Livin' Large in Fat Chance, Texas

by Celia Bonaduce

  “I feel so sorry for Titan,” Erinn yelled over the wind. “If that damn Pennyfeather hadn’t been such a . . . a . . .”

  “A lawyer?” Wesley ventured.

  “Yes,” Erinn said. “I mean, that was a brutal call, washing their hands of Titan. Sounds like Pennyfeather was even worse than Cutthroat.”

  “He was just doing his job.”

  “I keep forgetting he was a friend of yours,” Erinn said.

  “Mentor, colleague, whatever. But I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

  “Point taken.” Erinn sighed as they climbed the boardwalk stairs. “The lights seem to be off all the way down the boardwalk,” she said. She looked into the window of Old Bertha’s market, the first store on the boardwalk. “Let’s duck into the grocery store. This wind is killing my camera.”

  “I guess Old Bertha went back to the inn,” Erinn said as she peered into the deserted store. “Should we just go in? Do you think she’d mind?”

  “Old Bertha? Of course, she’d mind.”

  They moved on to Powderkeg’s place. Wesley opened the door.

  “Hello?” he called as they stumbled into the store.

  “Doesn’t sound like anyone is here,” Erinn said. “But I’m sure Powderkeg wouldn’t care if we wait here for a reprieve from that wind before we move on.”

  Wesley fumbled around until his hands found the battery-powered lantern that sat on the counter. The room lit up with a warm glow.

  “Well, boss,” Wesley said, “you’ve interviewed everybody. Have you decided on a direction?”

  “No,” Erinn said, blowing bits of dust off her camera. “There’s something bothering me, and I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Can I help?”

  “I don’t know. OK, so we’ve got Cutthroat, who makes it big. He’s got natural, ruthless instincts that serve him well in business, but then he gets involved with Pennyfeather, who seems to fuel the fire of his greed.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Wesley said, an edge to his voice. “Go on.”

  “So why didn’t Pennyfeather come check out Fat Chance with Cutthroat? Why, suddenly, is Pappy the confidant?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it! Cutthroat supposedly won’t make a move without Pennyfeather’s consent, then all of a sudden, the new guy shows up out of the blue, hanging out with Cutthroat and looking at ghost towns in Texas.”

  “What’s so strange about that?” Wesley asked. “We don’t know the exact time frame. My best guess is that Cutthroat had gone through a rough time with the Sweet Darling thing, his son and daughter-in-law dying, and Pennyfeather getting killed in that boating accident. But he still had to keep his . . . empire, for lack of a better word . . . going. So he got a new adviser.”

  “But not an adviser from your firm?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Even if that’s the case, where does Pappy fit in?”

  “What does it matter? He’s MIA.”

  “Exactly,” Erinn said. “And I think he holds the key.”

  “I suggest you find another key, ’cause this one doesn’t fit.”

  Erinn blinked as the electric lights flickered back on. She couldn’t read the look on Wesley’s face.

  * * *

  “You scared me,” Maggie said to Pappy. “I didn’t know you were back.”

  “There’s a tornado warning,” Pappy said. “Figured I better get back here and help out.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Maggie said, making sure her bundle was still secure in her waistband.

  “Come with me,” Pappy said. “You don’t want to take any chances with a tornado coming.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to stick you in the bank vault,” Pappy said. “Safest place in town.”

  “That’s OK,” Maggie said, trying to keep her voice even. “I don’t even think we’re going to get a tornado.”

  “It’s best to play it safe,” Pappy said. “So let’s go.”

  “No. Thanks, really, but I’m staying here.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Pappy said, advancing on her.

  She turned to run, but Pappy caught her. He hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and headed to the door.

  “It’s only one building over,” Pappy said, and he walked out the door into the driving rain, holding Maggie as she flailed in his arms. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

  * * *

  Old Bertha was in the back room when she heard the knock on the grocery store door. She refused to answer it. What damn fool would come looking for groceries in the middle of a storm? It must be some crazy cowboys looking for munchies. She listened to make sure they went away. One of these days, the people of Fat Chance would have to get locks, damn it! She peered into the store. Except for the screaming wind and rain dripping through the holes in the roof, everything was quiet. She walked to the front window and looked out. As a flash of lightning flashed across the sky, she saw a large man carrying someone over his shoulder and walking down the boardwalk.

  Crazy cowboys! Just like I thought.

  She went back to the back room, lit a candle, and returned to her accounting.

  * * *

  Cleo and Powderkeg were asleep in Cleo’s room at the Creakside Inn. Cleo awoke when an ice-cold droplet of water fell from the ceiling onto her nose. She sat up in bed with a jolt. She pulled the covers around her naked body and looked at the sleeping man beside her. She rubbed tentatively at the raw spot that heated her jawline. How long had it been since she’d had a bad case of whisker-burn, she wondered. Another droplet hit her, this time on top of her head. She shivered and pulled the covers tighter. She reached for the bedside lamp and tried to click it on.

  Nothing.

  Listening to the rain, she realized a storm was raging outside. Was the electricity out? It wouldn’t surprise her. This town was held together with spit and chewing gum as far as she could tell. She looked at Powderkeg again. She had no regrets that they’d slept together. They were good together in bed. If only they were as good together out of bed.

  The inn creaked and moaned in the storm. Cleo sat up and listened. She heard someone walking downstairs. The footsteps were heavy, so they couldn’t belong to Polly. Cleo remembered that Polly was in Galveston. Cleo knew that if they were being hit with a storm of this magnitude in Hays County, chances were good it was worse down by the Gulf. She prayed Polly had enough sense to get out of the storm if it came down to it. Then she remembered that Polly was with Jeffries. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  Good old reliable Jeffries. Solid as a piece of snakewood.

  She lightly touched Powderkeg’s shoulder and smiled. She remembered when he’d had her memorize the top ten hardest woods in the world when she was still pretending she was interested in carpentry. Snakewood was the only one she remembered because it was so unusual looking, its grain mimicking the look of a snake’s skin. At the time, she was just grateful he had another interest besides making leather belts.

  Jeffries would be lucky to be remotely as interesting as snakewood.

  The footsteps must belong to Old Bertha. Cleo settled back down, but the raindrops had soaked her pillow. She let out a little shriek. Powderkeg woke up.

  “Sorry I woke you,” Cleo whispered.

  “I’m not,” Powderkeg said. He reached for her, but she pulled away.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  Cleo sighed. “Not a new problem. We always seem to take one step forward and two steps back.”

  “Correction,” he said. “You always take one step forward and two steps back. I’m pretty much standing still, waiting for you to stop moving.”

  “Except for the pilot.”

  “And where is she now? Cleo, we’re getting older. We need to stop fooling around.”

  “I thought you liked fooling around?”

  “You know damn well what I mean. You keep coming back here for a reason.�
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  “And you think that reason is you?” Cleo sat up, a steely tone creeping into her voice. Powderkeg was about to answer, but Cleo stopped him. “Shhhh,” she said. “Do you hear that?”

  Creaking on the stairs started softly, but grew louder as it got closer.

  “It’s just Old Bertha,” Powderkeg said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “No, it’s not! Those steps are too heavy.”

  Suddenly the door crashed open. Cleo screamed and pulled the blankets around her. Powderkeg jumped out of bed, buck naked.

  Lightning lit up the room.

  “Pappy?” Cleo asked in astonishment.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Powderkeg groused as he pulled on his underwear.

  “Come to rescue you fools,” Pappy said. “Get dressed. And quick.”

  Chapter 31

  Pappy led Cleo, Powderkeg, and the mules, Jerry Lee and Patsy, up the boardwalk.

  “You drove through this?” Cleo yelled over the wind.

  “Yeah, and it wasn’t easy,” Pappy said. “The wind tore the canvas top off the Covered Volkswagen. Probably gonna turn the thing into a swimming pool by the time this is over.”

  It wasn’t easy getting Jerry Lee up the stairs. The animal was frightened of the storm and always hated the boardwalk. Patsy daintily climbed the stairs and watched as Pappy swore and pulled Jerry Lee’s bridle while Powderkeg and Cleo pushed from behind. A crack of thunder from the sky finally convinced Jerry Lee to get a move on, and he trotted to the top of the stairs.

  “Go into the bank,” Pappy yelled over the rain.

  “The bank?” Powderkeg roared back. Their voices were being lost on the wind.

  “We need to get to the vault,” Pappy said. “Already got Maggie locked up in there.”

  They entered the bank, pulling the mules behind them. Jerry Lee knew instinctually he was not supposed to be inside a bank and protested loudly with bared teeth and a honk. Patsy was better behaved. She was used to being inside. She was so small that Old Bertha couldn’t resist bringing her inside the inn. Pappy, Powderkeg, and Cleo shook rain from their clothes. Pappy had explained that they needed to wait out the tornado in the vault, and since the townspeople almost always did what Pappy said when it came to survival, they followed him.

  “What do you mean, you’ve got Maggie locked in the vault?” Cleo said. “Can she breathe?”

  “She wouldn’t be able to in an air-tight vault,” Pappy said. “But there’s plenty of air in ours. It got broken into around 1900. The thieves used gunpowder and the door has never been the same. Fat Chance’s vault isn’t much better than the rest of the town.”

  “Then why are we going there?” Cleo asked, backing toward the door.

  “I said the vault wasn’t much better than the rest of the town,” Pappy said. “But it’s still our best bet.”

  Pappy spun the lock and pulled open the massive vault door. Maggie sprung out, but he was waiting for her. He held on to her as if he were struggling with a puppy.

  “You crazy old man,” Maggie screeched. “I could have died in there.”

  “I’m trying to keep you from dying,” Pappy said, handing her over to Powderkeg. “Get everybody in there and don’t come out. Even if the building gets ripped to shreds, this is your best bet. You hear me?”

  “Is the building going to be ripped to shreds?” Maggie was suddenly contrite.

  “Do I look like God?” Pappy asked as he ushered the group into the vault.

  With his long white beard, wild hair, and commanding way, Maggie thought he did look a little like God.

  But she knew better—and she just needed to get out of this disaster alive to prove it.

  The mules went silently into the tiny room, taking up more than their fair share of space.

  “We’re not going to fit in there with those animals,” Cleo said.

  “Suit yourself,” Pappy said. “Feel free to take your chances out here.”

  Cleo started to argue, but just then the door to the bank swung open and Fernando walked in, drenched to the skin.

  “I saw you heading over here from the hill,” Fernando said. “The grapevines are taking a beating.”

  “You were out gardening?” Pappy said in disgust. He threw Fernando a blanket that covered one of the bank chairs. “Get in here.”

  “Where are you going?” Powderkeg said.

  “We’re still missing some folks,” Pappy said. “It looks like Professor Johnson and Dymphna knew enough to go to their cellar, but I still need to make the rounds in town. The vault has as many people as it can handle, so I’ll figure something else out.”

  “I’m going to close you in,” he said as he gave Fernando the code to the lock. “I tested the inside lock. You’ll be able to get yourselves out if something happens to . . . if something happens. There’s some lanterns. Use ’em. It gets mighty dark in there.”

  “You didn’t tell me we had lanterns,” Maggie said indignantly. “I was sitting here in the dark!”

  “Just stay until you know the tornado has passed,” Pappy said, ignoring her.

  “How will we know that?” Maggie said in a quaking voice. The vault was so crowded, she was pressed against Jerry Lee.

  Pappy stared at their terrified, ashen faces.

  “You’ll know,” he said as he started to swing the door into place.

  “Pappy?” Powderkeg’s voice echoed in the steel room.

  Pappy stopped and looked in.

  Powderkeg saluted. Pappy returned his salute and closed the vault door.

  * * *

  Old Bertha’s candle blew out as the wind rustled through the cracks in the back office of her store. She let out a big sigh. She was never going to get any work done. She might as well pack it in and head back to the inn.

  She lit the candle again and made her way to the front of the store. She looked out and was shocked how hostile the weather had turned in the few hours she’d been in the back. It was even worse than when those drunken cowboys had come by. She looked down the boardwalk and saw that boards were splintering from the hail and wind. It was too dark to try to walk all the way to the inn. Main Street was a muddy river, so that was out. She saw a flicker of light coming from the forge. She admonished herself. She was a big girl. She would just stay by herself here in the grocery store. How much worse could it get?

  A bolt of lightning crashed down onto Main Street, lighting up the town for a brief second. Old Bertha grabbed her shawl and put it over her head. She opened the door and realized the shawl would be sodden in an instant. She rushed back into the store and felt around behind the counter. Her fingers grasped the rough canvas and leather quilt she was working on. She swapped it out for her shawl, taking only a second to think about her encounter with that awful Maggie. Accusing her of stealing! She took a deep breath and waded toward the forge.

  * * *

  Erinn paced Powderkeg’s shop. The answers to her questions about Pappy were just out of reach. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to Wesley. The two of them were so absorbed in their battle of wits they barely noticed the squall.

  “I think you’re focused on the wrong people,” Wesley said. “You don’t have Cutthroat, you don’t have Pennyfeather, and you don’t have Pappy. Why not concentrate on what you do have?”

  “Which is what?”

  “The story of the human spirit.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “No, I’m not. Cutthroat set up this town and gave a bunch of misdirected people a chance at the American Dream. They took it and ran with it. It’s very uplifting, you have to admit.”

  “Of course it’s uplifting,” Erinn said, trying to keep the “who gives a shit” out of her voice. “But anyone could tell that story.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  “That’s why I’m the director and you’re the production assistant.”

  “Then we’re back to square one.”

  “Maybe,” Erinn said. “Maybe not.”
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  “What do you mean?”

  Erinn noticed a hint of panic in Wesley’s voice. She thought back to the last few days as he’d followed her around. She’d heard that tone before.

  There is something he doesn’t want me to find out.

  Her guard was suddenly up.

  “Let’s say—for the sake of argument—that I change directions. Who is the weak link in the plot? Cutthroat?” she said.

  “No. You can’t tell the story without Cutthroat.”

  “So . . . Pennyfeather? Pappy?”

  “I don’t think you’ll find an angle there with either one of them. I really don’t.”

  Bingo.

  Erinn and Wesley continued to stare at one another, unaware that a twister was going to strike at any moment.

  “So . . . even though Pappy and Pennyfeather are of no interest, let me ask you this,” Erinn said. “Why one and then the other? Why did Pappy just suddenly show up out of thin air? Why wasn’t your law firm on top of this guy? I mean, do you even know who Pappy is? We don’t have a real name. That should have been easy to find out, shouldn’t it?”

  “You act as if Cutthroat were obliged to give us information,” Wesley said. “He wasn’t. We weren’t managing his life, just his legal work, and gave counsel and recommendations on financial matters that might—”

  “That might get him in trouble with inconvenient laws?”

  “Now, you aren’t really expecting an answer on that, are you?” Wesley’s smooth side reasserted itself.

  “Did it ever occur to you that Cutthroat asked that a junior partner, still wet behind the ears—”

  “Meaning me?”

  “No offense.”

  “Some taken, but go on.”

  “Wasn’t it possible that Cutthroat wanted a less . . . experienced attorney at the helm, so he could have a little more freedom? So he wouldn’t be watched as closely?”

  “You’re desperate to get an interesting story going. Why can’t you just admit you don’t have one?”

  “I’ll admit it when you convince me. You haven’t.”

  “Why would Cutthroat do that? You think he’d put all his business and personal wealth at stake so he could have a little fun?”