

"Broadnax, Clover. Theft of jewelry, value over eleven thousand dollars."

My hands were shaking, so I sat on them.

Dev sat on the other end of the bench with his cap still on.

He did not look scared.

He looked like a man waiting for a bus he already knew was coming.

"Why did you say it was Weston?" I asked.

"Because it was."

"You could have kept quiet. Now you're an accomplice."

"I would have been one anyway."

He said it without any heat, and that bothered me more than shouting would have.

"I'll tell them I hired you this morning," I said. "That you don't know anything."

"Don't," he said. "Tell them the truth."

"Which is what?"

"That a man put a necklace in your van and you didn't know."

The deputy at the desk called out, "One phone call each."

I called Dina and got her voicemail and said, "Don't open the shop tomorrow, I'll explain."

Dev was handed the desk phone next.

He dialed from memory, eleven digits, with no pause between them.

He turned his back to me and spoke in a low, flat voice.

I heard only pieces.

"Colonel. Savannah. Chatham County sheriff's office."

A short silence.

"No. Not yet. Just the call."

He hung up and handed the receiver back to the deputy.

"Who was that?" I said.

"A woman who owes me a favor."

"You work in a flower van and you know a colonel?"

"I know a lot of people," Dev said. "None of them like flowers."

I almost laughed, which was stupid, because I was in handcuffs.

Eighteen minutes later the door at the end of the hall opened.

A heavy man in a sheriff's uniform came in, red in the face, with a phone pressed to his ear.

He was saying, "Yes, sir. Yes, I understand. Immediately."

He lowered the phone and looked at the deputy, not at us.

"Uncuff them."

"Sheriff, the Harlows signed the complaint."

"Uncuff them now. Both of them."

The deputy did it, bewildered.

The sheriff did not meet my eyes.

He kept glancing at Dev, who stared back and said nothing at all.

"The charges are withdrawn," the sheriff muttered. "A clerical issue. You're free to go, miss. Sir."

He said "sir" like it hurt him.

I rubbed my wrists and followed Dev down the hall.

"What did you do?" I whispered.

"I made a phone call."

"The sheriff called you sir."

"People are polite at night."

We came out into the lobby, and Marguerite Harlow was waiting there.

Weston stood beside her with a bored face and a lawyer in a grey suit.

The lawyer stepped forward with a paper and a pen.

"Miss Broadnax. The family is prepared to be generous."

"Generous," I said.

"You sign a statement admitting you took the necklace and returned it under pressure.

"The family declines to pursue it.

"Five thousand dollars for your trouble."

"And my invoice?"

"The invoice is voided. The flowers were substandard."

I looked at the paper.

Behind the lawyer, Weston was smiling at his phone.

Marguerite had not looked at me once.

"Say it so I can hear it," I said. "Say what you want me to say."

The lawyer cleared his throat.

"That you stole the pearls."

The lobby had maybe a dozen people in it, deputies, a couple of reporters from the gala, a woman waiting to post bail.

They were all listening.

I took the pen from his hand and snapped it in half.

"I did not steal anything," I said, loud enough to carry.

"Your client put them in my van.

"I have thirty-eight thousand dollars of flowers on that lawn, and I want it paid by Friday."

Marguerite finally turned her head.

Her eyes were the color of cold tea.

"You are a florist from Bull Street," she said. "Nobody will ever take your word over mine."

"Then I guess you'd better hope nobody asks."

I walked past her, and Dev fell in behind me.

At my shop on Bull Street, the streetlight showed a white paper taped to the glass door.

NOTICE OF TERMINATION OF LEASE. HARLOW HOLDINGS LLC.

Forty-eight hours, it said, to vacate by Saturday.

Dina's handwriting was on a sticky note under it.

"Clo, what did you DO?"

I stood there reading it for a long time.

Then Dev reached past me, peeled the notice off the glass, and folded it into his vest pocket next to Weston's twenty dollars.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"Keeping them," he said. "Somebody will want to see them later."

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