Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [103]
“That’s what you get for making me feel guilty.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Still grumbling, Andrew disappeared onto the stage behind the slide steel guitar.
People streamed in and filled up the seating area.
Dawson had his crowd. Jazinski. Robo-Barbie. My dad’s best buddy, Dean Whittaker. A couple of the guards from the jail. Business owners like Pete. Mitzi. Larry Manx, who owned the Q-Mart. Chet, from the propane company. All locals I’d have to deal with regardless if I won or lost the election. Would that be awkward? How had my dad handled knowing the names and faces of the individuals who’d opposed him?
A crush of people surrounded me. I smiled. I chatted. I anxiously shifted from foot to foot, glad I’d worn my dressiest pair of Old Gringo heeled boots instead of Geneva’s suggestion of “strappy” high heels.
Geneva dragged me aside. “Okay. This is set to start in two minutes. Need anything?”
A full flask. “Nope.”
“Good. You’ve got a lot of supporters here, Mercy.”
I looked at the crowd. No division of factions, like the separate bride’s side and groom’s side at a wedding. Good thing—it’d be mortifying if half the seats on my side were empty. Hope, Joy, Jake, and Sophie were in the audience supporting me, which actually made me more nervous.
I readjusted the belt on my newly purchased gray wool dress slacks—I loved online shopping—and snapped out the fancy French cuffs on my new white blouse. I finger-combed my hair for the tenth time, hating I’d been coerced into letting it hang loose around my shoulders instead of slicking it back into a ponytail. I didn’t feel like me. I didn’t look like me—duded up in tailored clothes, coiffed hair, and no gun.
“You ready? You’re on first.”
“Let’s do it.” I walked up to the speaker’s platform. I inhaled an uji breath and released it. “Welcome, everyone. My name is Mercy Gunderson, and I’m running for Eagle River County sheriff.”
Everything blurred after that. What I said. What Dawson said. Thank God it only lasted around thirty minutes.
Dawson and I shook hands and exited the stage to our separate camps. Geneva assured me I’d done great. Even Kit gave me a thumbs-up. I resisted the urge to flip him off.
Distortion from the speaker system made me cringe as Andrew Parker took the microphone. “Now rumor has it . . . that these two candidates have a secret . . .”
My heart raced. Don’t do it. Don’t even say it, Andrew.
“. . . bet going about what the loser has to do for their opponent after the election.” Andrew zeroed in on Dawson first. “Sheriff ? Care to elaborate on that side bet? Something about kissing a . . . pig?”
Dawson laughed. “Sorry, I’m pleading the fifth.”
Andrew’s attention zoomed to me. “Mercy? How about you?”
“I’ll follow the sheriff’s lead and stay pigheaded.”
Laughter.
“How many of you would like to see a show of goodwill between these two fine candidates as they lead us in the first dance?”
Oh, hell no. I glared at that rat bastard Andrew, but the crowd didn’t notice. They were on board with the idea. They clapped, whistled, stomped their feet.
Geneva snapped, “For Christsake, what is wrong with these people?”
“No booze. If they were getting loaded right now, they wouldn’t care.”
“You have to refuse to dance with him, Mercy.”
“Now how petty would that make me look?”
“Think of how it’ll look if you and Dawson start grinding on each other,” Geneva hissed.
“Puh-lease. We are adults. We’ll behave accordingly.”
I met Dawson halfway and took his outstretched hand. He bowed and kissed my knuckles.
I pretended to punch him in the stomach.
It played well with the crowd.
The band started a cover of George Strait’s “Check Yes or No,” a tune not too fast, nor too slow. Dawson clasped my left hand in his right. He placed his palm in the middle of my back and brought me in close to his body.
I set my hand on his shoulder in proper two-step position. No harm, no foul, no sweat. I could do this. Then I looked up to see his annoying Cheshire cat–like