Book One-The Nicest People You’ll Ever Meet

When Declan McManus and his wife retired from their military careers and bought a farm, they were told that Dollard County, Kentucky, was home to the nicest people they’d ever meet. Scratch the pastoral beauty of the Bluegrass and just below the surface you’ll find drugs, arson, civic corruption, and murder.

Despite doing their best to mind their own damn business, a neighbor is murdered, and the law is knocking on their door. Luckily, Dec and his wife have pals who enjoy a scrap and aren’t impressed by someone with a badge and gun.

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“Shedding his gloves and offering his hand, the farmer said, “Howdy, Sheriff. We’ve never met, I’m Declan McManus.”

They both stared silently at the hand for a moment until Dec retrieved it and went for his smokes. While he lit a cigarette, the big dude made it around to driver’s side of the Suburban which declared it was, “Payed for by Drug Seizure Money.” Declan revised his estimate. The guy in civvies wasn’t really a giant, he was just hugely fat.  Marie had once said he was a ‘fattist’ which he was sure wasn’t correct.

Hold the wedding. Did the sign on the Suburban really say, ‘Payed for…’?

Declan’s musing on the sad state of public-school education was rudely interrupted by the sheriff who’d chosen that moment to speak.

“We’re here to talk about Bobby Gooch,” the sheriff said slowly.

“You’ve got the wrong place; Bobby lives on the other side of the bridge on the north side of the highway.”

“We’re here to talk to you about Bobby Gooch,” he drawled.

Declan didn’t like the way he said ‘you.’ It came out in three syllables. He didn’t like the sheriff’s face. He didn’t like the fact that the sheriff’s buddy was sweating from the effort of dragging himself out of the truck. He didn’t like the fact that some of the ‘seized drug money’ had been spent misspelling the word ‘paid.’ In fact, he didn’t like anything about this conversation, and it had just started.

“Well, I don’t know what I can tell you Sheriff, is he in some kind of trouble?”

“You might say that. Bobby Gooch is dead,” the sheriff smirked.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t know what you want with me.”

“Deputy Slaughter,” he said, nodding toward fatso, “said Bobby told him you threatened to bash his head in with a hammer.”

Declan’s reply was interrupted by the arrival of his bride, who’d wandered over from the kitchen garden where she’d been weeding.

“Don’t bother offering your hand, Darling, the sheriff is a germaphobe.”

“What has he got against Germans,” Marie asked as she reached in Dec’s shirt pocket for a cigarette. Her newest anti-smoking strategy was to not buy cigarettes. Now he bought twice as many, but who was counting?”