The downtown area of Antioch, Georgia—population 5,424—seemed to breathe more deeply after a rainstorm, Mackenzie thought on her way to the office.

Main Street, so broad it boasted a parking strip in the center, gleamed as blackly as if the asphalt had been shellacked. The late-nineteenth century brick buildings looked refreshed, as did the young hickory trees planted in rows along the pavements on both sides of the street as part of the city's downtown renewal project.

The sense of freshness wouldn't last long, Mackenzie knew. Just until the heat cranked up and the humidity turned the air oppressive. At that point everyone would curse the goddamn storm front that dumped so much water in the air, leaving them to stew.

She managed to wedge her car between two other vehicles in the central parking zone and climbed out, making sure to display her parking permit on the dashboard. She frowned at the police cruiser parked in front of her business, housed in a single-story building much longer than it was deep. She rented one of the three available spaces.

What was a cop doing parked here? she wondered. The Antioch police station had its own lot two streets over close to the courthouse, city hall, other government buildings, the Mitford County sheriff's office and the downtown parking garage.

Mackenzie inhaled deeply, detecting the delicious aromas of sugar and yeast. Today was Thursday. The bakery next to her office made Hawaiian sweet rolls on Thursday. Hawaiian sweet rolls were Sheriff Newberry's most favorite thing in the world excepting his teenage son and daughter and the University of Georgia football team.

The explanation eased the tension in her shoulders. Just a deputy dispatched to pick up a batch of rolls for the sheriff, she thought, a theory which lasted up to the moment her door opened and a man in a Brooks Brothers suit walked outside.

Alarmed, she hailed him and hurried across the street. "Jimmy, what the hell are you doing?" she asked. "Do you have a search warrant?"

"No—" he began, but she interrupted.

"The next words out of your mouth had better be why you have cause to search my place of business without a warrant," she declared, "or I swear, Detective James Austin Maynard, I will kick your ass so hard, you'll taste shoe leather for a solid seven days."

"Good afternoon to you, too, Kenzie," Maynard replied calmly. He didn't quite smile, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. Her cousin was only a couple of years older than her and took after the worst traits of his mother's side of the family—dark, dour, rangy, and about as much fun as listening to a golf game on the radio. "I'm doing fine, thanks for asking. My ulcer is much better and it's been a week since I quit smoking."

Mackenzie flushed, half in annoyance, half in chagrin at having her rudeness pointed out by the person who used to dump frogs down the back of her dress in grade school. Now that they were adults, she always suspected he was secretly laughing at her. She'd rather have dealt with the frogs. "Do I need to ask a lawyer to come over here, Jimmy?" she asked.

"Not unless you want to tell me about the dead woman in your wall," he said.

She went cold. "What?"

Maynard told her that the construction crew hired by Collier had been removing water-damaged drywall in her office and discovered a woman's corpse hidden between the wall studs. "Still waiting for the medical examiner, who's at lunch," he concluded, "but judging from the condition of the body, our victim's been here a good long while."

"How long?" Mackenzie's voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I mean, when was she killed?" What she really meant was, How long have I been sitting behind my desk with a dead lady's eyes staring at me? but she managed to conceal her creeping horror.

"No idea. That's for Dr. Hightower to decide. But at a guess, I'd say the victim's been there a few decades at least." His cell phone rang. Holding up a finger, he answered the call, walking away a few steps for privacy.

Seizing the opportunity to satisfy her morbid curiosity and view the damage herself, Mackenzie slipped past his turned back and went inside where she spotted her friend, Deputy Veronica Birdwell, speaking to members of the construction crew huddled together by the water cooler. The men looked spooked. Veronica looked…well, like herself, as usual.

She considered Veronica a very good person: kind, thoughtful, polite to a fault, compassionate, not to mention pretty and brunette with a complexion like milk and roses—just the type of woman who made her southern charms tingle. Unfortunately, Veronica was also as straight as a carpenter's rule and oblivious to boot.

Mackenzie sighed. She hadn't a prayer in hell of starting anything with Veronica and she'd known the sad fact for years. Just as well, she said to herself. Why rock the boat when she and Veronica had a perfectly decent friendship already? Nevertheless, gazing at the lush curves packed into that unflattering brown deputy's uniform only depressed her further.

So close, and yet so far.

"Hi, Ronnie," she said to attract Veronica's attention.

"Hey, Mac, what are you doing here? Did you hear what happened?" Veronica asked, turning around to focus huge, bright green eyes on her.

"Cousin Maynard gave me the scoop on the body, said it was okay for me to grab some files from the office," Mackenzie answered with a pang of guilt. She hated putting Veronica on the spot by lying, but Maynard would never let her into "his" crime scene and she wanted to see the no doubt grisly discovery the workers had made.

"Oh, sure," Veronica replied. She glanced out the plate glass window at Maynard, still talking on his phone.

"Tell you what, I'll run back there real quick for the files. Won't be a minute."

"Just don't touch anything, okay?"

"Sure thing, Ronnie. Thanks." Mackenzie stepped around a pallet of materials, hopped over abandoned tools and made her way to the back of the room.

The front half of the space she rented from Pastor Collier acted as the public face of her company, Finders & Keepers, Inc. Although most of her business was conducted by phone or over the Internet, she'd still decorated the waiting area with colorful abstract prints on the walls, comfortable chairs, potted Swiss cheese plants, a receptionist's desk and an impressive, custom- made, copper monstrosity of an espresso machine.

Never mind that she hadn't needed to hire a receptionist, and only fired up the espresso machine once a year for the volunteer fire department's charity spaghetti supper, bake sale and sock hop. In the business world, appearances counted for a lot.

Mac, my girl, don't you ever forget to shine your shoes, put a ribbon in your hair and wear your best dress, no matter if you ain't got a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, her daddy had said when she was fourteen years old, returning home in tears after failing to sell any band candy. If you look successful, people will treat you like you're about to hand out hundred-dollar bills. If you look like a bum, they'll spit on you. That's the way it goes.

She dismissed thoughts of her father to concentrate on her company.

The worst damage had occurred in the waiting area when the big front window shattered under the onslaught of wind and rain and took out a Swiss cheese plant. She hadn't been here, staying holed up for the storm's duration in her apartment with a six-pack of beer, a meatball sub and a new copy of the Shooter's Bible.

The second room she used as a private office had also suffered a few minor problems like a ceiling leak and water- damaged drywall. Fortunately, her computer equipment and prized sixties Rock-Ola jukebox escaped unscathed.

She opened the door to her private office. Stale air rushed out at her like an exhaled breath, carrying a dry, musty smell that reminded her of a months-old dead mouse moldering behind the wainscoting. A glance at the wall showed she wasn't far off.

A piece of drywall had been removed and discarded in pieces on the floor. As Maynard had told her, a desiccated human corpse was crammed upright between the wooden wall studs, looking like a prop in a Hollywood horror film.

Mackenzie took in the dry skin, gray with dust and warped to the bones so tightly it had split in places. The lower jawbone hung open in a parody of a yawn. Long hairs clinging to the top of the skull appeared to confirm the victim's sex.

She had been renting the office for three years, ever since she started the business. The victim had to have died and been hidden here before she took possession. Who was this unknown woman? How had she died? Why had her killer stuffed her in this particular wall?

Taking her cell phone out of her pocket, Mackenzie began snapping pictures of the body from every angle. She zoomed in the camera to take more detailed shots. The sound of voices outside the door made her hurry.

When Maynard burst inside the room, she'd already returned the phone to her pocket and stood in front of the jukebox nonchalantly brushing drywall dust off the glass front.

A muscle twitched in his cheek. She could tell he wasn't amused this time. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, the words rumbling deep in his chest. "Goddamn it, Kenzie, this is my crime scene."

Mackenzie pointed out, "You won't find any evidence here, Jimmy. I had the wallpaper stripped, the walls painted, and the floor redone before I moved in. If there is anything, it's in the wall with your victim, which I didn't lay a finger on."

"Damn it to hell and gone," Maynard said, but she saw him deflate slightly. He flapped a hand at her. "Go away, Kenzie. Go home. Go do whatever. Just go."

Mackenzie hurried away, eager to study the pictures she'd taken. Veronica gave her a sad, hurt look as she walked past on her way to the front door. Shit.

She paused on the threshold. "Sorry, Ronnie. I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

Veronica nodded and smiled. "It's okay, Mac. Detective Maynard doesn't stay mad long and I really don't mind when he yells."

Feeling like the world's worst asshole, Mackenzie left.