"Well, I'm not sure your … small-town jewelry expertise is completely up to snuff," he said in a voice dripping with amused condescension so thick I could almost see it. "I didn't pay anywhere near that. It's probably worth about ten grand. Why don't you give me that, and we'll call it a day?"
I blinked. And then, when he looked down at the ring, I quickly glanced up at my in-shop cameras to be sure they were operating. I didn't want to deal with any funny stuff he might plan to pull. I couldn't imagine what that might be, but still. This was not starting out on a basis I was comfortable with.
"Cletus. Mr. McKee."
His head snapped up when I used his last name.
"I'm sorry. Maybe you're right."
He wasn't right.
"Maybe it's not worth as much as I think."
It was worth exactly as much as I thought, and probably even more.
"But I can't, in good conscience, take this ring for less than it's worth. Let alone a figure so dramatically beneath what youcould get at any upscale jeweler or even on the online auction sites."
He snatched the ring off the counter, stuffed it into the box, and jammed it into his pocket. "I tried that. Don't you think I tried that? They were all over me with 'provenance this' and 'investigate that.' I don't have provenance! I bought it at a pawnshop!"
Now it was my turn to narrow my eyes. "Nevertheless, I can't buy this. I'm sorry."
"What am I supposed to do now?" he muttered, but he was turning away from the counter, so I figured he was talking to himself more than to me.
"I'm sorry," I repeated.
He whirled around and pointed at me. "I thought I could count on your small-town shop to do a favor for a Dead Ender, even if I don't live here anymore. Jeremiah would be ashamed of you."
Fury sent blood rushing into my face. "Oh, no, he wouldn't. Jeremiah Shepherd, may he rest in peace, is the one who taught me to work with integrity. How dare you bring him into this like that? Is there something hinky about that piece that you're trying to hide? Figured a barely educated woman in a small-town shop would let you get away with whatever you're trying to pull here?"
I could hear my voice rising, but I was too mad to care. "I want you to leave my shop. Now. And don't come back."
"Happily," he snarled and stomped away.
But before he could open the door, it swung open, and Bubba McKee walked into the shop, trailed by six of his cousins. Five guys and Lola.
Lola was the mean one.
"We thought that was your car, you no-good weasel!" Bubba shouted.
And then they all piled on Cletus, curses and threats booming and fists flying.
I got out my shotgun.
When the sheriff arrived ten minutes later, the seven male McKees were lined up on my porch, glowering at each other and hissing threats.
Lola was inside, looking at jewelry.
Susan and Deputy Andy Kelly climbed out of the sheriff's car, and both of them shook their heads.
"You know, it was peaceful around here when you were gone on your honeymoon," Susan said when she reached the porch.
I had to laugh. "Right. Like it's my fault. Like any force on the planet could control a bushel of McKees out for trouble."
Sheriff Susan Gonzales was slim, gorgeous, and tough. A cross between Jenna Ortega and Rambo. Deputy Kelly, a few inches shorter than her and with blazing red hair and an intense crop of freckles, was just as tough.
They were also both my friends.
I filled them in on the altercation.
