Gin Fling: Bootleg Springs Book Five

by Score, Lucy

  * * *

  “So, who do we tell?” I asked.

  Everyone around the table was silent. Billy Ray burped under the table, then barked in delight.

  “We have to go to the authorities,” Shelby said. “They need to know that that body isn’t Callie Kendall. That some other family lost a daughter, a sister.”

  “Bowie and Cassidy are getting married tomorrow,” I reminded her. “Your triathlon is tomorrow.”

  “I realize that. But if this is all connected? If whoever threatened Cece Benefiel into retracting her claim was involved in Abbie Gilbert’s death?”

  “If the same person is responsible for that car nearly forcing you off the road on your bike,” I added.

  “If one person did all that, they’re also likely the person who hurt Callie in the first place. And they’re powerful enough to change a forensics report,” Shelby said.

  Her statement hung like a cloud over the table.

  “This is bullshit. We know it’s the judge,” Gibson said, slapping a hand on the table.

  The puppy barked ferociously at the noise. Gibs had accepted my mother’s story as the truth, which told me he either trusted her or he needed Callie Kendall to be alive. Maybe it was a bit of both.

  “Sorry, bud,” he said, leaning down to pick up Billy Ray. Despite the anger in his tone, he held the dog gently.

  “The evidence points in that direction,” Shelby began. “But we can’t be certain. If we start making accusations—”

  “Fuck accusations,” Gibson said. “I want a face-to-face conversation with the asshole.” Billy Ray took exception to the language and slathered Gibson’s face with his tongue. “Get your damn tongue out of my mouth!” he sputtered.

  The mood around the table lightened almost imperceptibly.

  “This is exactly why we shouldn’t tell Scarlett,” Shelby pointed out. “Half-cocked accusations aren’t going to get us a confession. And if it is the judge, he obviously has power and reach. He has access to police records, maybe even a thug or two in his pocket to do his dirty work.”

  Gibson handed the puppy over to my mother who still looked guilty and dazed.

  She and I were going to have a long talk in the near future.

  “Why didn’t you tell Jonah when he came here?” Shelby asked. It was like the woman could read my mind.

  “Everyone was safer assuming Callie Kendall was gone,” Mom said. She seemed lighter, too. As if sharing this news had somehow lessened a weight she’d been carrying for a long time.

  “Maybe everyone is still safer assuming she’s dead,” I pointed out.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Gibson demanded.

  “Our brother is getting married tomorrow. Do we really want to have a family sit-down and ruin that? Who’s going to be paying attention to two people who waited their entire lives for six o’clock tomorrow when the whole world is lit up over Callie Kendall being alive?”

  “Still, it would be nice if she could go un-missing to clear this mess up,” Shelby mused.

  “Call her,” Gibson said earnestly to my mom. “Bring her back here.”

  “I can’t do that, Gibs. It was one-way communication. Everything was set up for her safety. I don’t know where she is or how to contact her. After your mother died, Callie and your father spoke on the phone. They decided that she would continue sending postcards but to me instead of here, where someone might notice them and wonder.”

  “Who would see a postcard and find it suspicious enough to raise a red flag?” Shelby asked.

  “Seriously, Shelby? How long have you been in Bootleg?” Gibson asked dryly. It was the first hint of humor I’d seen from him in a long time.

  She gave a little mock bow. “Point taken. The bottom line is, what if the postcards aren’t enough proof?” she said, wetting her lips. “If someone has the power to tamper with a forensics report, they’re not going to have much of a problem disproving a couple of postcards that could have been sent by anybody. Without Callie herself, we’ve still got nothing.”

  “You have me,” Mom said firmly. “Your father’s name needs to be cleared. I’ll tell them everything I know.”

  “It’s still… what would Jayme call it?” I asked. “Hearsay? So you got postcards in the mail. What are they going to do? Fingerprint them?”

  “Maybe. And there’s also the fact that I met her last year.”

  “Mom! Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Holy shit,” Shelby breathed.

  “Holy shit. Disney princess swore,” Gibson whispered.

  “Watch your mouth, Jonah. And no, I’m not fucking kidding you,” Mom said with a slight smile. “When your father died last year, Callie called me. We met in Seattle for lunch.”

  “What did she say? How did she look? Could you tell it was her?” Shelby was hinged so far forward her chin was almost on the table.

  I stroked a hand over her back, feeling unusually calm. I assumed a complete and total breakdown was in my near future and decided to embrace the calm while it lasted.

  “She’d heard your father passed away. With both your parents gone, she felt her debt to them, to make sure they knew she was safe, had been fulfilled. That’s why the postcards stopped.”

  “So we tell the sheriff,” I pressed.

  “Tomorrow. After the wedding,” Gibson decided.

  “Okay,” I said.

  We were all silent for another minute before Gibson spoke again. “She’s really alive?”

  The hope in his voice made me hurt for him.

  Mom nodded. “She’s alive, and your father saved her life.”

  “Why would she have stayed away this whole time?” Gibson wondered aloud, his face broody.

  “Only Callie could answer that,” Mom said.

  Billy Ray tore into the dining room, dragging one of my running shoes by the laces. It got wrapped around the table leg, and the puppy stubbornly tried to tug it free.

  We watched him, all a little dazed.

  “You know, I thought it would feel good to finally have some answers,” Shelby said. “Now, I just have more questions.”

  “Join the fucking club,” Gibson said, pushing away his untouched whiskey.

  48

  Shelby

  The toe I dipped into Cheat Lake was considering frostbite. I’d done the majority of my training in Bootleg’s lovely, heated waters. So normal lake temperatures were cold enough to take my breath away, even in the swelter of the first Saturday in August.

  I was standing in the back of the pack of bathing-suited athletes with race numbers written on their arms and legs feeling like there were few places on Earth that I belonged less than right here. Everyone else looked leanly muscled, icily calm like they did this every Saturday on this sliver of beach surrounded by thick trees that sang with cicadas.

  According to my fitness watch, my heart was attempting to explode its way out of my chest.

  I felt alone. Lonely.

  It wasn’t true, of course. I’d been chauffeured here in Estelle’s minivan with the Breakfast Club, my bike on the roof, my gear behind Gert and Jefferson in the back bench seat.

  The odds of me being attacked fifty miles from Bootleg Springs in a crowd of triathletes and spectators were low enough that Jonah had settled for me having a geriatric team of babysitters. They were waiting for me at the transition point between the swim and the bike. “To make sure you didn’t drown,” Myrt had offered helpfully.

  Once I returned to start the run, they would drive to the finish line to meet me there.

  I wished Jonah could have been here. But I’d been the first person to tell him he absolutely had to focus on the wedding today. Bowie was the first brother to tie the knot. This was big. Huge. Much bigger than my personal quest to compete, to complete.

  Still, I missed him fiercely.

  But I’d started this process by myself to prove to myself that I could do it myself. And I would. Last night I’d reached another milestone. I’d finished
my dissertation. Of course there was a need for another pass at polishing, for perfecting. But the hard work, the bleeding was over.

  Just like now. I’d trained, I’d sweated, I’d bled.

  I’d ached.

  And all that was between me and that finish line was a 750-meter swim and 15.6 miles divided between bike and my own feet.

  The hard part was over. This was the fun part.

  I hoped.

  Best of all, there was no crazy potential murderer here watching me. It was just me and the culmination of my hard work. And I was going to enjoy it.

  “First tri?” A man in a very small bathing suit with a rather large belly asked, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

  I nodded. “Yeah. Does it show?”

  He leaned in conspiratorially. “You look as nervous as I feel. Hey, Tameka!” He waved over a woman in a sleek blue one-piece. She had silver curls peeking out of her swim cap. “Found us another virgin.”

  Her face transformed into a smile. “Welcome to the club, honey.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re both first-timers, too?”

  “Yep,” the man said. “I’m Gus. I lost fifty pounds this year. Figured I’d put all this energy to good use. Grandkids are waiting for me at the finish, so I gotta finish. This here is Tameka.”

  Tameka gave me a wave. “I’m here because I bet my twin sister $500 I could finish faster than her. She’s running her first tri today in Michigan. We quit smoking together in January.”

  “What’s your story, pipsqueak?” Gus asked, giving me a hard punch in the arm. “Sorry ‘bout that. Nerves screw with my depth perception.”

  “I’m Shelby. And…” I paused, considering my options. “I was diagnosed with a weird kind of arthritis that causes me a lot of pain and might turn my upper back into a question mark. And I thought if I could finish a triathlon, I could probably handle the diagnosis.”

  “Cool,” Tameka said with a grin.

  “You don’t look questionable to me. Ha!” Gus said, moving to elbow me.

  I took a step back to be safe.

  “Are you some super-fast athlete?” Tameka wondered.

  “Me?” My eyes widened. “No. I’m just hoping to finish.”

  “We’re all gonna finish,” Gus insisted.

  Tameka jerked a thumb at him. “What he said. Wanna stick with us? Moral support?”

  I instantly felt better.

  * * *

  The organizers ran us through everything one more time. We’d enter the water and swim parallel to the shore, following the buoys until they brought us back on shore. There were lifeguards in the water and medical boats already on the water. Just in case.

  “Please don’t let me need a boat,” I whispered as we moved closer to the starting line on the beach. Bodies pressing in, energy rising.

  Event photographers snapped away.

  Gus took my left hand. I took Tameka’s. And when the starting gun fired, we trotted forward as a team.

  The water was cold enough to take my breath away, but once I had room, I ducked under the surface. Reinvigorated, awake, alive, I reached for the surface.

  I broke into the light and air, found Gus and Tameka waiting for me. With a laugh, I kicked my legs, and we started swimming. The main crush of bodies was ahead of us, but the water was churning all around us in their wake.

  Nerves shifted to excitement now that we were moving. Gus had a slower stroke, but I paced him. Conserving energy now was exactly what I should be doing. I kept my new friends in sight and focused on strong, deep breaths, certain that Jonah would be proud.

  We clipped past buoy after buoy. My arms felt strong, my strokes textbook perfect. I wished Jonah could see me. See his hard work pay off.

  I was so focused on form that I was startled when my fingers scraped bottom.

  “Let’s go, Shelby,” Tameka called from a few feet away in knee-deep water.

  The swim was over, and we weren’t even dead last. I felt elated as the three of us slogged out of the water.

  “Meet up on the road, girls,” Gus called as he jogged toward the parking lot where the bikes waited.

  I stripped off my goggles and swim cap like Jonah told me and trotted up the beach in the direction of the transition area. I dipped my feet in one of the kiddie pools closest to my setup and then ran for my bike. I pulled on a pair of shorts over my bathing suit bottoms, prayed my soggy ass wouldn’t chafe, and sat to pull on my cycling shoes. My adrenaline was ramping up again. I bobbled my helmet when I reached for it. My sunglasses went flying, and I had to scramble for both.

  Relax. Focus. Don’t go for speed. Be consistent.

  I heard Jonah’s words as clear as if he were standing behind me. They steadied my hands. Pushing myself too hard would send my body into a tailspin. I slowed my movements intentionally. I made sure my running shoes and hat were on the towel with the race number belt. I grabbed a quick swig of water, and I was on my way. I plucked my bike off the rail and pushed it toward the start.

  Gus was already there. Tameka was ten seconds behind me. We mounted up together and pushed off.

  “Yee haw!” Gus hollered.

  49

  Shelby

  Gus’s event was clearly the bike. I watched his sixty-year-old butt bob in front of me as he powered up the long, rolling hill. Tameka was a bike length ahead of me on the right. My legs burned, my lungs burned. Sweat sluiced down my back, leaving me sticky and salty.

  “Can you believe this is how we chose to spend a Saturday?” Tameka called over her shoulder.

  I grinned. Yeah, I could believe it.

  We were in the middle of the back of the pack. Surrounded by the non-elite athletes. The real people. The regular people who had something to prove. Not a time to beat. We were sweating and suffering together. And something about that bonded us together as we pedaled our way through hills and turns, trees flashing past us. The stingiest of summer breezes enhanced by our speed.

  I thought again of Bootleg Springs and my survey. Bonds. Roots. I was going to remember this hill, Gus’s butt, Tameka’s sharp laugh for the rest of my life. Because we were bound together now.

  The Bodines were tied to Bootleg. Not just because of the history of the generations that came before them. But because of how the town witnessed their pain and arranged itself within it. I imagined the casseroles that would have lined the Bodine fridge and freezer when Connie died, the turnout for Jonah Sr.’s funeral. I’d seen first-hand the gossip stir about Jonah Bodine’s involvement in the Callie Kendall disappearance. It was a small town. Gossiping was a professional sport. However, so was compassion.

  And as often as a “may he rest in peace” was raised up in atonement for gossiping about the man, there were many more instances of the town stepping up to claim the surviving Bodines as their own.

  They hired Scarlett for handy work. Proudly ooh-ed and ah-ed over Jameson’s metalwork when his installations made the news. They pushed new clients at Gibson and praised Bowie for his work with the students at the high school. They took their legal issues to Devlin. They sweated with Jonah in the gym or in the park, trusting him to guide their health, their bodies to a better future.

  And though they discussed it to death, the town never once seemed to hold Jonah Sr.’s misdeeds against his children.

  Love wasn’t just being there in the good times. Real love was standing next to someone on their darkest days. Real love was sweating together, striving together. Falling down and getting back up. Hurting, healing. That’s where the bond came from. The work.

  I felt a new burst of energy wash over me and crested the hill with a big, fat smile on my face.

  The miles were ticking by, and I didn’t want to miss a single one of them.

  I didn’t want to miss out on anything anymore. Yes, I was a researcher at heart. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t get out from behind my data and live.

  Love.

  Jonah.

  I almost fell off my bike.
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  I loved Jonah Bodine. This was no summer fling. This was no temporary stopover before I got on with the rest of my life. This was my life.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” I wheezed. I felt… free. Lighter than I had in years. Happy.

  “Almost there,” Gus puffed over his shoulder in glee as we spotted the transition area a few hundred yards ahead of us.

  “Oh my god. What is that?” Tameka gasped beside me.

  On the side of the road, six elderly Bootleggers hooted and hollered from lawn chairs at racers as they passed.

  “And why aren’t they wearing shirts?” Tameka asked.

  Because they’d painted S-H-E-L-B-Y on their bellies. My neighbors, my friends, proudly displayed their painted torsos. The horror. The hilarity. Now, I was certain I wouldn’t forget today. These memories would be etched into my mind like the blue paint on the sweet wrinkled skin of my fan club.

  “Shelby! You’re not in last place!” Jefferson hollered.

  “Great job, Shelby! You don’t look like you’re going to vomit!” Myrt bellowed. She was wearing an umbrella hat to keep the August sun off her face.

  I waved, careful not to veer into the ditch.

  “We’re real proud of you!” Gert said, hefting a jar of what looked like apple pie moonshine.

  “Thank you,” I laughed as I zipped past.

  “What was that?” Tameka asked still in disbelief. “Or am I dehydrated and hallucinating mirages?”

  “You wish! That’s my fan club,” I told her.

  We reached the transition area and high-fived Gus on our way back to our spots. Only 3.1 miles were left in my personal challenge, and I was actually looking forward to them. I hopped off my bike and nearly face-planted when my knees tried to give out. It was either love or exertion that was taking my legs out from under me. I decided it was love.

  I was in love. And I finished my dissertation. And I had a degenerative disease. And I was really, really tired and might have to crawl my way across the finish line.