Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

  “You know, if I’d still wanted you, I would never have let you leave Boston. I didn’t have to get a job with Greg to try and get you back.”

  Her voice grew sharp. “You’re just so full of yourself, Jordan.” “I can afford to be a little arrogant,” I snapped back, letting the pain talk before my brain edited. “I’m not the one who looks like a land-scam artist. What he was doing was horrible, Lorna, and you were helping him.” “I didn’t know! Honestly!” “I want to believe you.

  Desperately. I don’t think you’re a liar, but right now-” “I’m not a liar!” “Then what were you hiding when you were talking to Billy Ray?

  Maybe you knew about the land resale all along? What else was going on? Maybe you and Greg were lovers?” “Fine, I’ll tell you.” Her voice took on a strained, sad tone. She coughed once, as though the words were slabs in her throat. “Greg and I were lovers. For a short while after you left. But I cooled it down, because I knew it was a mistake to get involved with my boss. It was the stupidest thing I’d ever done, but you broke my heart when you left and I was entitled to make stupid mistakes. Satisfied?” She bolted off the couch, in tears, and stormed out of the room. “Hello!” Sister trilled as she came into the kitchen, laden with groceries. I quickly offered to help and she looked at my bad arm with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t bother, Jordy.

  Where’s Lorna?” “She’s resting upstairs. She’s not feeling well.” I didn’t feel too hot myself. “Oh, dear.” Sister’s voice just dripped concern. “I think she needs a little company to brighten her day.

  That’s why I invited Candace over for dinner.” I whirled to face her.

  Sister smiled like an angel just getting her wings. I spent the rest of the afternoon lying on my bed, hearing Lorna’s vague movements in the next room, thinking about all the hell that’d broken loose. Greg might not have done anything outright illegal-that would be for a court to decide-but he was obviously an unsavory character. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him, but he’d obviously chosen a bad path. (Even now, thinking about his savaged throat made my bile rise.) I closed my eyes and images danced behind my lids. Wire taken from the fence that bisected the Louder-milks’ property from Bob Don’s ending up in Greg’s neck. Gretchen in Greg’s company. That mysterious phone number on the pad in Greg’s room. Greg being Lorna’s ex- or maybe-not-ex-lover. Greg’s long-standing animosity toward Nina. Tiny’s fury at the thought that Nina could be accused. The erased diskettes.

  Greg’s neatly arranged files that indicated he was out to defraud the people of Mirabeau with this condo development. The letters he’d already drafted to send to the city council, even before his deals were done. His many meetings with people in the town: Miss Twyla, the Goertzes, Parker and Dee Loudermilk, Freddy Jacksill, Uncle Bid. He hadn’t met with me and I felt pert near left out. And who was the J. he met with at the end of each day? It hadn’t been me. I wondered, idly, if it was Jenny Loudermilk-she’d come in right behind Greg at the library meeting. Or another abbreviation for Freddy Jacksill. They were the only people connected to the case that I could think of. Of course, it could be someone else entirely. And to add to all this, the bombings. Tomorrow, I decided, I’d have to talk with Mr. Freddy Jacksill and the Loudermilks. I took some more Tylenol, wondering if you could get addicted to the stuff, and rewarded all my hard thinking with a predinner nap. I could have killed my nephew Mark. He’d ended up getting invited to stay at a friend’s for hamburgers for dinner, leaving me alone with three women, all of whom had their eyes on me for different reasons. It was really more than any one man should be expected to bear. Sister was the congenial hostess, being as sugary to me and Lorna as two-day-old sweet-potato pie. She’d insisted on doing all the cooking, while leaving Candace, Lorna, and me out in the living room with a life-preserver-shaped tray of cheese, fruit, and chips. (I felt like the dip.) She brought in our beers and patted Lorna on the shoulder. “Lorna, I know you’re probably not feeling like partying very much, but trust me-a relaxing evening with friends will make you feel better. Try and put all this dreadfulness behind you for just a few hours.” Good thing Lorna wasn’t diabetic-Sister’s cajoling tone would have put anyone into a sugar coma. Lorna wasn’t fooled for an instant. “That’s awfully sweet of you, Arlene. And inviting Candace, too, so I can make a new friend here in Mirabeau, well, really, you shouldn’t have.” I managed to choke down a chip. I could see the evening unfolding like a bad horror movie. Candace and Sister (or at least, Sister) had connived not to leave me alone with Lorna, not knowing that right now I was a bit tiffed at Lorna. Sister wasn’t about to have her baby brother get into a mixed marriage (and marrying a Yankee would be considered just that in Mirabeau-we didn’t trust genes that hadn’t been in nearby pools for several generations) and she was kind of stuck on the idea of me and Candace staying on a steady course. Candace had either gotten dragged into this or was a co-conspirator, but she was the person I was happiest to see. And Lorna, God help me. Lorna saw right through Sister’s charade and had determined to be as affable (at least outwardly) as Sister was being.

  She wouldn’t look at me, given her latest confession, but when she’d come down to dinner she’d given me a sideways hug and patted my shoulder. I admit I had no clue as to where I stood with her, or whether I believed she didn’t know about Greg’s fraud. I shouldn’t be mad that she and Greg had been lovers, but I did feel a vague tug in my gut at the thought. Had she felt the same when she’d found out about Candace? At least, I comforted myself, I’d had better taste in companions. Far better, I thought with a smile as I glanced over at Candace. She was wearing an outfit of hers I’d always liked, a simple blue-and-white-stripe tanktop dress. I glanced over at Lorna. She’d changed into a Boston Marathon T-shirt, deliciously snug over her chest, and long navy walking shorts. Both these women were beautiful, in different ways. Any man should have delighted in their company, but the tension hung in the air like a hanged man’s ghost. They’d spend the whole evening fighting over me. A slight grin touched my mouth;

  I’d never had two women fight over me before. It’d be hell to sit through, but it might also be kind of fun-at the least, a boost to my benighted ego. I sat on the couch with the tray of food before me.

  Lorna had gracefully maneuvered to sit by me and Candace had retreated to a nearby wicker chair. Sister had already fed Mama and put her to bed, so she wasn’t there for me to talk to. I find it a comfort to talk to Mama sometimes even if she’s not paying me a bit of heed. “You must stay busy here in Mirabeau, Candace,” Lorna purred. “I mean, what with helping Jordan out at the library.” “That takes a lot of my time, yes,” Candace concurred. “And I do volunteer work for the Daughters of the Republic of Texas chapter, and the Bonaparte County Literacy Program, and the Mirabeau Historical Society.” “How sweet,” Lorna said. “Of course, that’s not really like having a career. Don’t you get bored?” “Not really.” Candace smiled tightly. “And you’re right, it’s not like a career. I’m not shackled to it.” “But then you don’t get all the rewards from a career.” Candace leaned over and patted my knee in a most proprietary way. “My work brings me all sorts of rewards.” God, they were just going to snipe at each other all night.

  Over little old me? I tried not to smirk. After delicately arranging some cheese on a cracker, Lorna eyed Candace and me. “So what do you guys do for fun in town? If it’s just having sex, spare me any gruesome details.” Candace might have taken slight umbrage at being referred to as a guy, but she wasn’t put off by Lorna’s ribaldry.

  “Oh, no. We watch TV-cable is a necessity if you live out here. We go into Austin to shop, sometimes go over and eat in La Grange or Smithville.” “TV, huh? Does he make you watch all those old spy shows with him?” Lorna asked, leaning forward. This had been a particularly annoying habit of mine; foreplay had often consisted of wrenching the remote control out of my hand. “Oh, yes.” Candace laughed. “He still loves to watch The Avengers. I think he’d like me to go as Emma Peel for
Halloween and he could be John Steed. I just told him I wasn’t about to cavort around town in a black leather jumpsuit with a Sixties hairdo, no sir.” “He tried that on me, too! Like he wouldn’t look ridiculous in a bowler.” Lorna giggled. “Plus, you know Jordan, he can be clumsiness personified. He’d poke someone’s eye out with that umbrella Steed always carried.” She sighed. “No, I always picked out our Halloween costumes, and every year he was an absolute baby about it.” “I don’t think this is really-” I began, but Candace cut me off: “What did y’all go as?” “Sex toys,” Lorna whispered back, shooting a cautionary glance toward the kitchen, where we could barely hear Sister humming a Trisha Yearwood song with no regard to key. “Lorna, really-” I tried. Candace exploded in laughter. “Oh, my God!” “I know.

  Isn’t it horribly tacky? But, Candace, you have to understand the crowd we ran around with up there, they were awfully full of themselves. Jordan and I liked to let a little of their stuffy air out. So I went as a vibrator-basically I wore a long silver gown, with speed settings on my front and an old football helmet with halves of golf balls glued on it.” “Oh, my God!” “And Jordan was a dildo!” Lorna managed to finish. She was howling as hard as Candace. I wasn’t howling at all. I started a very detailed examination of Sister’s cheese tray. This had ceased to be amusing. “How?” Candace wanted to know. “Just basically put a phallic-shaped cylinder around him and he was set. I did make him wear a beanie on his head, for that ‘special pleasuring sensation.’ You wouldn’t believe how cute he looked, I think I still have a picture of him back home-” The cackles followed me as I escaped into the kitchen. So much for their bickering over my studly form. Sister glanced up from her chicken-fried steaks, sizzling in the skillet with a heavenly aroma. “What’s all that screeching?”

  Sister obviously anticipated a catfight between my two paramours. “I hope you’re satisfied,” I snapped. “They’re laughing at me!” I managed to make it through dinner, but more than once I wondered if my steak knife would provide me with a fast death if I fell on it. I did enjoy Sister’s food: chicken-fried steak surrounded by a delicate, golden batter, topped with rich cream gravy; black-eyed peas, cooked with peppers and bits of bacon; steamed summer squash from Sister’s own garden, with just a hint of rosemary; thick slabs of homemade jalapeno cornbread, with butter melting inside each slice. For dessert we had warm, gooey homemade pecan pie with Blue Bell vanilla ice cream on top. The ladies drank iced tea with lime slices and I stayed with beer, hoping to numb the conversation between Candace and Lorna. It almost didn’t matter who was saying what. “How long did it take you to get used to the snoring?” “Ages, even though he claims he never snores.” “Yeah! Right!” “I hope he picks up after himself better.”

  “Actually, no. He still believes that clothes that land on the floor have life and walk to the hamper under their own power.” “I know. But he says he’s tidy at work.” “Well, he is. Usually. Of course he’s the worst flirt at work with all the old ladies. They just love him.”

  “Didn’t you ever want to snip out that tongue, though? I got tired of always having to engage in repartee. Not to mention what you just said, his innate need to flirt. Really!” “Oh, but you got used to it, didn’t you? I always thought that it was kind of cute.” Sister tried to dam the flow: “More dessert, girls?” “No, thanks.” “No, Arlene, thank you.” “God, and have you ever dated a guy that liked war movies so much? I always wondered if that meant Jordy really wanted a military career.” “But he’s not good at taking orders.” “Or at giving them.” Laughter from both sides. I started counting the nuts in my pie, hoping to find a big one I could choke on. “And did you ever see a man with so many damn books?” “No. It’s like having another library at home. And God help you if you interrupt him when he’s wanting to read. He gets awful moody.” “Lord, and those depressing books. All those murder mysteries. That actually scared me when we started dating. I thought it was a little morbid.” “At least he wasn’t in a Civil War phase. God forbid he starts reading Bruce Catton again. You won’t see him for weeks.” “Sounds like football season when the Cowboys are playing. You better not talk during a Cowboy game.” “Or laugh at him when the Cowboys score and he does his little victory dance.” “I have never minded being laughed at for that!” I exclaimed, finally rousing to defend myself. I looked at Sister for help. She seemed unduly interested in the crust of her pie, picking at it like an archaeologist clearing dirt from an artifact. “He’s not a bad dancer, as long as the music has a very -strong-beat.” “And you’ll need steel-tipped shoes to protect your feet.” “Well, he did do a little striptease dance for me on my birthday that was just adorable!

  All he kept on was a rose in his mouth and his Cowboys baseball cap-”

  I hoped that all the blood in my body was not rushing to my face; I wanted enough left to have a proper heart attack. I wondered what it would take to shut them up. The explosion shushed them, a few moments later. The roar of a blast maybe two streets over, a faraway chorus of screams, and moments later, the cry of sirens.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was easier to run across the lawns to the smoky haze in the sky than drive; it was only two streets over. Sister stayed with Mama; Lorna, Candace, and I dashed through the darkening yards, the summer sun just setting to the west, the early-evening moisture sticking our clothes to our skins. Folks were pouring out of their houses-children, scared but excited; parents with frantic looks; the elderly with worn eyes and unsteady limbs. Candace and Lorna followed me as I made a shortcut through a couple of backyards and came out onto Mockingbird Street, a block down from the bed-and-breakfast. One room-sized portion of the beautiful old house was gone from the second story, as though a hand had come down from space and torn it free. Smoke gouted from windows on the top floor.

  Broken glass and hunks of burned brick lay scattered across the yard.

  One Mirabeau Police Department cruiser was already in front, its siren blaring at the burning building like a dog barking at a stranger. In the distance I heard the whine of our one fire truck. “My God!” Lorna exclaimed. Reflexively, she grabbed hold of my slinged arm. I hardly noticed the pain. “Chet! Oh, my Lord!” Candace cried. She ran toward the police cruiser and we could see Chet huddled in the backseat, coughing. One of Junebug’s officers, Franklin Bedloe, was barking into his radio, calling for backup fire trucks from Bavary. I glanced back at the house. The fire was spreading and my heart sank. That house is one of the most beautiful in Mirabeau, and one of the oldest. I looked up at the smoldering chunk that wasn’t there anymore. If I figured right, the room that had been blasted into oblivion was Greg’s. Lorna, beside me, saw it, too. “My God,” she yelled. “What the hell is going on in this goddamned town of yours?” We didn’t have a chance to discuss it. There wasn’t much of a summer wind, but one burning shingle sailing in the sky could destroy other homes, touching them with the plague of fire. Lorna and I helped Hubert Moore, a neighbor of the bed-and-breakfast, hose down his little antiques shop to keep it from burning. (Even with only one good arm I can still aim a garden hose.) One fire truck arrived and began containing the blaze, quickly joined by two others from Bavary. Junebug and his officers began clearing people back from the heat. Exhausted, I sat down on the curb, Lorna next to me. I didn’t see Candace in the milling crowd in the street. I did see our honorable mayor, Parker Loudermilk, and his wife Dee, watching the fire. Dee looked cold despite the heat, her hands hugging her elbows. “Back in a sec,” I said to Lorna. I went over to approach the Loudermilks and barely caught a hiss from Parker to Dee: “You just keep your mouth shut and get Jenny home.” What was that about? I wondered as I tapped Parker on the shoulder. He fairly jumped, whirled, and put on his best political smile-tempered, you understand, by the unfortunate circumstances. “Jordy. Terrible shame about the Mirabeau B., isn’t it?” Parker wiped a sooty hand across the back of his mouth. “It’s awful.” I glanced back over at the blaze. “I know Junebug’s doing the best that he
can to stop this bomber, Parker, but people are getting really scared now. Someone could’ve been killed tonight.” Dee made a noise in her throat and looked away from the heat and smoke. “I’m going to go find Jenny,” she said in a strangled voice, and turning, she wove into the crowd. Parker didn’t look happy and he glared back at me, his politicking forgotten. I was, after all, his subordinate on the governmental food chain. “Are you questioning my commitment to catching the bomber, Jordy?” His voice held the faintest threat of malice and there was a rigidity in his expression that I didn’t like. I blinked. “Of course not, Parker. I’m just telling you that people are frightened out of their wits. Just look at them!” He glanced around at the crowd with annoyance. “They’re like vultures on a dead coon,” he grunted. “They’re your voters, Parker, and if you don’t remedy this situation, they’re going to vote someone else into office.” Notice that I would not make a good politician with such blunt statements. His lips thinned, and he glanced down at the ground, but when he looked back at me, the public mask was securely in place. Parker pointed at my sling, smiling beatifically. “I know you’ve already been hurt by all this. We are going to catch whoever’s responsible. Assuming that this is the work of the bomber and not just a regular fire or a gas explosion.” His eyes traveled back to the dancing flames. Even in the fading light, I could see a fascination in his eyes as the blaze flickered. “It’s losing its battle, Jordy. Do you see it? The fire’s dying.” There was an odd tone to his voice; almost remorseful. I snorted. “A gas explosion now would be an awful coincidence, Parker. I think that-” Parker Loudermilk wasn’t particularly captivated by my thoughts. He squeezed my shoulder in the fatherly way favored by small-town politicians (I think they all must be sent to a school for that) and said, “Appreciate your citizenly concern, Jordy. Don’t worry, we’re on top of this.” He spun on his heel and headed for the police cruisers. “I’m sure that will be a great comfort to Chet!” I hollered after his back, but he ignored me.