by Emmy Grace
I don’t exactly love to exercise, and I can usually find seven to ten solid reasons to put it off every single morning. It hasn’t done my physique any favors, but for a girl with lots and lots of curves and a booty that won’t be tamed by any amount of squats, I figure this is likely to be as good as it gets anyway, so why bother? Momma Leona never misses a chance to remind me I’ll regret it one day when I’m old and stiff, but those days aren’t today, so... Out of sight, out of mind.
"Can I help you?”
Liam has stopped working and is staring right at me. Reflexively, I smile.
“Hi. Sorry to bother you. I just...uh, I had a question for you.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t bother to come to me, so I head down to him, picking my way across the uneven ground. The thick clods of grass interspersed among the large patches of dry, red dirt look innocent enough, but I happen to know you can get a nasty little sprain if you hit one just right and roll your ankle.
When I finally stop in front of him, he’s wearing the same scowl he wore last night. I wonder if it’s standard issue, or if I bring out the grumpy farmer in him.
“H-hi,” I stammer again. Déjà vu.
“Didn’t we already cover this? What do you need, Ms. Boucher?”
He remembered my name. Not that it’s a huge feat. My nickname is Lucky, very memorable, and my last name was made famous by an Adam Sandler movie, so anyone over the age of twenty recognizes it.
“I had a question about your pig.”
His frown is quickly replaced by the look of astonishment. Clearly, this wasn’t what he was expecting. “My pig?”
“Yes, your pig.”
“Is that code for something?”
I don’t have to pretend to look confused. “Code for what?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of drug or sexual service.”
“A drug or something sexual that’s code-named ‘pig’?”
He shrugs one of his wide shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’d hate to see what either of those look like.” I pause. “Wait, so you think I’d come here and ask you for drugs or for...for...sex?”
“How am I supposed to know why you’re here?”
“You’re not, but that’s still quite a leap.”
He sighs, and it holds all the signs of growing frustration. “A question about my pig. What is it?”
“I wondered if you’d let me buy him.”
“Which one?”
“You have more than one?”
“This is a farm, Ms. Boucher. I have many.”
“Oh. Well, he was... I think he had a...” I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t ask the pig for his name or make note of a glass eye or a clubbed foot. It was a pig. What more was there to see? “I don’t know. There was a pig here last night. It was the only one. He was small.”
He starts nodding. “Ah. You must mean Bacon.”
I gasp. “You...you named him Bacon?” I can't think of a more heartless thing.
“You got a problem with that?”
Where to begin? I have so, so, so many problems with that.
Liam Dunning’s dove gray eyes are sparkling in the sun. I could almost mistake what’s in them for amusement if I didn’t know from experience that this man doesn’t feel amusement. Ever. I bet he didn’t even as a child. He has the disposition of a bear with a thorn in its paw, who got a mouthful of sour grapes, and suffers from chronic constipation.
I clear my throat and start over. “The small pig that was here last night, I’d like to buy him.”
“So you said.”
“Well? Can I?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like selling him to you.”
“But...but...” My tongue trips and stumbles, and I feel the telltale tremor of my chin. That's not good. That means tears aren’t far behind. I know I’ll never be able to get the little pig off my mind. I should’ve stolen him last night. Not even asked, because Liam Dunning doesn’t seem willing to even discuss it. “Any chance you might change your mind?”
“Not much, no.”
“Wh-when do you... When does he...” I can’t even bring myself to ask the question. Instead, I brush a hand across my damp forehead and then start fanning, anything to distract from my level of distress. Some people find my intense connection to animals disconcerting. I doubt this fractious farmer would, but either way, I don’t want him to see me cry. The best thing I can do is change the subject to my second reason for coming, and regroup later. “I mean, I wanted to ask you something else.”
“If this is about one of my cows, could we skip to the part where I say no, Ms. Boucher?”
How does he manage to load so much disdain into my name? And how can any one man be so gorgeous and so obnoxious? He’s a walking, talking, griping contradiction.
I don’t address the cow comment. “You failed to mention to Chief Sheriff that you’d started a petition to keep Martin Vickerman from building his shopping outlet on the land out here. Any particular reason you’d claim not to know him, when you were obviously plenty familiar with him?”
His eyes narrow to slits. “What’s this about exactly?”
“I just told you.”
“Let me get this straight. You came all the way out here to accuse me of murder? Again?”
“I’m not accusing you—”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing, Ms. Boucher.” I didn’t think he could make my name sound any more like a dirty word.
I was wrong.
“I...I just wanted an explanation.”
“Sorry. I’m fresh out. Namely because I don’t owe you squat.”
“But Clive—”
“Clive knows me. He knows who I am and what I’ve done. If he has any questions, he can come and ask me himself.”
“What you’ve done? What does that—”
“That’s the point. You don’t know me. At all. But Clive does. He also knows the best place he can focus his attention is on Vickerman’s cronies, not me. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
I don’t say another word. I just turn and make my way back to my car. I’m wearing a smile, though. If Mr. Liam Dunning thinks he’s getting rid of me, he’s got another thing coming. I’m patient. I can bide my time. Besides, the guy just did me a favor. Now I have another lead to follow.
6
The funny thing about a small town is that, if you pull enough threads, you find that everyone is connected somehow. Some in more overt ways, some less so. That was one of the reasons I chose Salty Springs when I had to leave. It reminded me a lot of home.
It only took a few weeks when I moved here to figure out the best sources of information. It starts with Suzie Lynn. Suzie owns the only beauty salon in Salty Springs. Beauty salons are known for being havens of gossip anyway, but what makes Suzie even more valuable is that she has a second source—her great aunt, Haddy McGillicuddy.
I don’t know much about Miss Haddy other than she is the oldest resident of Salty Springs and knows nearly every soul to come and go from the town in the last hundred years. Literally. Miss Haddy is one hundred and two, and, from what I hear, there’s not much that goes on in her beloved community that she isn’t aware of.
In her younger years, Miss Haddy was a librarian. While she doesn’t run the local library anymore, she spends a few hours a week there, slowly putting returned books back on the shelves, or sometimes reading quietly in her favorite chair in front of the window. I wouldn’t mind running into her today, which is why I’m doing my research here rather than home. I’m hoping to get more information than Google can supply.
I pull open the door and the scent of old books and wood stain greets me. I stop and take a deep breath. I’ve always loved to read. When I was a little girl, before I met Momma Leona and Beebee, reading was my escape fro
m things I didn’t choose and couldn’t control. Reading saved my life long before Momma and Beebee did, so my fondness for books runs deep.
I spare a quick glance around the library to see if I spot Miss Haddy. Unfortunately, I do not. But maybe, if I’m as lucky as they say I am, Miss Haddy will show up before I leave.
I wave at Annette as I pass. Like so many folks in Salty Springs, she has many functions. She’s the current librarian, but people can also buy Tupperware and pay their electric bills through a little machine that she rents. Seems strange, I know, but a lot of town businesses serve multiple functions. Some even weirder than a librarian who keeps your food fresh and your power from getting turned off.
She waves and smiles as I make my way to the short row of computers in little study alcoves along one wall. I feel her eyes on me as I go. Annette is very nice, but she has this disapproving look on her face all the time. It’s like she’s judging me from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. I know it’s not just me either. Regina says she feels the same way. Maybe it’s just outsiders. I don’t know. If I stay here long enough, I guess I’ll find out. Maybe one day she’ll see me as part of “us” rather than part of “them”.
I wake the computer and run some basic searches for Martin Vickerman and his life. I start as far back as I can, which happens to be his time spent at Auburn. Periodically, I glance up to see if Miss Haddy has made an entrance. So far, she hasn’t.
I find Martin Vickerman listed in the roster for a fraternity all four years of college. It’s Beta Theta Pi, of all things, one known for being linked with success and money. I glance through the names, just so they might look familiar to me if I see them again. When nothing unusual turns up there, I close the window and type in a popular professional connectivity site. I scan the list of people and businesses linked to Vickerman, and one name stands out immediately.
Russell Philbin.
They have more than just a business association. I saw this name listed in Martin’s fraternity. And frat brothers are the “till death” kind of friends.
I start digging into Philbin, and quickly discover that he is one of the founders of a very successful company that owns a fleet of timeshare Gulfstream airplanes. “What a coincidence,” I mutter.
Vickerman’s body fell from the sky.
His frat buddy owns a fleet of jets.
One plus one, meet two.
It might not be the answer to the whole thing, but this means something. It’s too big a coincidence for the two facts not to be connected. Somehow, some way.
My pulse does a little leap. It happens any time I stumble onto something significant, some small clue that might help me uncover the truth. Granted, I haven’t often been so directly involved in what I’m investigating. My skills were honed more in the missing pets and mysterious bullies at school arena, but eventually I started following local deaths and crimes. The year I was old enough to ride my bike to and from school by myself was the year I started sleuthing. That was nearly two decades ago. And I know this feeling.
This is a good sign.
I push my chair back, chewing my lip as I decide what move would be best to make next. It’s not lost on me that I’ve taken a very special interest in this case. Not only was I there when the body reached its final destination, but Liam was right. The note on his body... That could, in theory, be directed at me. Whether to implicate or, God forbid, to warn. So, the sooner I find out what happened to Martin Vickerman and who was behind it, the sooner I’ll know if and how it applies to me.
I make one last search of the library before I grab my purse and head for the door. No Miss Haddy.
I wave at Annette again as I pass. Her beady eyes flicker behind her glasses, raking me from head to toe before she looks away. I can practically feel the judgment oozing through the thick lenses. She’s probably wondering why a decent woman would be seen in public wearing sweatpants with a hole in the butt, a shirt with a margarita on the front, and mismatched sandals on my feet. I could explain that I slept in these pants last night. I could explain that this is my only clean shirt. I could explain that these shoes were beside the door and I was too distracted when I left to care what I slid my feet into. I could explain any or all of that. But I don’t. I just flounce away, thinking to myself that she’d better be glad I’m wearing pants and shoes at all.
I head for my car, which is parked along the curb almost a block away. All the spots along the shops on Main Street require parallel parking, and that was never my strong suit. This fact, and my generally not-awesome driving skills, are evidence by the various dents, bangs, and scratches all over my faded red 1979 Mustang. Misty is her name. She’s seen better days, but she was my first car. I bought her with my own hard-earned money, and I can’t bear to part with her yet. Maybe one day, but for now, I’m fine with keeping the dents and scratches. Driving Misty is like taking a little piece of home everywhere I go.
I start up my car and pull out into the nearly nonexistent flow of traffic. I check the GPS on my phone to make sure I’m heading in the right direction as I leave the town limits. Looks like I am, and I can only hope that my trust in the disembodied British female voice is not misplaced.
I drive twelve minutes with still no sign of the place I’m looking for. I’m beginning to think I’ve missed something when I see a big white billboard that boasts the exact words I was looking for, TRIVETT’S AIRFIELD.
Bingo.
Dax drove us out here when we came to test the goggles, but it was night and I wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Not one bit of this looks even vaguely familiar.
There are at least a dozen big hangars on one side of a strip of grass that separates them from the runway. Only one, however, has what appears to be a small office attached. It makes sense that it’s the first one after driving through the open gate.
I head for one of the few parking spots in front of that one, park, and then cut the engine. Before I get out, I have a moment’s regret about my wardrobe selection. Even though I know from experience that my charm will work its magic no matter what I'm wearing, I still hate knowing that I won’t be seen as a professional of any kind when I show up looking this way. By and large, blondes get a bad rap, and this get-up won’t be doing us any favors.
Stupid impulsiveness.
That’s something else about me. I’ve always been impulsive to a fault. If I had a life motto, it would have to be something involving not looking before leaping, or staying ten steps ahead of myself. Actually, there are probably a whole slew of clichés that would be suitable for someone like me, but that’s another rabbit hole for another day.
I get out, fluff my shoulder-length bob, and start walking toward the only door in the ridged, metal structure that isn’t big enough to fit an airplane through. The small sign on the glass part of the door reads ADMINISTRATION. Parked beside it is a shiny new Mercedes S class. The vanity plates say TRIV-AIR.
I pull open the door and poke my head inside. My nose is assaulted by a strong citrus scent. Lemon maybe. It smells like my first ex-boyfriend’s cologne. I always thought it smelled like lemon Pledge. I should’ve known then that we were doomed to failure. No man should smell like a cleaning product on purpose.
The office seems curiously quiet. Deserted even, but still, I step in and approach the long, Formica-covered countertop anyway. There’s a small brass bell sitting at one end. I slide toward it, ready to ding, ding, ding when a guy comes through a door behind the counter. He’s youngish, maybe late twenties, with blond hair and laughing green eyes. He’s wearing pale blue coveralls with TRIVETT’S embroidered on the left breast and, below that, KYLE in white script. There are splotches of grease across his chest and belly, and he’s wiping his hands on a rag as he walks. I want to tell him not to forget his face, because it looks like he took a bath in motor oil. But I would never say something rude like that. Beebee would skin me alive.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I give him a bright smile, ready to launch
into the spiel I practiced on the way over, but before I can speak, someone follows him through the door. It’s none other than Liam Dunning.
I narrow my eyes on him. “What are you doing here?”
“Just came to chat with Kyle. What are you doing here?” His eyes flash and I know he’s baiting me.
Flippin’ jerk.
After a few seconds of irritation, I recover and bring back the smile that faded, and I turn it toward Kyle. Come on lucky charm! Don’t fail me now.
That’s what Regina started calling my luck with men many years ago. My Lucky Charm.
“What a coincidence, that’s exactly why I’m here. To chat with Kyle.”
“Coincidence. Sure,” Liam replies drolly.
“What can I do you for, ma’am?” Kyle tosses his shop towel down and leans his elbows on the counter, stretching over toward me. His grassy eyes are gleaming with interest. This, this right here, is what I’m used to. As much as it doesn’t make sense, I’ve come to expect it.
“Well, it’s a long and gruesome story, but I was almost killed last night.” Kyle’s expression falls and he coos his sympathy. I watch him start to reach out to put his hand on mine and think better of it, almost like he isn’t aware of what he’s doing. That’s not uncommon either. In fact, the only thing that I’ve found uncommon since all this lucky stuff started is the way Liam Dunning acts. Whatever set the rules in place, that man is the one exception to them.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”
I’m sure he’s thinking of comforting me in several different ways, but I have something much better in mind. At least better for me.
“Actually, Kyle, there is. I was wondering if you could tell me about the planes that are kept here. Do you store them for private citizens? Or companies? Or the government? How does this whole process work?”
“Our hangars are rented on a monthly or annual basis. Anyone can have a space. The only requirement is that they pay on time. Otherwise, we lease the spaces as they become available, first come, first served.”
