Redneck's Revenge

by Joan Livingston

  “Nah, that’s Carole for ya. I just added an extra place. I hope you like venison stew. It’s from the deer Fred shot last year.” He chuckles. “I heard you were one of those natural food nuts.”

  “You can’t get any more natural than venison.”

  “Good point.” Jack takes my coat. “Have a seat, Isabel. We were gonna make a toast while the stew’s heatin’ up.”

  I glance at the clock on the stove. It’s not quite noon. Jack pours three shots from a top-shelf whiskey. I’m not into the hard stuff, but what the heck, it’s a toast to his dead sister.

  Jack lowers the flame beneath the stew pot before he sits beside me. His cousin is on the other side of the table, an arrangement that amuses me.

  “Ah, the good stuff,” Fred says.

  We hold up our glasses while Jack says, “To my sister, Eleanor. I’ll miss the hell outta that funny little gal.”

  I take a sip from my shot while the guys down theirs. Top shelf or not, this stuff burns.

  “Uh, Isabel, ya gotta drink it all,” Jack says. “That’s how a toast works.”

  “Yeah, don’t be such a lightweight,” his cousin says.

  As soon as I put down my empty glass, Jack pours again. Shoot, all I had this morning was coffee and a piece of toast. That was hours ago. I’m going to get looped if we keep this up much longer.

  “Not all the way to the top, please. Yeah, I am a lightweight when it comes to the hard stuff.”

  Jack gives me a sideways glance as he fills my shot glass halfway.

  “Here you go, weakling,” he says.

  It’s Fred’s turn.

  “To Eleanor, one woman who laughed at all my jokes and never broke my heart. God bless her,” he says. “Down the hatch, Isabel.”

  “Okay.”

  Jack pours another round. He obliges me with half a glass.

  “Your turn, Isabel.”

  I think as I roll the shot glass between my fingers. The booze is already working. Yes, I am definitely a weakling as Jack called me.

  What can I say about Eleanor? We both loved one man, her brother? She was willing to kill for him? That I’m glad she didn’t hit me harder? Oh, be nice, Isabel. You’re not that drunk.

  Jack and Fred wait.

  I raise my glass.

  “To Eleanor, a damn good cook, a dedicated dog owner, and a loving sister.”

  I down the whiskey and place my hand over the top when Jack shakes the bottle. He has a playful grin on his face.

  “More, Isabel?”

  “No way I could keep up with you guys,” I say. “Are you both trying to get me drunk?”

  Jack hasn’t dropped that grin.

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I glance toward the stove. “That stew’s gotta be hot enough. Let me serve it before the bottom gets burned.”

  I get to my feet, feeling a bit wobbly. But I manage to bring full bowls to Jack and Fred. I take a half bowl for myself. There’s already bread on the table.

  My first spoonful is awfully good. The second is, too. Carole made a flour base and added lots of chunky potatoes, carrots, and onions.

  “This is really tasty,” I say out loud.

  Across the table, Fred nods.

  “You should have Carole make stuff like this instead of that swill she’s servin’ at the Rooster.”

  “You got a point,” Jack says. “Maybe beef instead of venison unless you’re planning to donate what’s in your freezer.”

  Fred snorts.

  “Fat chance, cuz.”

  I keep eating, so I can get something inside my stomach beside whiskey. I reach for a piece of bread.

  Jack and Fred tell stories about Eleanor, what she was like as a kid and how she worked the farm. School was hard. Her teachers didn’t understand her. She used to have a pet goose named Ingrid that followed her around like a dog.

  Jack gets out an old album to show us photos. He laughs about the time she got a blue ribbon for a hog at the county fair, and it took a whole lot of convincing her that it was supposed to be slaughtered.

  “She sure loved Elvis Presley,” he says. “She complained the bands at the Rooster hardly played his songs.”

  I don’t have any stories to offer, but I enjoy listening to theirs.

  Jack opens bottles of beer for his cousin and him. I turn him down.

  “I’m gonna tell you both somethin’, but you gotta keep it a secret.” He pauses for our okays. “Eleanor got off easy thanks to Andrew Snow. She didn’t have to go to prison. But it drove her nuts she couldn’t leave our property. But once in a while I’d take her for a ride around town late at night. I stuck to the back roads, so some nosy son of a bitch wouldn’t rat us out.”

  Jack talks about the time he sneaked Eleanor in the back door of the Rooster on one of the nights it was closed. She walked through the kitchen, opening the fridge and turning on the stove’s burners. She touched the tools she once used. He could see how much she missed working there.

  “That was just before Carole started,” he says. “Not that long ago. I’m happy I did it for her.”

  I’m touched by Jack’s brotherly devotion. Eleanor did wrong, but nobody could put together the pieces of that night she killed Adela. Even Eleanor couldn’t.

  The stories continue. The guys drink beer. I stick with water, and by the time Fred leaves, I’m sober again. He assures us he can drive home just fine. I’ve decided I like him a whole lot better than I did a few months ago.

  “Glad you came.” Fred winks at me. “You make my cousin one happy man.”

  Of course, I am red-faced and red-necked, the closest I will ever get to being called that. I check on Jack, who chuckles as his cousin shuts the door behind him. He sits back in his chair. He studies me.

  “He’s right, you know.” He pauses. “You made today a whole lot easier. Thanks for comin’ like that. I did get your message by the way. I appreciated it.”

  “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it if I just showed up. If you had kicked me out, I would’ve understood. I mean after what happened… ”

  He waves his hand.

  “You don’t have to finish. I take some of the blame. I should’ve known somethin’ was up. Lookin’ back, I see the signs. And I really did love Adela. I was gonna ask her to marry me.”

  “You know what they say: hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” I tell him. “Are you ready for what’s gonna happen when word gets out about Eleanor? The Old Farts told me you weren’t putting in her obit until after the memorial.”

  “The Old Farts, eh? Those guys in the backroom know everybody’s goddamned business. They probably know you’re here alone with me.” He chuckles. “I expect to get phone calls at home and the Rooster tomorrow. Maybe a reporter will show up. Some might call you.”

  “I don’t plan on talking with them.”

  “Me neither.”

  Jack takes a long swig from his beer bottle. I’ve lost count how much he drank today.

  I stand.

  “You leavin’, too?”

  “Not yet. I’m gonna clear the table and wash the dishes.”

  I stack the bowls and grab the silverware to bring to the sink. If there were dirty dishes before, I bet Carole washed them. I plug the drain, find the soap, and let the hot water fill the sink halfway.

  Jack is on his feet and behind me. He’s got his hands on my hips.

  “Aw, just leave ’em, Isabel.”

  He turns off the water and spins me around. From the expression on his face, I know what’s next. I’ve been in this spot before with him. We kiss, and then we do it again. My back is pressed against the edge of the sink. Jack’s got his hands all over me. It’s just so damn easy with him, but then I have my doubts.

  “What’s going on, Jack?”

  “Well, earlier I was kinda hopin’ to get you good and drunk, then have sex with you.”

  “Uh.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m being bad. Today, I buried my sister’s ashes, and here I’m flirtin’ w
ith you.”

  “I’d say this was more than flirting, Jack. I believe you’re the one who got good and drunk.”

  “I guess I am. Maybe a little.” He chuckles. “The God’s honest truth? You drive me crazy, Isabel.”

  I close my eyes momentarily.

  I drive him crazy? He’s playing with my hair and driving me that way, too. Shoot, I miss you, Jack, but I could go to hell for this. There has to be a law somewhere you don’t have sex after a family member’s funeral.

  “Jack.”

  “Yeah, Isabel?”

  We keep kissing, and then he’s guiding me from the kitchen into a hall toward his bedroom. We fall onto his unmade bed. There’s no turning back.

  Pillow Talk

  Jack is stretched beside me. The guy is spent. Here was a man who wanted comfort in a big way, and I gave it to him. And, yeah, I’m feeling pretty comforted myself.

  He rolls to his side after I get up to use the bathroom and return. I face him.

  “How’s the P.I. business?” he asks.

  “Fred probably told you about the case I’m working on. Annette Waters, Marsha’s cousin, wants me to find out who killed her father, Chet. Most people think it was just an accident. The story is he drank too much and died in a fire. She doesn’t believe it.”

  “Heard those Beaumont brothers are high on the suspect list.”

  “How do you know? Let me guess. Fred. Or was it Marsha?”

  “Both. That’s why you make a good investigator. You figure things out. Marsha did tell me you two went to Baxter’s and met her cousin there. Baxter’s, now that’s really slummin’ it. All the people who get kicked out of the Rooster go there.”

  “Yeah, I had a chance to speak with Gary and Larry Beaumont.”

  “How was that?”

  “All right. They gave me a hard time, but I pitched it back to them.”

  He chuckles.

  “I can see that.”

  “I’m planning to meet with them again this week, but I’m gonna bring my mother. That should throw them off.”

  Jack’s fingers play on my shoulder, and then they’re sliding toward a breast.

  “Heard you danced up a storm.”

  Aha, he’s talking about Dancin’ Dave. Did Marsha tell him to make Jack jealous? Thank you, Floozy, for that. This is getting interesting.

  “Yeah, he asked real nicely and bought us a round. Besides, I didn’t want to get rusty. I hadn’t danced in a while. Dave was a pretty good dancer.”

  “Better than me?”

  “I can’t remember. It’s been a while.”

  He playfully pinches a nipple.

  “Naughty girl.”

  I glance over his shoulder at his alarm clock. Crap, it’s almost five.

  “I gotta get going. My mother must be wondering what happened to me.”

  “Maybe she figured it out.” He’s got one of those mischievous Jack grins. “Before you go, I gotta ask somethin’. Why’d you skip out the other night without sayin’ bye? I went lookin’ for you.”

  He’s, of course, talking about when I left after the band started playing “Good Hearted Woman.”

  “You’re gonna think I’m really silly. I heard that song, you know which one, and I was hoping it’d be like it was before, when you rang that bell, and we danced. Suddenly, I was disappointed that wasn’t going to happen and embarrassed I felt that way. I just had to leave.”

  “Aw, Isabel.” His voice is a drawl. “Yeah, I heard it, too, but I was in the middle of somethin’ with a customer. It was easier when you and I worked together behind the bar. Then after, I couldn’t find you. I asked around, but you’d disappeared.”

  “I guess I was confused.”

  He kisses me.

  “Are you confused now?”

  “No. But I still gotta go. We can do this again soon.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Back at Home

  Ma has a curious expression on her face when I finally get home. The cat’s on her lap and the dog’s at her feet as she watches TV.

  “That must have been some funeral dinner,” she says.

  “Sure was.”

  As I build a fire in the woodstove, I tell my mother about the ceremony and the dinner afterward, how we made toasts to Eleanor and ate venison stew. Jack and his cousin told stories. Naturally, I leave out the sexy stuff.

  “They must’ve told a lot of stories. You were there for a real long time.”

  “We found other things to talk about,” I say. “By the way, I brought us back some venison stew. Jack insisted.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “I did invite him to dinner tomorrow night. I hope you don’t mind. The Rooster’s normally open, but he thought he’d keep it closed because Eleanor’s obit will be in the morning paper. He figures nosy people would come to make a big deal about it.”

  “More than the nosy people in this town?”

  “Uh-huh, I’m talking about the ones who do it for a living.”

  “Like you.”

  I smile. The fire picks up behind the woodstove’s glass.

  “That’s right.”

  Later that night, I get three phone calls. I answer one from a number I recognize, Mike Waters. I keep a list of contacts from this case near the phone in the kitchen and my office. The other two, as the callers tell me in their messages, are from reporters. Eleanor’s obit went online and some sharp-eyed person in the newsroom spotted it. One call is from the Daily Star, my old paper, and the other, a TV station in Springville. I don’t feel I owe either a comment. I bet they bugged Jack, too.

  I’m pleased gruff-voiced Mike Waters returned my call.

  I call him back.

  “Did my sister tell you to call me?” he asks.

  “Yes, she did.”

  “She still hung up about Pop and that bullshit story of hers?”

  “I’m not sure if I’d use those exact words. She’s hired me to investigate your father’s death. She has questions. I do, too.”

  He snickers.

  “I bet she thinks I’d be capable of doing it. Right?”

  “She says you might have some info that’d be helpful,” I lie.

  “That so? Like what?”

  “It’d be better if we met in person.”

  “I’m kinda busy.”

  “I’d only take fifteen minutes tops.”

  There’s silence on the other line.

  “You know Baxter’s?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Meet me there Thursday at five. And you owe me a beer.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Ma asks who I was talking with when I get off the phone. Man, that woman missed her calling. She would have made a great reporter or a P.I. instead of working as a cafeteria lady at the junior high school in our town.

  “Mike Waters, Annette’s brother.” I smile. “How’d you like to come with me Thursday to Baxter’s to meet him? It’s not such a bad place and it’s beside a lake. They serve food, too.”

  She gestures toward the dog and cat.

  “What? And miss all this excitement?”

  “I knew you’d see it my way.”

  At the Greasy Spoon

  Sean Mooney beats me to that greasy spoon near the Berkshire Bugle office. It’s a nothing-fancy place in the heart of a dying downtown. Once this city, named Mayfield for its founder, Louis May, was a lively place of commerce due to manufacturing. Even people from Conwell commuted to work there. That ended a couple of decades ago.

  Sean already found a cup of coffee and a table. I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s put on a bit of weight, an occupational hazard of having a mostly desk job. I recall he was an eager beaver intern although I was cautious about giving him or any intern, for that matter, a controversial assignment. Still, he showed the instincts and skills necessary for the profession. I wish I could have hired him, but at least I helped him find a job at the Bugle. In my new position as a P.I., I will take all the connections
I can get.

  We exchange the usual pleasantries before a waitress pounces.

  “Tea with milk for me.” I give Sean a nod. “You want anything else? My treat.”

  “No, coffee’s just fine. I ate already.”

  I wait until the waitress is out of earshot. I’m not being paranoid. It’s better to be on the safe side. For all I know, she could be a second or third cousin to Gary and Larry Beaumont.

  “You weren’t working for the Bugle very long when they sent you to the scene of that fire in Caulfield,” I say.

  “A month in but they were shorthanded that day. The regional editor said to give it a shot.”

  “Like I said over the phone, Chet’s daughter doesn’t think it was an accident. Did you have any suspicions yourself?”

  He leans back in his chair.

  “Interesting you should ask. When I was walking around, I saw blood on the snow. Not a lot mind you. It wasn’t close to the burned house, so I don’t think it could have been from Chet Waters’ body if he died in the fire like they said he did. I think I only found it because I happened to be wandering around.”

  Whoa, nobody mentioned blood at the scene.

  “Blood? How much?”

  I recognize his gotcha smile.

  “Not a lot but enough.” He pulls out his phone. “I even took a picture. Wanna see?”

  Is he kidding me? Of course, I do.

  “That was really smart.”

  Sean and I wait as the waitress sets my cup of tea and a small pitcher of milk on the table. He hands me his phone.

  “What’d you think? Human or animal?” he asks.

  Like Sean says, there isn’t a lot of blood, so it would be easy for people other than a sharp-eyed reporter to miss it, and of course, I don’t know how deep. But it’s blood all right. The snow around it is crushed by boot prints.

  “Well, his daughter found Chet’s dog dead a couple of days later in another part of the junkyard. But the dog’s neck was broken. And from this photo, I don’t see a long trail of blood. Maybe something happened here before the fire.” I study the screen. “Did you tell anybody about it?”

  “I tried, but no one paid attention. His daughter was pretty distraught. Everybody was focusing on the burned house and Chet’s body. Wait a sec, I take that back. One of the town cops was interested. I think she’s the chief now. But she wasn’t part of the investigation.”