by Emmy Grace
She helps me to my feet. “You do this to yourself. If you had a healthy fear of breaking the law or dying like most people, you’d probably stay out of trouble.”
“P-probably, but where’s the f-fun in that?” She keeps hold of one of my hands as I brush at my backside with the other one. “I’m w-wet.”
Regina glances back. “There’s a puddle of something right there.”
“Wh-what is it?”
“Maybe it’s better if we don’t know.” She nudges me forward.
“Where are we g-going? My p-pig, he’s getting aw-way.” I point one shaking finger back at the fenced enclosure that’s going the wrong direction.
“Why don’t we try the door on the side of the shed? I think that would be easier than frying our brains. Plus, if you bring the pig out that way, he really will be bacon.”
Sure enough, there’s a door on the side of the shed. Its latch is homemade—a piece of wood nailed to one side of the door that snaps down over the other side to keep it from falling open. I reach up and flick it open, and duck inside. I take my flashlight out of my pocket and click the end. Nothing happens. I click it again. Still nothing.
“These b-batteries are new.”
Regina taps my shoulder and hands me hers. “Try mine. It hasn’t been electrocuted.”
I nod. “G-good point.”
I shine the light around the room. The floor is covered in straw, and there, at the far end, standing up and staring at me, is my little pig. It’s as though he’s just been waiting for me to come and get him.
I tiptoe through the shed, making soft, stuttery cooing sounds as I approach my target. He stands watching me, unafraid, until I bend to pick him up. Then all pig hell breaks loose.
Little pig starts to squeal like I’m hurting him. He wriggles in my arms and it’s all I can do not to drop him. “Shhhh, little pig. I’m s-saving your life,” I inform him, like that might help.
That’s when I realize that, joined to this room is another room, and it’s full of adult pigs. Big, fat ones.
A few feet away, I hear the bigger pigs start to rouse, snorting and snuffling and squealing. Whether I scared them or they’re sounding some sort of alarm, I don’t know, but it’s loud and chaotic, and my insides are already a jumbled mess thanks to several hundred volts. So, without knowing what else to do, I tuck little pig under my arm and I run.
“Close the door,” I yell at Regina as I fly past her. I hear it slam shut and the ruckus of the pigs becomes muted. I don’t stop running, though. I glance back for my friend. “Come on, woman. Move your butt!”
Regina is slowly jogging behind me. “I’m trying to.”
“Try harder!”
“I can’t. These pants are too tight, you masochist. Who gives someone skinny jeans to wear for midnight pig thievery?”
“Hurry,” I holler back, scanning the area for lights or other signs of life. I can still hear the muffled, distant sounds of pigs squalling. I don’t know how far the main house is from the pigpen, but if it’s not very far, Liam is bound to hear the commotion and come out to check on his livestock.
I’m sucking wind by the time I make it back to Regina’s car. I hop in the passenger side, situating the pig in my lap before I strap the seatbelt across us both. I reach over and pop the driver’s side door open for Regina. Through the bug-spattered windshield, I can just make out her shadow coming up over the knoll we parked the car behind.
When she gets in, she’s too out of breath to say much, but what she does say carries plenty of weight. “If... I didn’t... love you... I’d... kill you.”
With that, she starts up the car, slams it into reverse, and we speed off down the dirt road, leaving only squealing pigs and a plume of dust in our wake.
After a mile or so, I sit back with a satisfied smile. Not too bad for my first pignapping.
9
I’m still exhausted when my alarm goes off at eight AM. I rise up and glance over at my new bed partner—a cute little pink pig, curled up on a pile of blankets.
I flop back down and debate going back to sleep. Gumbo seems to be as beat as I am.
We decided on Gumbo last night. It makes me think of Beebee, which is nice. It’s one of her favorites.
I was outraged that Liam would name the pig Bacon because I thought he intended to make him bacon. But since I saved Bacon’s bacon from being gumbo, Gumbo just seemed right.
The little pig was in full agreement after he got over the indignation of being pignapped and then bathed. By the time he was clean, I was filthier than I was before I started his bath, but I wrapped him in a towel to dry and that calmed him considerably.
After that, he was much happier with his new predicament. And he wouldn’t hear of anything less than spending his first night in bed with me, so I wound up a blanket, made a hole in the center, and, as far as I know, Gumbo hasn’t moved all night.
Not that “all night” has been long. We didn’t get in bed until after three.
I grin as I stare up at the ceiling and listen to his adorable snuffling snores. I’ve always liked pigs, but it just sweetens the deal that I saved him from becoming bacon and that I took him from Liam Dunning. It’s like the livestock thievery trifecta.
Remembering my plans for the day, I haul myself out of bed and stumble my way to the stove. I turn the eye on under the percolator. It’s not as fast as other coffee makers, but it doesn’t hiss and it gets the job done, so I’m a happy girl. In my house, coffee happens first. The chaos of life is welcome to come sometime after that.
I yawn, tackling rinsing and putting fresh water into various bowls, and preparing the morning meal for my various critters. I sift through the fridge for some vegetables to cut up for Gumbo. Sometime between my investigative plans for the day, I’ll stop by the farmer’s supply store and get him some specific pig food. Whatever that is.
My phone rings, and I’m surprised to see Regina’s name pop up.
“What are you doing up?”
“Who are you kidding? I’m already working.”
“I hope not on projects for me. I’ve got enough on my plate.”
“Yeah, and you’re already one behind.”
“What do you mean? I—” I stop myself, mentally cursing. “I forgot that new product you left me. I was supposed to test that underwear last night, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, but tonight is fine. Just get me the report for them and for the goggles by tomorrow afternoon. You can do that, right? Sometime between your banter with Tasty Cakes and your after-hours criminal escapades?”
I roll my eyes heavenward. “Those were isolated incidents. You know that kind of stuff isn’t a normal part of my day.”
“Since when? Need I remind you of the Great Chicken Release of 2018, and the year before that, the Summer to Save Gators?”
“You know how I feel about animals.”
“Yes, Lucky, I know you’re a crazy person. Just so long as you know it, too.”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me. No sense arguing with the truth. “I’ll do the underwear tonight. Reports to you by noon tomorrow. No excuses.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Don’t get electrocuted today.”
“I won’t. My hair can’t stand another juicing.” I tug at the dry, frazzled ends. I swear I don’t remember them being this crispy yesterday. “I’m getting ready to call Suzie to see if she can give me a trim and a conditioning treatment. I need some information anyway. It’ll be a twofer.”
“Okay. Have fun sleuthing, Hercule Sparrow,” she says just before she hangs up. In addition to my fanatical love of animals, Regina also teases me about my love of crime solving. I’ve heard things like Sherlinda Holmes and Inspectress Clue-no and Fairy Mason more times than I can count. Today it’s a reference to Agatha Christie. I have to give her a nod for her creativity.
I hang up and dial Suzie’s number. She starts taking appointments at eight, which is why I set my alarm in the first place. Since hers is the only salo
n in town, she books up faster than a knife fight in a phone booth. Lucky for me (as usual), she has a spot bright and early for me. “See you at nine, Suzie,” I tell her.
I hear a strange noise coming from my bedroom, and, like always when one of my animals gets stirred up, within fifteen seconds, a chorus of discord is in high gear. Mr. Jingles barking, Lucy-Fur calling, Gator’s wheel squeaking, and then Squishy doing her random word of the day. On this particular morning, it’s “road kill road kill road kill.” I hope Gumbo doesn’t speak parrot. He might see that as offensive.
I race to the bed to rescue the pig, tucking him under one arm and snatching up the cat with the other. I put her out the front door, and introduce Gumbo to the dog door that leads from the kitchen to the backyard, a yard which Mrs. Snuffleupagus was kind enough to let me fence in.
I hand him through the door, then go out and nudge him back through again. I repeat it four times for good measure. Pigs are supposed to be super smart, so I hope he’ll get the hang of it quickly. Once we’re back inside, I show him his food dish and water bowl. The carriage house has a beautiful, sunny breakfast nook that faces southeast. I knew when I moved in there was no point in even attempting to allocate it for human use. Instead, it’s where my cat and dog (and now my pig) eat and drink. Plus, it’s near the dog door, so that works out nicely, too. One never knows when one might need an emergency trip to the potty. Take it from me.
Gumbo sniffs the carrots and apples I put out for him and starts to nibble. He gets a mouthful and then looks back at me. Some might call his small eyes beady, but I think they’re sharp and perceptive. In fact, I think he’s thanking me right now for saving his life and providing him with clean accommodations and some fresh food.
“My pleasure, Gumbo,” I tell him with a scratch to his little head. “Welcome to the family.”
I shut Mr. Jingles in the bedroom and leave Lucy-Fur out front so that Gumbo could have run of the house while I’m gone. Don’t need any brawls erupting without me there to break them up.
Forty minutes later, showered and clean if still a bit addled from being French fried last night, I’m heading out to Suzie’s on foot. I figure I’ll stop by Chester’s on my way back to see if he got my new tires on.
It’s a gorgeous morning, but it’s humid. It’s already in the low eighties and the humidity feels like it should read “snorkel”. Thankfully, there’s a breeze blowing which takes me from “I’m being boiled alive” to “I have boob sweat, but I’ll survive”. The weather doesn’t bother me like it does some. I was born and raised in Louisiana near the swamps. Air you can almost drink is nothing new to me.
I pull open the door to the COLOR ME BADD salon, wondering absently what color Suzie’s hair will be today. She’s a kind and attractive woman who I estimate to be in her fifties, and she’s an unabashed fan of all things from 1985 to 1995. That includes Mohawks, technicolor hair, and bands like Color Me Badd. I see where she was going with the shop name, but really, it doesn’t inspire much confidence in your beautician when any variation of the word “bad” is used. Of course, in a town this small, where two-thirds of the population knows what Suzie looked like back in 80’s, I don’t think it matters very much.
When I step inside, Duran Duran is blaring from the overhead speakers, and there are already two other clients halfway through their process. One is sitting with squares of foil all around her head, reading a magazine. The other has a squadron of curlers dotting her scalp and is sitting under the dryer filing her nails.
I glance around the Pepto-Bismol pink interior for any sign of Suzie. Seconds later, she comes around the corner and greets me with a big smile. All the charm Salty Springs is known for, wrapped up in a four-feet, nine-inch package with wild hair. “Mornin’, Lucky! You ready for some beautifying on this fine summer day?”
“I sure am, Suzie,” I tell her. “Love the hair, by the way.”
“Thanks, honey.” She raises a hand to sweep her long, long white bangs to one side. If she was going for Flock of Seagulls hair, she nailed it. White is pretty tame for her, so I give her one week before she’s back to a color from one end of the spectrum or the other.
She leads me to one of the styling chairs and pats the seat. “What are we doing today?” She flicks out a big, black cape and wraps it around me with the flourish of a matador.
“I think I need a trim and maybe a deep conditioning. My hair’s feeling a little dry and brittle.”
She takes a piece and rubs the ends between her thumb and forefinger. “Dry I’d say. I’ve seen tumbleweed with more moisture. What’ve you been doing? Swimming in an acid pond?”
“I did some skydiving recently. I think the high altitude may have done it.”
More like the high voltage.
“I can get you fixed right up. Don’t you worry.” She pats my shoulder. “Let’s get you washed first. Your hair needs to be wet.”
Suzie has a Salty Springs-famous concoction that she makes special right here in her salon. No one knows the recipe or what might possibly be in it, but it’s widely known to work wonders on fried, damaged, or over-processed hair. Surely it can calm some post-electrocution split ends.
We chitchat about random things as she rinses my hair and then sets about trimming it. When she starts mixing up the treatment, I clear my throat and launch into my most subtle kind of inquisition.
Which, for whatever reason, isn’t always so subtle.
“I guess you heard about what happened out at Liam Dunning’s farm.”
“Honey, that’s the talk of the whole town. Such a tragedy.”
“Did you know Martin Vickerman?”
“Not very well. He came in a time or two to get his hair cut.”
“I heard he’d made some enemies with his mall proposal.”
“A man like him, I’m not surprised.”
“So, he wasn’t very well liked?”
“Not especially, I don’t think.”
“I wonder if one of his business associates could’ve had something to do with it.” Suzie shrugs. “I heard rumblings about some guy with an eye patch. Sounds crazy, I know, but—”
“It does, but there is such a man. He’s a contractor from over near Columbia. One of the big ones. I saw him eating over at Ann-n-Ann's a few times when he was in town.” She nods her head, indicating the diner across the street. With Suzie’s giant glass front windows, she has a clear and unobstructed view of everyone coming and going from LouAnn and SueAnn Beasley’s diner.
Vickerman was a developer, Eye Patch a contractor. I can see how an association like that could go very bad very fast. Any time money is involved, people can get ugly.
Very ugly.
Eye Patch just rose to the top of my list of suspects. Next, I can’t forget about Russell Philbin, the Gulfstream guy. The fact that Vickerman’s body fell from the sky... I have to leave Philbin near the top for just that reason. Below him is Liam Dunning. And last is Petey.
Eye Patch and Philbin are only neck-and-neck because I can see so much potential for disagreement with Eye Patch.
“Interesting.” I try to sound bland. I can’t appear too interested. Since I haven’t been here that long, people might not appreciate my...curiosity. The folks in Gator Cove knew me from when I was knee-high to a grasshopper, so they didn’t take offense when I nosed around. But strangers, even nice and welcoming ones like the residents here in Salty Springs, might not feel the same way. At least not right way.
With another lead to follow, I decide to change the subject. “Petey was there. When we were leaving, he said something to Liam Dunning that seemed to make him mad. Called him ‘Little Willie’. What’s that all about?”
“Oh, Petey’s been jealous of Liam Dunning since birth. He knows that Liam doesn’t necessarily approve of his father’s political ambitions. William Dunning Senior’s nickname is ‘Slick Willie,’ and it ain’t no compliment. So, calling Liam ‘Little Willie’ is like a slap in the face.”
“Ah. I didn’t
get the impression they were overly fond of each other.”
“No. Never have been.”
“Petey’s pretty harmless otherwise, though, right?”
“He’s all talk. Even when he was a youngster, those lips never stopped flapping. He’s been a turd his whole life, I believe. But harmless. He’d never hurt a fly.” Suzie bends down and elbows me. “Mainly because he ain’t strong enough. Have you ever seen such skinny arms as that boy has?”
She shakes her head and I agree with her. “I think a spider monkey has bigger arms. Besides, he had no reason to want to hurt Mr. Vickerman, right?”
Suzie frowns. “Mr. Vickerman? I thought we were talking about Liam Dunning?”
“Oh. Sorry. We were.” I shake my head and blow it off as my mistake. “I think I still have Mr. Vickerman on the brain. You know, having seen him like that.” I make a face and she mirrors the expression.
“I can imagine. You poor thing.” She resumes painting my hair with her thick, custom concoction. “But to answer your question, it’s my understanding that Petey and Martin hardly knew each other, but even if they’d had a run-in or two, Petey could never do what was done to Mr. Vickerman. That takes a special kind of evil.”
“I don’t suppose you have any theories? If you do, I’d love to hear them. I’m sort of an amateur crime buff. I find it all so interesting. Not the deaths,” I quickly amend, even though I find that part kind of interesting, too. “Not wishing ill on people. It’s a tragedy for sure. I guess my mind is just curious about who would do such a thing.”
“If it were me, I’d be taking a long hard look at his wife.”
“Vickerman’s?”
Suzie nods, pushing her bangs out of her eyes with the back of her hand. I don’t know how she functions with that swath of hair hanging down. It’s bound to be like having the world’s most annoying comb-over. “I do Leslie Vickerman’s hair once a week. A woman like her—wife of a wealthy and influential developer, daughter of Dan Keller, founder of Keller Real Estate—well, she has to stay coiffed, if you know what I mean.” I nod. I know the type. “She even brought their little toy poodle in one time asking if I’d dye her hair pink for Valentine’s Day. A pink poodle! Can you imagine?”
