Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

  Childish of me to do that, I suppose, but I didn’t really think that Parker cared too much about what happened to anyone but himself.

  Despite the summer warmth and the heat from the fire, I felt a tremor of cold watching him leave. Abandoned by the gentle patronage of our mayor, I plunged into the crowd, searching for Candace and Lorna. I saw Miss Twyla, Nina, and Tiny, all sitting in Tiny’s pickup truck, watching the crowd. I thought of waving at Miss Twyla but didn’t want Tiny to fancy I was waving at him. I found Lorna standing with Dee and Jenny Loudermilk. I could see Jenny was crying. Unless she had an unsuspected emotional attachment to antebellum architecture, it wasn’t the destruction of the Mirabeau B. that had reduced her to tears.

  Lorna looked lost, so I collected her and headed up the road. I glanced back at the Loudermilk women; they both appeared upset as hell. What was going on in that family? Candace was sitting on a porch two houses up, holding Chet’s chubby hand. Eula Mae, never one to be away from the excitement, was holding his other hand. He was fighting back tears as the main chimney in the house shuddered and fell apart, scattering soot and brick and a hundred and sixty years of history.

  “Chet, what happened?” I squatted across from him. His heavy face glanced at me, as though he hadn’t known me for years. “I-I don’t know. I mean-” He coughed again, as though trying to clear his mind and his throat. Candace patted his back. Lorna came up to us, kneeling next to Candace. Eula Mae stared daggers at Lorna, but Lorna ignored her. Chet wiped tears from his eyes. “I’d just gone out to the backyard to put seed in the bird feeders, and there was this horrible explosion. I ran back into the house, I tried to get up the steps, there was all this white smoke, but suddenly fire broke out and the heat, the smoke-they drove me back. So I ran. I just ran.” “Chet, was anyone else in the hotel?” He shook his head. “I’ve only got one couple staying, and they went over to Bavary about ten minutes beforehand, to eat at one of the German restaurants. I haven’t had any other guests check in since Mr. Callahan died and Lorna left.” He broke down, crying now, holding Candace’s hand. “Why, why? Why would someone do that?” I stood, staring up at the charring building. The firefighters seemed to have it under control now, but the old house looked gutted. The fire was retreating, but already sated with a diet of fine antiques, expensive fabrics, handwoven carpets, and the dark memory of Greg’s murder. I noticed that one of the fire trucks was maneuvering for a position closer to the west side of the house, and several people were moving a car out of its way. The car was a teal Ford Taurus with RIVERTOWN REAL ESTATE emblazoned on a magnetic sign on the driver’s door. Debris from the explosion covered the car, having thoroughly dented its hood and starred the windshield. I watched the volunteers move the damaged car and I wondered where its owner was. I’d been meaning to talk to Freddy Jacksill about his deals with Greg. We sat for another hour, watching the fire die. Neighbors offered Chet a place to stay and he accepted mutely, taking a flask of whiskey from one fellow and disappearing into a house across the street. The cop cars and fire trucks stayed, their lights whirling in a red-and-blue dervish. It was as though no one quite wanted to go home. Lorna and Candace decided to head back to the house; I told them I’d be there shortly. I thought they might not enjoy talking about me so much when I wasn’t around, but they’d have to make do. Junebug was talking with the firemen and Franklin Bedloe, watching the house. A few heavily suited firemen came in and out of the smoldering remains.

  I wondered how compromised the structure was, if the timbers would give way and collapse at any time. Much of the house still stood, but it looked weak behind its smoky veil. Junebug nodded at me as I came up. “Hey, Jordy, I guess you heard it all, huh? Were you at home?” I nodded. “Yeah, and Chet told us what happened. You think it’s the bomber? I mean, couldn’t it be a gas leak or something?” “It was a gas fire, but we think the gas line was ruptured by the explosion. That in turn caused the fire.” He sighed. “This doesn’t exactly fit the bomber’s pattern, though, does it? He’s just been blowing up little diddly things, not taking out buildings.” “Maybe,” I said. “I remember reading about pyromania in college in a psych class and I wonder if the impulse to blow up things is connected to a pyro’s impulse to set fires. I remember that they said they tend to start off small and work their way up to bigger targets.” “They say that about serial killers, too,” Franklin Bedloe offered helpfully. “Goddamn it, that’s all I need,” Junebug muttered. “I already got a killer and a terrorist-in-training. All I need’s a serial killer.” “I guess Sergeant Garza should know about this,” I suggested quietly. Junebug didn’t smile. “I don’t care much for seeing Teresa under these conditions. I’m just thankful no one was hurt.” “Yeah,” I answered, then glanced back over at the fire trucks. “You’d think Freddy’d see about getting his car out of here. His insurance agent’s going to have a hissy fit when he sees all that damage.” Junebug shot me a look, then followed my pointing finger toward the wrecked Taurus. He glanced back at me. “Have you seen Freddy?” I shook my head. “No, not today.”

  I paused, then looked back at the remains of the bed-and-breakfast.

  “Oh, God, you don’t think-” The blaze had died down long enough for some of the firefighters to try to go up to the second floor. It held; they built houses to last back in the olden days. The search was short. They found Freddy at the top of the stairs. And along the second-story hallway. And in Greg’s room. And on what was left of the ceiling. Whatever caused the blast, Freddy Jacksill had been right next to it. When I got home, Candace and Lorna had filled Sister in on the explosion. Sister was nearly frantic and had called my nephew Mark home to stay. Mark’s thirteen, a bright independent boy who’s never quite recovered from the desertion of his daddy, who vamoosed to play cowboy in the rodeo all those years ago. He’s dark like his daddy, but smart-mouthed like Sister and me. We’ve had a rocky relationship at best, but he’d finally grown to accept me as a more or less permanent part of his life. When I came into the living room, thirsty and wanting a beer, Mark was animatedly telling Lorna how I’d saved his life a few months ago. Lorna raised an eyebrow at Mark’s highly embellished story. “I had no idea you were such a hero,” she said.

  “Big hero. I nearly got a bunch of folks killed, including myself. Try scared-shitless hero.” “Uncle Jordy was cool!” Mark bragged. “He was in the newspaper and everything.” He was obviously still hoping that Nintendo would take heed of my adventures and fashion a video game on me. We still hadn’t heard from them. I told them about Freddy Jacksill being torn apart in the explosion and the blood drained right from Sister and Lorna’s faces. Lorna was quiet, but Sister didn’t hold back. “That does it, Mark. There are some extra loonies in town and you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here where it’s safe.”

  “Maybe it’s not safe, Arlene,” Lorna said quietly. She stood and looked at us all, a wild fear in her gray eyes. “My God. First Greg, now Freddy. Is someone killing everyone that had anything to do with the land deal? What if they come after me next?” That was a distressing possibility. Several terrified looks crossed the room. I felt the tug of panic at my heart. Candace, as always, was the rock.

  “Look, Lorna, we’ll get you some protection, okay? Jordy, why don’t you call Junebug and see about getting an officer to stand watch here.

  I’m sure it’d make Lorna feel better.” Lorna gave Candace such a look of gratitude that I felt like hugging them both. “That’s a great idea, Candace. I’m sure he can spare someone,” I said, and went to make the call. Junebug said he’d send over Franklin Bedloe to serve as a guard.

  He also told me that Teresa Garza was going to come back to town tomorrow to look over the damage at the Mirabeau B. Lamar. He sounded exhausted, so I wished him a quick good-night. I think he wasn’t the only one worn-out. The folks in my living room looked like death warmed over. Candace announced that she was ready to turn in. She wished Mark, Sister, and Lorna a good evening and thanked Sister for the dinner. I
offered to walk her out to her car. She leaned against my good arm as we approached her Mercedes. The faint glow in the sky that had come from the burning antebellum home was gone, replaced by a smudge of smoke that stars shimmered softly behind. “Thanks for the suggestion about getting protection for Lorna,” I said. She slid her hand into my back jeans pocket as we walked. “Protection for all of you while she’s in your house,” Candace answered softly. She wasn’t looking at me, but staring down the street. “I’m sorry Eula Mae decided to interfere and try to get Lorna to go.” “Eula Mae loves to get involved in her little causes. I’m just sorry I always seem to be one of them.” “Eula Mae would never admit it, Jordy, but she loves you like a little brother. She’s always going to interfere-that’s how she shows her affection.” I nuzzled her neck. “And how do you show your affection?” She put a hand up to my chest and pushed me away, but gently. “I don’t exactly feel like a public display of affection when you’re going back into that house where you’ve ensconced your old girlfriend.” “Wait a minute, honey. You know that it’s for her own good.” “I don’t doubt Lorna does anything that’s not for her own good,” Candace said dryly. She slid her hand out from my back pocket, where it had felt oh-so-comfortable, and crossed her arms. “You’re not jealous of her, Candace. You can’t be.” “She’s funny. She’s smart.

  She’s gorgeous. She’s loud, too, but I’ve seen the way that you look at her. You’re still attracted to her, and please don’t insult my intelligence by denying it.” “Okay, I won’t. Yes, I find her attractive. But not as attractive as you.” I’m not good at undying protestations of love and I felt coltish and awkward. “Lorna and I are past, okay. For God’s sake, don’t you trust me around her?” “I trust you, but not her.” She shook her head. “What is the hold she has on you, Jordy? She’s conceivably putting your whole family in danger by staying here and yet you roll out the red carpet.” “If you trust me, then you shouldn‘t have a problem with this.” My heart ached at the pain on her face. “Okay. I love you enough to trust you around her.

  But I still don’t have to like her staying here.” “She’s my friend, and I’m not going to abandon her right now.” “That’s right. Put everyone else ahead of your own interests.” Candace yanked open her car door. I didn’t have a decent reply, so I stayed silent. She stood on tiptoe, I leaned down, and we exchanged a quick, dry kiss. “Sleep well,” she said, and drove off. I love you enough to trust you around her, she’d said. She told me she’d loved me, but I’d been unable to reciprocate the words. My front teeth gnashed on my lip, still warm from her kiss, and I turned and went back into the house. Mark had been dispatched to bed. His complaints about being treated like an infant filtered down from upstairs. Sister, softening toward our guest in light of this latest trauma, had kindly offered to run Lorna a bath. The gurgling noise of the water in the pipes reminded me of when Mama had run baths for Sister and me when we were little. (This activity was usually followed by her chasing a naked me around the house and forcibly putting me in the tub.) Lorna was sitting, staring down at a colorful quilt that my grandmother Schneider had made decades ago. Her fingers traveled across the patterns and stitches, as though tracing a road on a map. “This is really lovely, Jordan,” she said, not looking up at me. “You’re lucky to have such keepsakes in your family. The Wiercinskis were never big on keepsakes.” “Are you okay, Lorna?” I asked. Her voice had taken on a distance I didn’t like. “I am. I think I am.” She looked up at me. I could still get lost in the whirlpools of her eyes. “I don’t know what to think. Greg being dead, and all his lies. Now Freddy being blown to bits in Greg’s room. It makes no sense.” “We need to talk.” Sister came halfway down the stairs, peering over the railing. “I drew a bath for you, hon.

  It’s nice and warm.” “We’ll talk when you’re done,” I said. She nodded and went upstairs. The doorbell rang and it was Franklin, ready to watch over Lorna and the rest of us. I invited him inside. “How does this work, Franklin? You want to sleep on the couch, or do you sit out in your cruiser and watch the house, or what?” “I never guarded anyone like this before,” he confessed. “I think it’d be okay if I stayed down in the living room, if that’s all right by you.” He didn’t look pleased at the prospect of spending an entire night in his police car.

  I couldn’t blame him. Sister showed him where all the sandwich fixings were in the fridge. (“Now, you just help yourself if you get hungry, Franklin. I made that chocolate pie myself and you just can’t get better.”) Franklin looked pretty pleased at the provisions and promised he’d clean up any mess he made. Sister warned him repeatedly not to shoot Mama in case she wandered downstairs in the night.

  Franklin assured her he wouldn’t. I took two beers upstairs to Lorna’s room when she finished her bath. She had toweled her long hair as dry as she could, but it still hung in a damp cascade around her shoulders. The hot water had pinkened her skin, so she looked more relaxed than I’d seen her since she’d got to town. She wore a simple white robe that fortunately went down to her knees. I remembered a red silk one she’d had, far skimpier, that used to fall off at my touch. I was glad she hadn’t packed that one for this trip. “We need to talk, Lorna.” I handed her a beer. She nodded and sipped at her Celis bock.

  “First of all, I believe you when you say you didn’t know about Greg’s plan to resell the land to the chemical company.” She gave me an unreadable look. “It means so much to me to have your trust, Jordan.”

  Her voice wasn’t unreadable; it dripped with sarcasm. That word trust again. I tried not to visualize Candace’s wounded face in the moonlight. “Look, I was upset. You can imagine how I felt, especially when it seemed you’d lied to me about using my land.” “I still don’t see how you could have thought I’d lied,” she snapped. “Let’s not argue,” I pleaded. “We need to work this mess through. Now, what was your impression of Freddy Jacksill?” Lorna paused and took a slow sip of her beer. “You know, I remember being surprised when I found out you were originally from a small town; you were worldly in certain respects. But Freddy was exactly what you expected from someone from a little town; he was anxious to be the biggest fish in the bowl. More blustery than self-assured. He was very eager to please Greg, keep him happy. I’m sure that Greg filled Freddy’s head with all sorts of garbage about how much money was to be made when Intraglobal acquired the land.” “Who’s going to take over Greg’s assignments at Intraglobal now that he’s dead?” Lorna opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  “Well, no one. I mean, maybe me, but the company’s nothing without Greg. Unless Doreen Miller wants to keep it going. I don’t think Greg was working on any other deals right now.” “Surely there’s another senior person…” She shook her head. “Greg didn’t like to discuss it when he was out closing a deal, but he’s Intraglobal all by his lonesome. It’s basically a one-man consulting service with a silent partner. Her name’s Doreen Miller; she put up a bunch of the money for Greg.” “Good Lord, Lorna. The name Intraglobal makes it sound like they’re two steps shy of world domination, not a one-man shop.” She smiled. “I know. I told Greg it was a little misleading, but he said it made us sound more professional.” “Have you talked with this Doreen Miller, told her about Greg’s death?” Lorna shook her head. “I don’t know how to get in touch with her. Greg said she was old Boston money;

  I’ve never met her.” Odd and odder, I thought. Greg never said that he was a big company, but I’d always had the impression he was. “We better see about tracking down this Doreen Miller. Junebug said he was going to be calling up to Boston; I’ll tell him he needs to find Ms.

  Miller as well.” Lorna nodded. “Her number must be in a file on Greg’s laptop somewhere.” I didn’t remember seeing it, but I’d double-check anyway. “One more question. What was going on with the Loudermilk women when you were standing with them? Jenny looked like she was crying and Dee looked upset.” Lorna shrugged. “I don’t know. I met them both briefly when I got into town; Greg
introduced me to them.

  They seemed kind of twitchy.” She paused. “There’s an undercurrent of bad feeling between them; Jenny was sassy to her mother a couple of times while I was at their house, but Dee just ignored it. Typical teen-and-mom strife, I guess.” I didn’t answer, lost in thought. Until I noticed Lorna’s hand idly playing along the bedspread, weaving through the two feet of space that separated us. “You’ve been exceptionally kind to me, Jordan.” I suddenly felt nervous. “Well, sure, Lorna. Glad to.” “I don’t excel at playing the helpless female.

  Neither does Candace. Maybe that’s why you like her-she reminds you of me.” I definitely wanted to skirt this discussion. I stood. “Maybe so, Lorna. Listen, it’s been an exhausting day. Let’s get some sleep.” I moved to the light switch, raising one hand in a quick wave of farewell. “Not going to tuck me in?” she asked coyly. She didn’t sound so tired anymore. And her modest white robe had somehow shaped itself to the curves of her generous body. I stared down at the floor. “No.

  Like you said, you’re not the helpless female. Good night, Lorna.” And with that, I made my escape to my own room, like a nervous teenager dashing home without a good-night kiss. Sleep didn’t come easily. I lay awake rehashing all that had happened earlier. First of all, why was Freddy Jacksill in Greg’s room? Or near Greg’s room? The room had been yellow-taped as a crime scene. Was Freddy simply curious? Or had he had some business in Greg’s room he hadn’t wanted anyone to know about? Could he have been involved in Greg’s scam? Surely not, I thought. It would have ruined his business in town. I needed to know a little more about Freddy Jacksill. And the explosion-if it was indeed the work of Mirabeau’s mad bomber-suggested two possibilities. First, Freddy was the bomber and had planned to blow up the Mirabeau B. (or Greg’s room, to be more specific) and the bomb went off prematurely. I thought I could dismiss that theory; Freddy wouldn’t know squat about explosives. Second, the bomb had been placed in Greg’s room and Freddy was just unlucky enough to be there. Why bomb Greg’s room? Perhaps, because of its sudden notoriety in town, it presented itself as an appealing, attention-grabbing target. Why were the bombings happening anyway? Clyda Tepper’s ridiculous doghouse, Fred Boolfors’s town-famous shed without a single tool that belonged to him (not to mention that legendary collection of Playboys), a series of mailboxes exploding in a synchronized dance. There was a strong air of desperate theatricality about the incidents, like a child who throws a particularly creative temper tantrum so he’ll be paid extra attention.