Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  “You sure you don’t want to go to that biker bar with the Floozy and me on Saturday night?” I ask. “The Tough Cookie will be there, too.”

  “Very funny, Isabel.”

  I see the Pit Stop ahead. I don’t need gas, but maybe we can get something to drink for the ride home. Or better yet, I’ll pick up a six-pack. I’m outta beer at home. The sky is slating over. We won’t stay long. I hit the directional.

  Besides, I want to pin Pete down to an interview. I’ve called a couple of times and he’s put me off, saying he was too damn busy. He won’t be able to avoid me in person.

  “Come inside with me, Ma. Wait ’til you see the place. You’re in for a treat.”

  Today I get to meet the missus, Barbie, who sits behind the register reading a magazine while hubby loads six-packs into the cooler. Pete Woodrell turns when he hears us.

  “Hey, babe, this was that gal I was tellin’ you about,” he says, getting to his feet.

  “Nice to meet you, Barbie,” I say. “I’m Isabel and this is my mother, Maria. We’re making our way back from Fulton, and I thought we’d stop by to say hello and pick up a few things.” I glance at my mother. “Why don’t you get yourself something to drink? My treat.”

  Ma clicks her tongue because I told her I’m paying. It’s kind of a contest between us, who gets to pay, and I make sure I keep winning.

  Barbie Woodrell is on the round side. She’s got dyed red hair puffed up nicely. It goes with her puffed-up smile. I’m guessing she’s in her early forties, a bit younger than hubby. She fingers a pendant around her neck, a nervous habit I presume. The pendant is gold with an amethyst stone, quite pretty really.

  “That’s a sweet necklace.”

  She pats the pendant.

  “It was my grandmother’s. It came with earrings, but I lost one, so I only wear the necklace. Maybe I’ll find it some day. That’d be real nice.” She smiles shyly. “To tell you the truth, the earrings were a little bit fancy for the Pit Stop. Pete and I don’t go out much at night. We’re usually pooped after a long day manning the store.”

  “Shame you lost the earring,” I say.

  Barbie nods.

  “Pete, here, was tellin’ me Annette hired you. Chet was a real nice man. And it was a shame what happened to him. But, hon, that sounds like a complete waste of money to me.”

  I’m not about to tell the Woodrells about my financial arrangement with Annette, so I let her comment pass.

  “I believe it’s important to her,” I say, and then my mother is beside me with a can of diet soda. “That’s enough? Want something to eat with that? Check out those muffins, Ma. They look homemade. You bake them, Barbie?”

  Barbie’s head bounces although her hair stays fixed. A good amount of teasing and a heavy dose of hair spray will do that.

  “Sure did, hon, this mornin’ before my bus route. Banana nut. I’m surprised we’ve got any left.”

  “Go ahead, Ma. Pick one out for me, too.”

  “Okay, but we should get going before the storm starts,” she says.

  “Let me get some beer. I’ll be right back.”

  While Ma carries on small talk with Barbie, I study the beer selection. The best I can do is the brand from Boston. No microbrews at the Pit Stop, but then again I wouldn’t expect them.

  Pete keeps stuffing six-packs in the cooler. I expect people will be stocking up before the storm.

  “Did I hear you say you were in Fulton?”

  I grab the carton’s handle.

  “Yes, you did. We were visiting Sinclair’s Junkyard.”

  “For parts?”

  “Just asking Mr. Sinclair a few questions.”

  “For that investigation?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seems like you’re really takin’ this all seriously.”

  “I sure am,” I say. “When would be a good time for us to get together to talk about Chet?”

  He works his lips as he thinks. He’s figured out he can’t get rid of me easily.

  “Early afternoons are kinda slow for us. Say, uh, one-thirty, two. What day were you thinkin’?”

  “Name one.”

  “Not sure how much damage this ice storm they say we’re gettin’ is gonna do. How about Thursday?”

  “Works for me. I’ll see you then. Barbie can join us if she wants.”

  He stands and slides the cooler door shut with a hard click.

  “Don’t know if she’ll be around. She’s got a bus route in the afternoon.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to catch her another time if she isn’t.”

  Later in the car, I ask Ma how someone could actually cheat at cards. While not a big card player, she was a steady visitor at the Indian casinos in Connecticut for years until she moved in with me. Then there were Bingo nights at the church halls. I went a few times with her to Bingo, but I was more interested in watching the people than listening to the callers. I was terrible at it. My mother, of course, was a frequent winner.

  “There are plenty of ways to cheat,” Ma says. “I saw it on TV, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “It can happen when somebody’s dealing cards. The person knows how to pick out the best cards and makes sure he gets them in his hand.”

  “So, it’s not like he’s peeking at somebody’s cards.”

  She laughs.

  “If Chet was a cheater, he must’ve been very good at it. But then again, when people drink, they don’t pay close attention to what they’re doing,” she says.

  “Maybe Chet didn’t drink or pretended to. I could see a couple of kids getting carried away gambling.”

  “He also probably picked up on people’s tells. You know what that is?”

  “Yeah, I do. I used that trick when I was a reporter. I watched their body language carefully if it was a touchy interview.”

  “You might make a good poker player.”

  “Eh, I’ll stick with what I’m doing. I’m not a betting woman.”

  Ma chuckles.

  “Well, I am.”

  I wait for a pickup to pass before I take a left onto the road back to Conwell.

  “What did you think of the Pit Stop?”

  “The store in our town is nicer.”

  I smile when she says “our town.” I’m pleased Ma is feeling more at home living in Conwell.

  “How about Mr. and Mrs. Redneck?”

  “I liked her a whole lot better than I did him.”

  I nod. “Yeah, me, too. Well, I finally got him to agree to meet with me Thursday.”

  “I don’t have to come for that one, do I?”

  I laugh.

  “No, you don’t.”

  We are over the Conwell line and soon past Jack’s house. His sister, Eleanor, is in the front yard with her mutts. She’s throwing a ball. I realize this is the first I’ve seen Eleanor since the day she knocked me over the head and left me in the woods. She doesn’t look like she’s suffering too much from being in exile.

  “There’s Eleanor,” I tell Ma.

  “So it is.”

  Ice Storm

  I didn’t notice the freezing rain until I let the dog, Maggie, outside. The front porch is glassed over with a layer of ice. The dog is in and out fast for once.

  “The storm’s started,” I announce to my mother.

  “How bad is it?

  “I’m sure glad I’m not driving in it.”

  I’ve driven through a couple of ice storms, manageable only because of the amount of sand and salt the highway crews laid down. We’ve had some storms move in so fast and bad, the highway guys drove their trucks backwards so they had enough traction to get up a hill, or their boss would call them back to the garage because it was too damn dangerous out there.

  But I’m prepared. I have buckets of sand from the highway yard in the back of the Subaru. I put candles and a couple of kerosene lamps on the kitchen table because it’s likely we will lose power. I warned Ma, who has a flashlight on the table bes
ide her chair, and checked in with the kids. I have beer in the fridge and a cold one in my hand.

  Annette picks up fast when I call.

  “Heard you were up at Sinclair’s,” she says right off the bat.

  “I’m guessing you went to the Pit Stop.”

  “Course. Had to stock up on beer. At least, all I have to do is walk a few yards to the garage to get to work.”

  “Beer, eh? That’s why I stopped, too,” I say. “I gave Al Sinclair the third degree. He mentioned that your dad supposedly cheated at cards with his sons, Junior and Roy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard all about those crybabies. I say don’t play cards for money if you can’t afford to lose.”

  “Sound advice. I heard he and your father liked to give each other a real hard time like the time Al told that dealership Rough Waters went out of business.”

  “I remember that. Al got Pop good on that one. Really pissed him off.” She snorts a laugh. “Did he tell you about the time Pop let a few skunks go in his junkyard?”

  “Uh, no.” I shake my head. These two men had a good run at being bad to each other. “Just so you know, I asked him where he was that night. He said he was home with his wife. Not much of an alibi I’d say.”

  “Shit, no.”

  “My words exactly. He mentioned something else, but I’ll get back to you on that after I find out more. Have you talked with Marsha?”

  “About Baxter’s? Yeah, yeah, I’ll meet you two there.”

  “I’m glad you’re both coming and we’re doing this in a public place. From what everybody says, the Beaumont brothers sound like bad news.”

  “You’ve got that straight.”

  “First off, I’m gonna do a little research online while we still have power. See you Saturday.”

  I head upstairs. I haven’t touched the envelopes Annette gave me. I’ll save them for tomorrow when I’ll have nothing to do because of the storm. Right now, I’ll do the Google thing on the Beaumont brothers. Yes, they both have records as adults. Likely they had them as juveniles, but those are sealed. Here’s the lowdown: Drunken driving, breaking and entering, and assault. There’s nothing about drugs, but maybe they just didn’t get caught. Their mother must be proud.

  I print everything and tape the paperwork to the wall. There’s not a lot there.

  I should talk with the reporter at the Berkshire Bugle who covered the case. Sean Mooney was on the staff still when I checked the Bugle online. He has to remember me from when he was the Daily Star’s intern. I’d like to hear his take on what happened. What the heck, maybe he’s at the newsroom. I dial his direct line.

  “Berkshire Bugle. Sean Mooney here.”

  “Hey, Sean, this is Isabel Long. You might remember me. I used to be the managing editor of the Daily Star.”

  “Of course, I remember you. Heard there were big changes at the Star when the paper got sold. We’ve got a couple of your people here at the Bugle.”

  “I heard as much.”

  “What can I do for you? Sorry. I can’t talk long. I’ve got a deadline to meet. Writing a weather story, what else. What’s it like up there in the boonies?”

  “Real icy.” I pause. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you about a story you did three years ago. Does the name Chet Waters ring a bell?”

  “Chet Waters? He’s the guy who burned up in that fire. It was in Caulfield, I believe. What about him?”

  “Now that I’m not in the news business, I’m doing P.I. work.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that, too. You did a great job on that missing woman case. Adela Collins. Thanks for taking the call for that story we did.”

  “No problem. Now I’m looking into Chet Waters’ death. His daughter, Annette, doesn’t believe it was an accident. She thinks somebody with a grudge against her father killed him.”

  “I recall the official ruling. You think she’s onto something?”

  “She might be. Hey, you’ve got a deadline to meet, but I’d like to pick your brain. Reporters see things regular folk don’t.” I take a break to let him absorb what I just said. “All off the record, of course.”

  “When and where?”

  “How about next Wednesday morning?”

  “Sure. How about that greasy spoon next to the Bugle’s office? Meet you there at ten.”

  “Go make your deadline. I’ll look for your story online.”

  Mike Waters is next on my list, but the call goes directly to voice mail. I leave a vague message in hopes he calls back. His wimp brother, the Floozy’s description, not mine, is not on the list, but I’m going to meet with him anyways.

  Now I feel restless. I glance at the bookcases in my office and don’t see anything that would hold my attention. I feel like talking with somebody, touching somebody, and he touching me. Yeah, I’m thinking about Jack. I glance at my phone. The Rooster is closed Tuesdays. He’s probably kicking back at home.

  Get a grip, Isabel. You’re not his good-hearted woman anymore.

  Downstairs, I grab another beer from the fridge. I ask my mother, “Wanna watch a movie?”

  “Go ahead,” she says. “Find something good.”

  And then the lights go out.

  What’s Up with the Old Farts

  It’s Thursday morning. I spent most of yesterday trapped inside as we waited for that damn ice to melt. The only one who went outside was the dog, Maggie, because she had no choice. I was thankful I had enough firewood in the basement and the power came on sometime mid-morning. I went over my meager notes and found chores to do. Ma, of course, had her trashy novels.

  I’m going to take a ride to the store and pester the Old Farts. I’m relieved when I arrive that only the regulars are here. I don’t have to hold back or have them explain to any Visiting Old Farts what the heck we’re talking about. And I don’t want the visitors blabbing all over town what I’m doing.

  Yes, it’s become a routine with these guys that the Fattest Old Fart is the official greeter and the Serious Old Fart is the pourer. Of course, I smile at his stupid espresso joke.

  “What brings you here, Isabel?” the Bald Old Fart asks.

  “Do I need a reason? Maybe I just like to see your faces and drink bad coffee. Good way to start the day, I’d say.”

  My smarty-pants comment draws a round of chuckles.

  “That’s why we do it every day,” the Skinniest Old Fart says.

  “Even yesterday?”

  The Skinniest Old Fart shrugged.

  “You think an ice storm is going to stop us from meeting here and talking about what you’ve been up to?” he says.

  I laugh.

  “You mean me and everybody else in town.” I reach into my jacket pocket. “I brought you all a small gift. Here are my business cards in case you ever need me. My daughter, Ruth, had them made.”

  I hand them out. Each man studies his card.

  The Fattest Old Fart snorts.

  “As if we didn’t know how to reach you,” he says as he pulls a wallet from his back pocket. “But thanks.”

  Now it’s the Bald Old Fart’s turn.

  “Heard you were up at Sinclair’s the other day.”

  The other Old Farts turn their heads toward their buddy. This is the second time he’s come up with news about me.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m not gonna even ask how you know. But I will ask you all about Al Sinclair. What can you tell me about him?”

  “Is he on your suspect list?” the Skinniest Old Fart asks.

  “Sorry. That information is private.”

  The Skinniest Old Fart makes a high-pitched laugh. “I will take that as a yes.”

  “No comment,” I say as I take a different tack. “So, none of you know a thing about him. Frankly, I’m surprised. You sure know a lot about me.”

  “Isabel, we just like getting a rise out of you,” the Skinniest Old Fart says. “Al’s an okay guy, loves his sons.”

  “He told me they lost big to Chet Waters one night in a poker ga
me,” I say. “He seemed unhappy about it.”

  The Silent Old Fart nods.

  “I was at Al’s the day after it happened.”

  This is indeed an historic occasion. Other than a grunt or a chuckle the Silent Old Fart indeed lives up to his name. He even surprises his compatriots, who stare at him.

  “Tell me more,” I say.

  “You’re right. The boys lost big. There was something about a gold watch that belonged to Al’s father, Eben. Al was livid about it. There has always been bad blood between Chet and Al, but this only added fuel to the fire.”

  “Bad blood? More than a rival junkyard and cheating at cards?”

  The Silent Old Fart nods at his buddies. He’s done talking. I look from one man to the other. It’s the Serious Old Fart who speaks next.

  “Long before you got here, when we were all just kids, there was a bad car crash. Chet was at the wheel. Al’s kid sister, Amanda, was in the front passenger seat. Chet was going a bit fast and lost control when his car hit ice. It was New Year’s Eve. The poor girl died at the scene. A couple in the backseat got hurt.” His head shakes a bit. “We didn’t have an ambulance in those days. No seatbelts.”

  “Who was in the backseat?”

  “Al and his girlfriend. She’s now his wife. Kate’s her name,” the Serious Old Fart says.

  “Wow. Chet and Al used to be friends?”

  “Back then they were.”

  “Was Chet drunk?”

  “They probably all were,” the Serious Old Fart says. “But something like that never leaves you.”

  A pall has dropped over the backroom. I don’t know what else to say, except, “I bet.”

  A Meet Up with Pete

  Pete Woodrell is finishing a transaction with the man who owns the pickup parked next to the Pit Stop’s gas pumps. I recognize the guy, who has come into Rooster, not a regular, but then again he has a memorable scar running along the side of his face. We exchange hellos, and then he is gone with a jingle of the bell above the front door.

  “Hey, Isabel, let me get you a chair from out back,” Pete says.

  “Barbie here? I was hoping to catch her before her bus route.”

  “Nah, she left already,” he shouts from the backroom, and then he wheels a chair behind the counter. There’s just enough room for two chairs if I don’t mind having my back to the front door. “Take a load off.”