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looking like a guy who could perform just fine in tearing off Donovan’s head and stuffing it where the sun didn’t shine. Bebe said to Beau, “Remember last month when that fancy-dancy politician from Atlanta rented out the Cove for the weekend for himself and his cronies, then proceeded to lose his shirt?” Bebe patted Donovan’s cheek. “Well, guess what, Detective McCabe here is revenge sent in by the sore-loser politician to settle up the score. Politician loses his money, Ray loses his establishment.”
    Everyone at the bar pulled away from Donovan like the good sisters did earlier. He was now Savannah’s answer to Typhoid Mary.
    Beau said, “You’re here to close down the Cove because some jerk can’t shoot craps?”
    “You mean can’t shoot for crap,” Bebe added. “And that’s shoot as in doing a little target practice, that’s what we’re talking about here. No one’s admitting to any gambling of any sort.”
    Donovan downed his beer. “Good, because shooting craps is illegal in Savannah.”
    “And so is spitting on the sidewalk and jaywalking and double-parking on Whitaker,” Bebe said. “But the police have more important things to tend to around here and I don’t need to be preached to by the likes of you.” Bebe pointed a stiff finger to the doorway. “Take a hike, Yankee boy. And take all your fine advice with you.”
    Except Donovan had no intention of leaving. Bebe Fitzgerald was his partner in this, whether she wanted to be or not. She had no idea the bad guys played by their own set of rules and situations turned deadly in a blink of an eye. He was here to stop the gambling because it was an ugly business that hurt a lot of people and he was not losing another partner to a bad situation. He’d underestimated the enemy once and it was not happening again. Cleveland was the enemy, no matter how many charities he kept afloat or how damn terrific everyone thought he was.
    Donovan stood and tossed some bills on the bar. “I’m hanging around here for a while, so you all might as well get used to it.” He eyed Bebe. “You’re talking to one stubborn Yank.”
    Bebe huffed, “Well, this is the South, Bubba, and stubborn has a whole new meaning here. Fact is, I’d say we’re downright ornery, especially when it comes to protecting our own from outsiders trying to kick up a ruckus for no good reason. And you, Detective McCabe, are aiming to cause one hell of a ruckus. We don’t want any part of it or of you.”

Chapter Two
     
     
    G atsby let out a string of give-me-food meows, Daisy circled Bebe’s bare legs, and Carraway did the Olympic cat leap from fireplace mantel to Bebe’s head as she opened her apartment door. “BrieAnn, it’s six a.m., honey, have you gone and lost your ever-loving mind? You’re never up this early, and neither am I if I can help it.”
    “I believe I have lost my mind and then some. I need to talk to you before you go off to work and did you know you have a cat perched on your head? I swear you’re turning into one of those crazy cat ladies.”
    Brie entered the apartment as Bebe watched a black tail swish in front of her eyes. “They need a home, I have a home. It works for both of us.”
    “Where’d the black one come from?”
    “Souvenir from the morgue. I opened my car door, he decided I was his chauffeur and you were supposed to meet me at four at Magnolia House yesterday, not six this morning. Go bother Beau. Now there’s someone who’d love to be bothered by you at this hour of the morning.”
    Brie slid off her pink leather jacket, fluffed her hair, then searched her purse for spray, and gave her do a blast. BrieAnn Montgomery does perfect Southern belle no matter what time day or night. “I’m not bothering Beau Cleveland, because I don’t know how to bother that man, okay?” She pushed open the French doors to the kitchen, then flipped the lights. Bebe blinked in the brightness while Carraway leapt to the counter. “My Beau’s