Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

Nina and I are amassing a good-sized war chest to fight development on the river.” “Just how big has this gotten, Eula Mae?” She is one, after all, to throw herself entirely into a project. Lucky she’s never developed an interest in quicksand. “We’ve raised nearly fifty-five thousand dollars,” Eula Mae said, the pride evident in her voice.

  “With more pledged on the way. We’re going to hold a big dance over at the Veterans’ Hall, and we’ve got people going door-to-door to solicit contributions, and-” “And you are about to staple those to the bricks.

  Give me that.” I wrested the staple gun from her over-eager hand before she could attach the next notice to a spot beyond the bulletin board. “Well, aren’t you a mite grumpy? Things tense over at the Chateau de Yankee Amour?” Eula Mae asked sweetly, grabbing the staple gun back from me. “Everything is fine,” I replied. “Don’t y’all have somewhere else to go? Or someone else to bother? I can’t believe Miss Twyla is letting the two of you run this.” I usually have a saint’s patience with Eula Mae, but today I felt decidedly heretical. “Miss Twyla has her mind on strategic matters. C’mon, Nina,” Eula Mae said, shaking her head sadly at me. “Jordy is just upset he’s not going to be able to sell that land of his now. Of course he’s probably getting ready to go back to Boston anyway, where I’m sure they’re used to having nasty polluted rivers.” With that parting shot, she left the field, an equally haughty Nina in tow. With the S.O.R.E. Sisters dismissed, I’d just finished eating a ham sandwich I’d fixed in our little back kitchen when Gretchen arrived. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased to see Gretchen. She’d gobbled that annoying Billy Ray Bummel like a freetail bat on a skeeter, and I had to like her a little for that. Even if the rest of the time she could be a bitch. She paused in front of my desk, dressed nicely in a chambray skirt and white dress shirt, turquoise and silver dripping from her neck, wrists, and ears.

  Her graying hair had that just-did look. “Jordy, how are you?” “Fine, Gretchen, and you?” I wiped away the last of the crumbs on my mouth.

  Since I didn’t have a napkin, I had to use the back of my hand. One Gretchen eyebrow arched and I tensed myself for criticism. As though she could say anything about my bad manners; I’d seen her stinking drunk. “Better than this morning. I thought you might like to know that oaf Billy Ray was just out at our house grilling Bob Don. He is absolutely fixated on that wire that the killer used to strangle poor Mr. Callahan.” I blinked. “He can’t think Bob Don had anything to do with this. It’s ridiculous.” “The ridiculous is Billy Ray’s specialty,” Gretchen snorted. “He’s totally ignoring that the fence isn’t just on our property. It’s on the line with the Loudermilks’ property.” “That’s true.” I nodded. “But maybe he’s already questioned the Loudermilks about it.” “I seriously doubt that. Parker Loudermilk says jump and Billy Ray says how high. Even though Billy Ray doesn’t work for Parker, he just can’t stifle that suck-up reflex of his.” I thought for a moment. “Why are you telling me this, Gretchen?” She was coming to me as an ally, but she’d certainly never encouraged my relationship with my birth father before. I was suspicious; it would be just like Gretchen to pretend to make pleasant overtures to me then slap me silly when I let my guard down. If Bob Don had told her we’d had a heart-to-heart out at the cemetery, she’d be envious as hell.

  Gretchen is the kind of lady that if you had a heart transplant, she’d want one, too. Her lipsticked mouth thinned into a red line. “That’s a mean thing to ask. Obviously I want you to know that they’re bothering your-Bob Don.” She still couldn’t say the words your father, hadn’t been able to since the night she’d drunkenly, meanly informed me of my parentage. She set her blue leather purse on my desk. “I just thought you might like to know. So you can give him a call. Or maybe you can get Billy Ray to lay off him.” “Thanks, Gretchen, I will call him.” I glanced around the library; on such a fine summer day we were nearly deserted, except for permanent-fixture Old Man Renfro in the corner, reading a collection of Wallace Stevens’s poetry. “Can I ask you a question? I’m just curious why you had lunch with Greg Callahan the day he died. I understand he was supposed to have lunch with the Chamber of Commerce that day.” She measured me with a long stare.

  There was something dull still in her eyes, even if she’d laid off the liquor. I’m not sure after all those years of drinking that a person could just spring back to life. I had to admire Gretchen though; she could take up for herself. “Yes, he did mention that he was supposed to have lunch with the Chamber of Commerce officers, but they’d had to cancel. I don’t know why. He ran into me outside the Sit-a-Spell and asked me to lunch.” “You’d met him before?” She smiled. “Why, yes, he’d come out to the house to offer Bob Don money for our riverfront land.” “Really? Bob Don said that he’d come and seen him at the car dealership.” “He was looking for Bob Don, so he came out to the house first.” Her words spilled out quickly, too quickly. “So I sent him over to the dealership.” “I just wondered.” “It’s really none of your business, though, who I have lunch with.” “But he didn’t know many folks in town, and he ended up murdered. I’m sure the police have already questioned you-” “Oh, that idiotic friend of yours, Junebug?

  Honestly. I do wish that Bob Don would run for mayor someday so he’d fire that incompetent.” “He’s not incompetent. Or is he just an idiot because he’s my friend?” She smiled, back on familiar territory, with the battle lines drawn between us. “You, as always, have a high opinion of how much you bother me. You don’t bother me, little boy.”

  Little boy was her favorite nonendearment for me and I knew when she used it that I was hitting nerves. She fumed on: “You think I’m the queen bitch in town, anyway, no matter what I do. I come here to tell you that Bob Don might need some support and you attack me.” “No, I don’t think you are the queen bitch, Gretchen, and I didn’t attack you.” I forced myself to take a long breath. “Can’t we try and make peace, please? I know you don’t like me being in your and Bob Don’s lives much and I’m sorry that it upsets you, but I am here. I’m here to stay.” The words came easily, far more easily than they ever could talking to one father over another father’s grave. “If you’re so proud of having Bob Don as your daddy, why haven’t you announced it to all the world?” Her bottom lip curled. “You sorry hypocrite. You accuse me of interfering with your relationship with my husband, and then you don’t have the nerve to own up to what you’re defending. You really are just a little fraud.” She leaned down into my face and I could smell the vaguely unpleasant odor of sweat under powder. “What did that Yankee gal see in you, anyhow? What does someone who counts in this town like Candace Tully see in you?” “I know what Bob Don sees in you, Gretchen. Someone to feel sorry for.” She stiffened and drew back. I felt bad for taunting her about her problem, but she’d hit a raw nerve with me and I’d lashed back without giving much thought. “As long as you’re casting aspersions, why don’t you look in your own house for someone to grill?” Her voice had a hollowness to it, like her throat had been drained of blood. “Yeah, right, like I’d believe anything you say.” She’d rip Lorna to shreds if she thought it would hurt me. She shrugged. “Makes no never mind to me, little boy. But you might want to be more careful about who you have taking care of your precious mama.” “What did you say?” “That snooty nurse of yours. I saw her talking three days ago with Greg Callahan, in his car. I didn’t know who he was then, of course, but I recognized him when met him.

  ‘Cause I wondered why Clo Butterfield was sitting in a car down in the town square with a rich-lookin’ white fellow.” “You’re making this up.” Her smile was pure enjoyment. “I’m afraid not. He was probably wantin’ to know just how poor you are so he could entice you to sell him your land. I mean, Clo Butterfield could probably tell him just how much financial strain you’re under. You got to depend on Bob Don to pay her measly old salary.” “If Clo was talking with Greg, I’m sure there’s a good reason.” I couldn’t think of one, though. And why hadn’t sh
e mentioned it? “Ask her,” Gretchen suggested unhelpfully.

  “But if you fire her, don’t be expecting Bob Don to hire you another one. You’re lucky he’s even willing to put up the money for your crazy old mother anyway.” I stood, feeling heat in my hands. “I think that’s enough, Gretchen. Maybe you should go.” Gretchen tucked her purse back under her arm. “I’m sorry I even tried to talk to you about Bob Don. I can only tell him that I once again made an effort to be friendly to you and you pushed me away.” She turned on her heel in a way I’m sure she’d mastered from watching soap operas and took her leave, whisking arrogantly out of my office. I could only imagine what sort of version of this incident Bob Don would hear. Gretchen was right on one point, though. I hadn’t publicly owned up to Bob Don being my dad. And he was caught between two people that he cared about who obviously had nothing better to do than snipe at each other. I made myself sit down.

  Clo with Greg? What the hell was that about? Or was it just a lie on Gretchen’s part to rile me up? I picked up the phone and dialed Bob Don’s number. He answered on the first ring, his drawling voice sounding tired. “Bob Don? Hey, it’s Jordy.” “Hi, son, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, Gretchen was just by and said that Billy Ray was giving you a hard time about that wire. You okay?” “Oh, I’m fair to middlin’. I think he’s figgered that I didn’t have anything to do with that poor feller’s murder. Once he saw that Callahan was going to offer me fifty thousand for that land, he realized I would have been a sight happier with Callahan alive.” “Fifty thousand? Wow.” I wondered if my land, somewhat smaller in size than Bob Don’s lot, would have fetched such a high price. “Gretchen told you they were bothering me?

  That was decent of her to come by and see you.” His voice held a shred of hope that there’d be peace between his wife and son. I opened my mouth to tell him how charmed I’d been by sweet Gretchen’s visit, then shut it. “Yes, it was thoughtful.” “You are trying, aren’t you, Jordy, to get along with her?” “Sure, Bob Don.” “Good, ‘cause I’ve been awful worried about her. I been wondering if she’s been nippin’ a bit when she gets upset.” I cleared the stone from my throat. “You mean drinking?” “Yeah. I don’t have proof, but after Callahan got killed, she seemed a little tight. But I couldn’t smell it on her breath, and I couldn’t find a bottle anywhere, so I couldn’t say anything. It might’ve been nothing; she just might’ve been upset. It’s unnervin’ when someone you just met dies.” “You’re right about that,” I murmured. Great, Gretchen might be leaning back toward the bottle and here I was giving her a little shove. I hoped I hadn’t upset her too much with our bickering. The last crisis Bob Don needed was Gretchen tumbling out of sobriety. Bob Don asked about Lorna and Mama; I assured him they were fine. He invited me to have lunch with him next week and I accepted. “Well, goodbye, son. I enjoyed our talk this morning. You call me if I can help,” he finally said. “I will. Thanks.

  Goodbye.” I hung up. He called me son all the time, and I called him by his Christian name. I couldn’t call him Dad; I’d already had a father I’d loved and lost. I abhorred the prospect of hurting Bob Don, but I couldn’t help myself. Bricks walled in my tongue anytime I thought of referring to him in fatherly terms. I went back to my work, rolling my eyes at the administrivia involved in grant writing and wondering if robbing banks would be simpler. Junebug called me later, sounding bone weary on the other end of the line. “Teresa examined the house today. She’s pretty sure that Freddy was holding the explosive when it went off. It was about a 14?-inch pipe bomb, and we think it was in a briefcase.” He paused. “Chet might be able to rebuild, but it’s going to be a long process. He might just tear the Mirabeau B. down and start again.” I swallowed; that house had been a part of growing up for every native of Mirabeau, and I couldn’t imagine some new building in its place. I concentrated on what Junebug had said about Freddy. “So what the hell does it mean that Freddy was next to the bomb?” I asked. “He’s the mad bomber and he blew himself up? I can’t see Freddy doing anything to hurt real-estate prices, and terrorism does have that effect on the market. Unless he wanted to blow up the Mirabeau B. to build a fast-food restaurant.” Junebug didn’t laugh at my tasteless humor. “I don’t know. I also am trying to track down that Doreen Miller Lorna told you about. Haven’t found her yet. I got the Boston police going through Intraglobal’s offices, but they haven’t found anything. Doesn’t seem like Mr. Callahan kept too many records.” Odder and odder. “Well, what about Greg’s lawyer, that Martin Noone fellow? Or this Gary Zadich that Greg was going to sell the land to?” “I talked to Zadich today. He says he never even heard of Greg Callahan or Intraglobal, but I’m not sure I believe him. He sounds like a Houston wharf rat to me. I got the chief over in Bavary talking to Mr. Noone, but he says he only met once with Callahan to discuss being the attorney of record on the deal. He doesn’t know anything about Callahan or Intraglobal.” Junebug paused. “I did learn a singularly interestin’ fact, though. Did you know Tiny Parmalee worked with explosives when he was in the army?” “Now I know the Department of Defense needs more careful monitoring,” I muttered. “Are you serious?” “Yep. I think Sergeant Garza and I may have to have a few talks with ol’ Tiny.” Tiny Parmalee as the bomber? It’d never occurred to me; frankly I didn’t think he would know lickety about pipe bombs or blasting caps. Apparently I was wrong. I suddenly remembered his gibe at me at the library about nearly getting blown up. My mouth felt dry and I switched topics. “I’m wondering something, Junebug, if you can tell me. There was that phone number written on the pad in Greg’s room. Did you find out who that belonged to?” There was silence on the other end. “Yeah, but I think I better keep that close to my vest.” “Oh, come on! I helped you with that computer stuff. I’m just curious as to who Greg was calling.” If he’d been having little tete-a-tetes with Clo, God only knew who else in town he’d been visiting. Perhaps he and Sister had gone canoeing on the river, or he’d taken Mama to the movies in Bavary. “I’m counting on your discretion, Jordy,” Junebug warned. “You got it.” I practically leaned into the phone. “Which is why I know you won’t ask me again.

  Goodbye.” The phone clicked in my ear, which was good. I didn’t want Junebug to hear what I called him. I finished my day’s work on writing the grant request and left the library in the hands of Florence Pettus. (On an incredible summer day like today, it was as empty as last year’s bird nest.) Then I headed toward Freddy Jacksill’s office.

  He’d ended up dead as well, and I wondered if I could piece any of this jigsaw together if I started in his corner. Rivertown Real Estate stood in a corner spot in Mirabeau’s downtown block, right off Mayne Street. It occupied the bottom two floors in a faded red-brick building. Like several of the other buildings in downtown Mirabeau, it had 1844 carved into its stone, signifying the year the town began its one and only major growth spurt. Being a Saturday, there wasn’t much activity going on in the business district, except for a few old men sipping cold Dr Peppers in the shade of the hardware store. A CLOSED sign hung lopsided on the door, but I could see Freddy’s partner, Linda Hillard, on the phone at the front desk. I tapped and she waved at me, still speaking into the phone. Trying the doorknob, I found it unlocked and stepped into the welcoming coolness of air-conditioning.

  Linda was practically barking into the phone, in her raspy smoker’s voice: “Yes, Miz Tyree. I understand that you were supposed to close on your house this Monday. But Freddy’s dead, ma’am, and we may just have to push it back. I haven’t been able to find your file.” A moment’s silence. “Yes, Miz Tyree, I know that life goes on.” Linda made an obscene gesture toward the receiver while still keeping her saleswoman’s smile firmly in place. “Yes, I’ll call the title company and see if we can proceed on schedule. Yes, Miz Tyree, I’ll call you back later. Goodbye now.” Linda slammed the phone down and muttered, “Mean old bitch!” She didn’t seem to notice that I’d come in for a moment as she ran her hand through her sho
rt red hair and adjusted her tortoise-rim eyeglasses. Then she glanced up at me and managed a smile. Linda keeps our romance section at the library circulating pretty well. “My favorite librarian. How are you?” “Fine, thanks. I wanted to stop by and say how sorry I was about Freddy.” “Oh, thanks, Jordy. I shouldn’t even be here, but Freddy had so much business going on all over the county that I’ve been on the phone all day calling his accounts. I just can’t leave ‘em dangling; my competitors over in Bavary might pick them up, and I can’t afford that. Don’t I sound awful?” She blinked back tears behind her thick glasses. “Freddy’s dead and I’m worrying about stupid old land. I have just become every negative real-estate stereotype.” I sat down next to her. “No, you haven’t. All you can do right now is cope and do your best.” She gestured to the back of the office. “I got some coffee brewing, and my mama brought me a fresh peach pie this morning. Want a piece?” I nodded and followed Linda back to the small kitchen area of the office. “I suppose you’re here for the same reasons that Miss Twyla and the Loudermilks have been bugging me all morning. Not to mention that crazy tree hugger from Austin.” “Uh… I don’t know. I did want to talk to you about Greg Callahan.” Linda made a face as she cut two good-sized wedges from the pie. The crust looked that perfect brown you only get with home-baked pies and my mouth began to water. “I’m tired of hearing about him. I’m starting to think he was nothing but a crook.” “Why do you say that, Linda?” I asked carefully. Obviously Junebug hadn’t yet spilled Greg’s land scam. She placed a plate of pie, a dessert fork, and a linen napkin in front of me (Linda is a details person), then turned back to the coffee machine. “Decaf okay with you? I’m too hyper to drink octane.” “Fine,” I said. “I think Greg might have been a crook, too.” “He tried to buy your land, right?” “Well, his colleague Lorna Wiercinski made a pitch to me about it. I knew her in Boston.” No need to tell Linda more; she was a gossip. That’s why I was talking to her. “Oh, that tall girl. She’s a looker. I thought Callahan might be chasing after her, but I didn’t know. Lord knows Freddy would’ve liked to get to know her better.”