Chapter 1

On his way into town from the Shackum Up Inn, Hunter watched the sunrise through a cotton field, and droplets  of dew shone on the puffy white pods like diamonds. Next, the cathead biscuits at Levenia’s diner were spectacular; slathered with butter and homemade jam, they melted in his mouth. Then, Zita’s smiling face greeted him when he walked into his office. Sniffing, he savored the aroma of hazelnut coffee brewing in the percolator. Zita must have turned on the pot when she saw him pull into his parking spot.  

Zita strolled into Hunter’s office iPad in her right hand and ready to go over their itinerary for the week. She liked using the tablet to take notes, but Hunter preferred pencil and paper. When he was offered one for work, he politely refused.

 Hunter poured himself a cup of coffee and breathed in the aroma. He flashed Zita a smile as he sat in his chair behind his desk and leaned back. 

“You look perky today, Hunter. Did your day start out right?”

Hunter nodded. “It did. For once, it seems like everything fits into its proper place. How about you?” The ring of his desk phone interrupted the conversation.

As the phone rang, the name Richard Grimes and the area code, New York, flashed across the digital screen. He pressed the speaker button and said, “Hello, Rich…” before Richard blurted out, “I don’t know if this is good news or bad for you, but I’ve decided not to return to Cleveland. I’ve had a taste of a different world, and I like it. I’m going to law school and become an attorney.”

            Aware of how this would affect him, Hunter’s grip on the armrest of his chair tightened. He saw Zita’s eyes widen when he replied, “Your family’s not going to like that, Rich.”

 “Nope, they don’t. Mamma cried when I told her. I’ve already caught Hell for not conforming to family tradition, but I have to follow my heart. You can’t do a good job anyhow if you don’t like what you’re doing.” 

Hunter watched Zita go slack in her chair, almost dropping her iPad. Richard cleared his throat over the phone. “Speaking of that, they might not want me back anyway. You’re doing a great job. If you decide to stay in Cleveland as sheriff, without me in the race, I doubt that you’ll have any competition.”

 A pregnant pause followed, and Hunter gasped. He willed himself not to slam the phone against the wall. He wasn’t ready for this. He was at a loss because he didn’t know the answer. He stammered, trying not to let the anger creep into his voice. “Well, Richard, I, er, I don’t know. This comes as a surprise. You know, the Goldie Parsons case got a lot–I mean a lot–of publicity. I’ve had offers for jobs from Atlanta, Mobile, and New Orleans. On the other hand, Cleveland didn’t turn out to be the peaceful burg I expected.”

 “Ah, yeah, but Hunter, you had its biggest case ever fall into your lap. What a fluke! Maybe you were meant to be there to solve it, the only one who had the skills to do so. Nothing like human remains washing up on the riverbank ever happened before, so it’s unlikely that it will again. Hells bells! Issuing parking tickets, and containing domestic disturbances are usually Cleveland’s biggest deals. Going to the liquor store and watching people bang on the door after closing time is our citizens’ most exciting entertainment. Things have calmed down. You should stay and enjoy it.”

 Hunter took Richard’s advice and remained in Cleveland. Given the circumstances and the nagging curiosity at the back of his mind about Zita and Shannon, he ran for sheriff and the elections came and went with no competition. It was as if he’d simply moved from one season of life into the next. 

                                                *          *          *

 “Hunter, a change is in order. You know what you have to do, right?” Zita told him when he walked into the office the day after the votes were tallied from November 6th and he had an easy win since he was the only one running for the sheriff’s position. “You can’t stay at the Shackum Up Inn,” she said. “Now that you’ll be here a while, you need place of your own in town.” 

 “Zita,” Hunter grimaced. “I do not want to house hunt, I hate it and moving.”

            “No worries!” she smiled. “I will find the perfect place for you!” 

 A part of Hunter felt like this might be a bad idea, but his stomach churned at the thought of dealing with real estate agents and financing. “Okay,” he agreed, “let’s see what you can do.” Zita’s grin made him cringe.

In a matter of weeks, Zita found him a second-floor loft of a converted grocery store only two blocks from the office.   “Hunter, you will love it!” she bragged. Her eyes lit up like a campfire on a dark night. “These loft apartments downtown are so interesting and I found a perfect one for you. The owner occupies the downstairs as his home and workshop, and he converted the second floor into a nice apartment. The rent is reasonable, too. The owner is out of town right now, but I have the key.” She held it up. “He told me to go ahead and show it to you. He is a huge blues’ fan; better yet, he’s enthralled with us and the whole Goldie Parsons thing.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, I can’t wait for you to see it. Let’s walk over there.”

 Zita led the way out the office door. It creaked as Hunter pulled it closed behind him.  He took a momentary glance towards his patrol car parked on the street. 

   “Zita, wait. What is that stuff all over my car?” 

 Zita didn’t see it at first. “What stuff? Oh, it’s just dust…wait. No way! It can’t be.” 

  Hunter was confused, “Can’t be what?” 

 He walked over to see large puffs of dust on the doors of his typically spotless patrol car. “It looks like it was put there intentionally, but what is it?” He started to run his finger through it.

            “Stop, Hunter, don’t touch it. Best to take your car down to the carwash when we are done and get it cleaned again. You made someone mad, I think. It might be Voodoo powder.”

   “You have to be kidding! Voodoo powder?”  

 “Oh yes, the story goes that if you touch it, you will go crazy and die. Notice how much is on the door handles? No telling what it is made of. Could also be a prank, but best not to take chances.” Her brow turned into furrows. 

 Hunter sighed. “Things are already crazy enough. Okay, let’s go look at the place. Nothing is damaged here; we need a walk, I think.” 

 Zita was right, the apartment was an easy walk from the office. It was cool under the magnificent oak trees lining the sidewalk that led to the converted grocery store, one of many once owned by Chinese immigrants in the Delta. The owner kept the front of the building looking like it did sixty years ago when it was Joe Wang’s Market. Even the original phone booth by the former front door of the business still stood in its place. Hunter checked and he heard a dial tone when he picked up the receiver.

He approached the wide, gray steps that ran along the side of the building to the second-floor apartment. Just outside the door a small porch had a roof to keep off the rain. It also provides a good way to see what is going on outside the door without being obvious, thought Hunter. 

Zita picked up pace, bounding up the stairs, wood creaking on every step. He watched her in admiration, grateful to have someone to help him take care of these sorts of things. He was a few steps behind her when something moving caught the corner of his eye. The black animal scurried off before he could identify it. 

“Hunter! This place is great!” Zita called from inside the apartment, holding the door open for him to enter. His attention was drawn back to the excitement in Zita’s eyes. She had the prettiest eyes.

She was right. When Hunter entered the solid wooden door engraved with various birds, he felt comfortable in the large, open living room. It would be suitable for entertaining.

That is an impressive design on the door! It’s very artistic.

Hunter was ready to invite friends over to his home again. It was time for the next step in recovering from the hard times he experienced in Texas. He couldn’t entertain at the Shackum Up Inn since it was just a one room row house. He’d have space, plus, he’d become accepted as more of a permanent resident now. Since the Goldie Parson’s case, people greeted him in the street with a handshake, nod of the head, or a wave from their cars. The positive attention was both strange and pleasant. 

“Hunter, this place is huge!” Zita remarked as she strolled around.  The front door opened into the living room to the right and a large, industrial kitchen to the left. 

“Zita,” he called out, “isn’t that an Erik cooking range with double ovens? That’s an extra-wide Erik fridge, too. Like the ones they make in Greenwood, Mississippi.” Hunter pulled open one of the large ovens to see a setup for a rotisserie rack inside. His thoughts turned to the pulled pork and BBQ sauce he could make and how evenly his homemade Texas cheese bread would come out in the second oven. He looked around to see the Erik emblem on the over-the-range microwave and the dishwasher. It was a dream kitchen.

Hunter’s eyes then followed the large beams that hovered over the kitchen and the vaulted ceiling covering the entire space. The twelve feet tall walls caused his footsteps to echo as he walked around the area in his solid heeled boots. The main corridor of the room led to two large bedrooms beyond the kitchen and living room: one on the left and one on the right. The room on the left had a plain bathroom, all white tile, even the countertops, but it had two doors. One door opened to the living room and kitchen and the other door offered access from the bedroom. The larger bedroom on the right had a smaller, private bathroom. Perfect for me, thought Hunter.

Beyond the bedrooms were two wide double doors, obviously leftover from the grocery store days. With arms like whips, Hunter pushed one open to see the spacious warehouse beyond. Motion detector lights automatically flickered on, flooding the space with light. Hunter saw huge canvases of all shapes and sizes and odd bits of material from tractors and cars. He wondered how such large pieces made it into the space until he spotted the old elevator lift located in the back corner and another set of large double doors leading to a backstairs exit. 

“Zita, what exactly does the owner of this building do for a living?” Hunter asked.

“Oh, you will love him. He is an internationally known artist, Victor Von Horst, but we all call him ‘V.’ It’s his trademark. This must be where he stores his materials for his creations. Fascinating!” She cocked her head. “Well, what do you think?” 

A gourmet cook, starving to create again, Hunter thought of the Erik stove and didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he nodded. “I like

it. I will take it.”

“Yea!” Embracing her boss, she kissed him on the cheek.

Hunter couldn’t deny he liked the warmth of her lips. He turned his head to hide the smile she brought to his face.

 Within a week, Hunter received the lease agreement from V’s Memphis lawyer, who noted V was installing one of his pieces in New York, signed the necessary papers and mailed them back.

 When he moved out of his room at the Shackum Up Inn, he didn’t have many possessions. He filled the back seat of the police car with his clothes, shoved his laptop amongst them to keep it safe. Next to it he put a bundle of folders full of notes about his last case in Dallas. He also packed the trunk carefully with his collection of boots. The hat boxes, containing his Stetson, Justin, and Resistol hats, were laid in the front passenger seat.

On a second trip, he loaded his car with treasured family items he brought from Texas: his parents’ wedding china, a set of everyday dishes, and a box of drinking glasses decorated with large gold stars, all were taken from his mother’s house when she passed. He included several place settings of sterling silver given to him by his mother; one set she’d received as a wedding gift, and the other she’d bought for Hunter when he found the right woman to marry. They’d never been removed from the flannel wrapping. 

As he closed the passenger door of the car, he took one last look at his home for the past year, the Pink Palace, a converted rickety old one room shack. He was moving up in this small town in Cleveland, Mississippi. He stopped by the Delta Diner to say goodbye to Levenia. “Now that I have a kitchen,” he said, “I’ll probably be cooking my own breakfast a lot of the time, but I promise to continue to be a customer. See you soon.” 

Levenia assured him it was no problem saying, “I’m happy for you. You’re welcome back anytime.”

 Hunter made the short trip back to his new apartment and was surprised by a large box that rested at the bottom of the steps. It’s here!

 As a Texan wanting to stay with western decor, as soon as he signed the lease, he bought a deer head by the famous taxidermist, Mel Sturgess. He parked the car, leaped out, and peeled open the box to see the glassy eyes of a six-point buck staring back at him. Leaving the remainder of his belongings in the car, Hunter carried the deer head up the stairs and through the door. In short order, using a hammer and mounting kit he found in the adjoining warehouse, he placed the deer head in the center of the main wall in the living room, facing his brown leather lounge chair that arrived the day before. 

 Hunter then did something he was not able to do since he left in shame from Dallas, Texas and arrived in Cleveland. He sat down in the lounge chair and felt the stuffing mold to his body. Flipping out the footrest and easing the chair back, he fell asleep in moments. 

                                                                 *         *          *

Within days Hunter’s apartment filled with various items: Zita bought him a boot-shaped lamp she found at a yard sale. His deputies chipped in to buy him a set of wine glasses engraved with his initials, H H. Deputy Chan brought him a small CD player and a collection of CD’s: Best Blues Hits from the Mississippi Delta, which included Goldie Parson’s song. His big surprise was a gift from Shannon–a woolen throw with ducks and deer figures on a dark brown background. Her message said, Stay warm. My love. Shannon.

Hunter also received his strangest gift from his newest deputy, Carlton Newman. Mayor Willis, who was also re-

elected, called him the day after the election, speaking on behalf of Carlton. “Sheriff,” said the mayor, “Can you give him a job in your office on a trial basis? I will understand if it doesn’t work out, but the kid is crazy smart. I know his social skills need some work, but if someone will just give him a chance, I think he’ll come around.” When Carlton gave him a box of bow ties as a housewarming gift, Hunter faked a smile and was reminded of what he signed up for. 

One of the larger items Hunter needed appeared one morning as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink. Through the window sporting burlap curtains with red checkered trim— another yard sale find from Zita that she bragged about—he spotted the rustic brown leather sofa he ordered in the back of a delivery truck headed down the street towards his apartment. He pulled on his boots, rushed out the door, and down the stairs, and waved at the driver as he turned onto the street. He directed them to the rear of the building to the old loading elevator.

 The truck backed up to the building and as he walked to the back entrance, he noticed two delivery boxes by the front door of the first floor apartment. V must be coming home soon, He thought. Hunter opened the loading dock doors, lowered the freight elevator, then helped the delivery men load the couch onto its wooden flatbed. 

Everyone jumped as a black streak of fur darted under the couch as it lifted off the ground to the second floor. “Damn! I knew there was a cat!”  Hunter bent over to stare under the couch. Two bright green eyes glared back at him. “I saw it hanging around before. I’ll get rid of it. Here, Kitty, Kitty,” he called out but a hiss was the only response.

“Whew! He was fast!” stated one of the delivery men. “Catching that one won’t be easy.” When they got to the top and the elevator stopped, the black kitten scrambled off the freight elevator and into the warehouse before they could catch it. Fluffy with thick black fur and a white-tipped nose and paws, like a tuxedo, the cat was lost amongst the various art items before Hunter could determine anything else about it. As it dashed between the art canvases, he yelled, “If you think you’re coming into my new house, cat, you’re wrong!”  “Hey man, we have another delivery. We don’t have time to chase your cat,” said the other delivery man. 

“It’s not my cat!” Hunter replied as he tried to see where the kitten scampered. Pushing the thoughts of the cat to the side, he guided the men into his apartment. In short order, the new couch was placed against the wall under the designer deer head, and the delivery men were promptly tipped. 

Hunter pointed to the cat that had sneaked past them into the apartment. “Shoo!” he yelled at it. His command went unheeded.

“Good luck with the cat! That rascal seems determined!” said one of the men as they loaded into the truck and drove away.

Hunter could swear he heard the kitten hiss again as he walked back into his apartment to call Zita for advice. He was not a cat person; he would choose a red tick coonhound over a puff ball of a cat any day. He was at a loss of what to do. 

A call to Zita’s number found her unavailable, so he sent her a text. Cat got into the warehouse. Need help getting him out.  

An unexpected shuffle of noise caused Hunter to glance up and reach for the rifle he kept behind the front door. To his surprise, he saw the black and white kitten sitting calmly on his lounge chair, watching his every move. The ball of fluff eyed him while scratching the leather footrest.

“Get out of my chair!” Hunter swatted at the creature causing it to scamper across the beige carpet and crouched in a corner in a defense mode, hissing and meowing, daring him to come nearer. Not intimidated, Hunter tried to grab it by the nape of its neck. The cat got revenge. It ended up clawing deeply as it ran up his outreached arm, vaulted through the air and, to the surprise of both Hunter and the kitten, landed on the newly installed deer head hanging on the wall.  

Hunter snarled at the kitten through gritted teeth. “Just wait till I get my hands on you; I’ll get my broom and get you out of here and then I’m going to take you to the city pound.”    When Hunter returned with the broom, the kitten had managed to get down from its perch. He found it curled up in the corner of the new couch on the blanket Shannon had given him. The fire-eater he’d just dealt with now looked weak and helpless. 

The kitten didn’t resist when Hunter gathered it into his arms with the protection of a large towel he’d retrieved from the bathroom. He cringed when one of the skinny creature’s fleas bit his hand. He scratched its ears as it hissed once more, but then rested its head in the crook of Hunter’s arm. “Poor little fellow. Looks like you’re sick. I’m going to take you to the vet and see what’s wrong. They’ll fix you up. But don’t get too comfortable. You’re not going to stay here. I don’t have time for a pet. Maybe the vet can find you a good home.”

Hunter sent a text to Zita, updating her on the situation. The cat is sick. Taking it to the vet. 

She texted him back, Good idea.

Like everything else in Cleveland, the vet’s office was an easy two block drive from his apartment. He kept telling the vet’s assistant he wanted to just drop it off and let them find it a home, but no one listened. Hunter found himself in a room in the back, the cat still wrapped up in a towel waiting for the vet to arrive. 

Minutes later the vet came in, a sweet, bubbly young woman with purple hair, and Hunter learned the kitten was about ten weeks old, increasingly vocal as he worked up the strength to squirm and hiss and, according to the vet, a male. As it turned out, nobody wanted a sick cat, or even one Hunter had spent $300.00 on for treatment and antibiotics. He even got on the list to have the kitten neutered in two weeks. 

Hunter took the black bundle back to his apartment and left him curled up on the bathroom rug to go shopping. He soon returned home with a litter box, a forty-pound bag of litter and a variety of cat food. The vet said it was important for the kitten to put on weight. Hunter discovered the cat ate the food it liked, the most expensive brands, and turned up its nose at other food, the least expensive ones. The same was true with litter. It only used the litter box if the litter in it met his approval, otherwise an “accident” happened in Hunter’s bathroom. 

  The fearless kitten strolled across the countertops and the kitchen table at its leisure and escaped every time Hunter tried to chase it out of the bedroom. One day, it ran into the bathroom and licked the nurdle Hunter had just put on his toothbrush, the mint flavor causing the kitten’s little nose to wrinkle. He chased it back into the bedroom and it hopped onto his pillow with an innocent “Meow.” The pitiful cry caused Hunter’s anger to subside, but the kitten didn’t let Hunter come close. It still scampered away when he approached. Although the fluffy boy refused to be petted, he would appear right beside

Hunter’s head on the bed when he awoke in the mornings. 

Hunter made an announcement to Zita one day while she was at his place, the kitten curled beside her. “I finally have a name for that damned cat,” he said. “It’s King. He rules my domain, so he may as well get the title.”

Zita leaned back and chuckled. “It fits. Yep. Maybe you should call him King George, III. It suits a tyrant in charge. You picked a good one for this pet. Ha, people around here will think he’s named for B. B. King.” 

Hunter pointed to King as the cat stretched out on the couch. “He’s aware we’re talking about him, but he’s too comfortable to care.”

“If people want to think he’s named for B. B. King, let them. B. B. was a powerful figure as a blues singer. Bet he was in charge of lots of things, too. Yeah, like this King, B. B. ruled his domain.”

“Guess what, Hunter? Maybe you’re lucky King even lets you live in his house.” Zita laughed while scratching the cat behind its ear.

Hunter had to laugh, too. “Come to think of it, I didn’t even choose that cat; it chose me. Wrong order. Doesn’t that damn animal realize I am the highest-ranking police official in thiscounty?”

 Zita shrugged. “I reckon not. Just how do you plan to enforce your authority?”

He didn’t even try to answer that question