Shotgun Wedding (Kenni Lowry Mystery Book 12) by Tonya Kappes

Author:Tonya Kappes [Kappes, Tonya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tonya Kappes Books
Published: 2026-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The second he heard the department door open, Duke lifted his head from his bed near my desk. His tail thumped twice against the floor. Then, he stood up, stretched languidly, and ambled over, nose twitching.

Bartleby Fry’s cooking always had that effect on him.

Betty Murphy stood at her desk, her purse hooked over her elbow. Her cardigan was folded neatly over the back of her chair, as if she planned to return to that spot tomorrow and the day after, same as always. She glanced up over her reading glasses when she saw me.

“Well,” she said with a soft smile, “you look like you’ve had a day.”

“That obvious?” I asked, setting my keys down and reaching for the whiteboard markers.

Betty hummed. “It’s in your shoulders. You’ve got them pulled up around your ears.” She patted her purse once. “Finn called to say he’s on his way back from Clay’s Ferry.”

“Good,” I said.

She held my gaze for a moment, giving me that steady, older-sister look she wore when she was trying to say something without making it a bigger deal than it needed to be. “And Kenni?” she added.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m real glad you’re married now,” she said. No fuss, no extra words. “Doesn’t mean you won’t still carry the weight. Just means you don’t have to carry it alone.”

My throat tightened. I nodded once, keeping my hands busy with the markers so she wouldn’t notice. “Drive safe,” I managed.

Betty bent down and gave Duke one last scratch behind the ears. Then she adjusted her glasses and slipped out through the kitchen door, leaving the department quieter without her steady presence.

I turned to the whiteboard.

It still held the faint outlines of last night’s rushed notes—smudged arrows, half-erased names, lines drawn too quickly to mean anything now. I wiped it clean and started over, slower this time.

In bold block letters at the top, I wrote MISS TILDA BOONE.

Below it, I listed only what we knew—no guesses, no wishful thinking, just the facts.

Tea kettle.

Sodium bicarbonate.

Heart condition.

Timeframe.

Letters hidden in cedar chest.

Student letters.

John Veil.

Camille Shively.

Church records.

Duke flopped back down with a grunt, chin on his paws, watching me like it was his favorite show.

The back door creaked open, and Bartleby Fry stuck his head in. His apron, once white, was now permanently seasoned with years of work and fryer oil and hung crookedly at his waist. “You feeding your deputy tonight?” he asked, nodding toward Duke.

“I was hoping to feed myself,” I said, “and Finn, when he gets back.”

Bartleby grinned. “Good. I got catfish just coming up, hushpuppies hot, and I made extra slaw ’cause your mama ain’t been in today to critique it.”

“That alone makes it worth it.”

He leaned against the doorframe, his voice dropping a notch. “Town’s talking, you know.”

“I figured.”

“Couple of kids from the high school were in earlier,” he said. “Delivery types. Groceries, prescriptions, that sorta thing. Didn’t have much nice to say about Miss Tilda. Called her an old bat. Said she never tipped.”

My marker paused midair. “Names?”

He shook his head.

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