She had already left for work and Sophie was staying with her abuelita Aragon. Emory and I sat on the wide front porch in matching Shaker-style rocking chairs. It reminded me of his dad’s house in Sugartree where he and I had spent long, hot Arkansas afternoons in the deep shadows of their Victorian front porch drinking sweet tea and eating banana pudding. This morning we drank tall mugs of Community Coffee, a regional brand he had shipped in from Louisiana.“You and Hud,” I said, sipping the strong, nutty-tasting coffee that I, like a coward—Hud always declared—blasphemed with cream and sugar. “You’re determined to Southernize San Celina County.”“Detective Hudson has excellent taste,” Emory said, toasting me with his red-striped mug. “At least in coffee. Community is the best caffeine delivery liquid on earth.” He rocked slowly, waving at our elderly neighbors, twins Beebs and Millee Crosby, who were power walking in identical burgundy velour tracksuits and white visors.“Signed up for cane fu,”
