Dr. Strange Beard

by Penny Reid

  Dr. Strange Beard

  Winston Brothers #5

  Penny Reid

  www.pennyreid.ninja

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2018 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Made in the United States of America

  eBook Edition: July 2018

  ISBN: 978-1-942874-33-1

  Chapter One

  “The past beats inside me like a second heart.”

  John Banville, The Sea

  *Roscoe*

  Most people have approximately eleven or twelve stories, and that’s it.

  When I was a kid, I used to think older people were just forgetful. A ten-year-old me considered folks over thirty-five “older people.” But as I grew older myself, I realized people of all ages were forgetful. Well, a lot more forgetful than me.

  I also realized nobody wants to be told that they’re repeating themselves, that they’re sharing the same tales and anecdotes for the seventh, eighth, or twentieth time. Folks hate that, even more so if you remembered their story better than they did.

  Every time I reminded someone that they’d already told me a particular story, on such and such date and time, or I tried to correct their recollection, they’d get irritable and frustrated. Like it was my fault for having a good memory and not theirs for having a poor one.

  I learned to keep my trap shut. I let people tell me their eleven or twelve stories over and over, pretending each time like it was the first time I’d heard it. This was a skill I’d perfected, acting interested, surprised, laughing believably at the good parts or looking sad and troubled at the bad ones.

  I was a real good actor. I was excellent at being disingenuous, and I rationalized the insincerity of my outward reactions by reminding myself that the deceit was due to necessity, not design. I sincerely didn’t want to be obnoxious, or to piss people off.

  Which, I suppose, is the main reason why I preferred my own company to anyone else’s. Memories of solitude don’t clutter the mind. But if I had to be around people, I preferred the company of strangers to longtime acquaintances, and my family’s company over everyone else’s.

  Strangers’ stories are always new, so there’s that.

  I love my family, and their stories almost never got old. Though, every once in a while, if I wasn’t in the mood for another telling of a familiar tale, I could get away with complaining about the repetition. They might get testy, but they had to love me, no matter what.

  It wasn’t until I was seventeen when I realized it was rare for people to tell stories for the benefit of the listener. Usually, but not always, a story is told mostly for the benefit of the teller. The story about “how I got so drunk that one time I climbed the fence of that celebrity’s compound and was invited to breakfast,” or “how I rescued those folks from a rattlesnake” demonstrates how the teller has lived a life full of adventure, of meaning; that they’re comical, self-deprecating, and brave; that they’re ultimately a person worth knowing.

  It’s as though folks need to remind themselves of their own worth, and they do this through telling and retelling their favorite eleven or twelve stories, the anecdotes that fundamentally define who they are.

  And therein lies the burden of having an above-average memory, and why I’m rather finicky about making memories.

  I don’t get to decide which stories to remember. The stories never fade. I remember them all. I have a lot of stories, ones I never tell, even though they might fundamentally define who I am, and many I’d prefer to forget.

  But I couldn’t.

  That’s why, sitting in my car, staring out my windshield and through the large wall of windows into the small roadside diner, I was undecided about what to do. I was also assaulted by a gamut of vivid memories. All my memories were vivid, but these were ones I’d prefer to forget. But I couldn’t.

  Simone Payton wasn’t supposed to be at Daisy’s Nut House.

  Today was a Thursday, the last Thursday of the month. Simone wasn’t home on Thursdays, and never during the last week of the month.

  For five years now (five years, four months, and twelve days), Simone always arrived on the first Friday of the month, her flight landing at 5:16 PM at the Knoxville airport, which meant it was safe for me to grab dinner at Daisy’s until about 6:00 PM. After that, I knew to steer clear of the diner until Simone took her plane back to Washington, DC on Sunday night.

  No doughnuts the first weekend of every month was a small price to pay for avoiding making any more memories of Simone Payton.

  But here she was. On a Thursday. The last Thursday.

  Frustrating.

  I crossed my arms, I scratched my neck. Somewhere nearby, what sounded like a motorcycle engine roared past, seemed to draw closer, and then abruptly cut off. I hadn’t yet cut my car’s engine because I hadn’t yet decided whether to stay or go. The question was, how badly did I want a doughnut?

  Pretty bad.

  I’d just spent four hours on the road with several reoccurring thoughts occupying my mind, the most prevalent one being how nice it would be to treat myself to a fine doughnut from the original Daisy’s Nut House upon arrival in Green Valley. In fact, I’d been feeling generous. The plan was to pick up three dozen for the next morning’s breakfast, share them with the whole house.

  And wouldn’t they be surprised. Just last month, Cletus—that’s my middle brother—had chewed me out for never “thinking beyond my own nose,” all because I moved his laundry out of the washer without putting it in the dryer.

  First of all, the towels in the dryer weren’t completely dry. Instead of moving his wet clothes in, I restarted the dryer for the towels. And second, when the towels were dry, I needed to dry my own clothes if I wanted to get on the road prior to sundown. And third, I told him when I left the house that he needed to put his clothes in the dryer.

  I did my due diligence, right?

  He didn’t think so and had called me seventeen times since, once for every article of clothing he’d had in the washer, to leave a voicemail detailing how repugnant each item now smelled. I could even hear him sniff.

  Long story short, Cletus overreacted, as he was prone to do.

  Rolling my eyes at the memory, I brought my attention back to the beautiful girl pouring coffee for two locals—Garrison Tyler and Jeff Temp
ler—sitting at the counter. She flashed a smile, the sight making me grit my teeth at the reflexive twinge in my chest.

  Tearing my eyes away, I admitted to myself that Simone wasn’t a girl anymore. I reckoned she hadn’t been a girl in quite a while, but I’d missed all that.

  I never did this. I never sought her out, and I certainly never watched her like a creeper, sitting in my dark car in one of the Nut House’s shadowed spots just after sunset. I avoided her, like my brother Cletus avoided stupid people. I’d missed everything after we’d turned sixteen ten years ago, and I had no plans on catching up now.

  Maybe . . .

  Maybe I could act like I was in a hurry. Maybe I could pretend I was on an important phone call, which would make meaningful interaction or even chitchat impossible. Maybe I could order, run out as though I needed to check something, and come back when I saw she had the doughnuts ready.

  Or maybe you should man up and just get it over with.

  . . . Nah.

  Cutting the engine, I formed a defensive strategy: I’d go in, pretend I was on the phone, order utilizing as few words as possible, walk to the back of the diner—to be polite, so as not to be one of those obnoxious public-phone-talkers standing in the middle of the restaurant—until my order was up. Then I’d place a twenty on the counter and leave, all the while still on the phone.

  Perfect.

  I set my hand on the door handle, stalling. I opened the door, reconsidering, ultimately breathing out as I stood from the car. I stalled again, reconsidered again, and shut the door behind me while reaching into my back pocket.

  Pulling out my phone, I stared at the screen.

  Actually . . . better idea, I’d call my sister Ashley. I’d make her stay on the phone with me until I had our doughnuts in hand and was on my way back out. Yes. My sister would understand. She wouldn’t tease even if I explained the reason why I called. She was the best.

  Yep. Good plan. Good, good plan.

  Swiping my thumb over the screen, I clicked on my phone contacts, navigated to recently dialed, and was just about to tap on my sister’s name when I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, crunching closer on the gravel lot.

  Absentmindedly, I glanced over my shoulder. I did a double take, my mind went blank, the hand holding my phone dropped to my side, and I backed up a step.

  It was my father.

  More accurately, it was my biological father. He was twenty or so feet away. Cold, grayish light of a late winter evening peeked through the tall oaks of the surrounding forest and offered little illumination. I could see him just fine.

  I didn’t know this man well, but I’d know this man anywhere. Even if his face hadn’t been visible, I knew his walk, the way he moved, with a swagger so like my oldest brother Jethro’s.

  Presently, I marveled at how ageless—how exactly like my memory—he seemed to be. His hair was still salt and pepper, but mostly pepper. His form was still tall and lean and strong, looking like a man twenty years his younger. His face was nearly free of wrinkles, except the deep grooves of laugh lines around his vivid blue eyes and mouth.

  But what struck me dumb was how much I looked like him. My father was smiling my smile. At me. I was momentarily beset by an unnerving sense that I was watching myself.

  I stiffened, my sluggish brain realizing that he meant to intercept me, meet me where I stood gaping at my car door. He was going to talk to me.

  Which had me wondering, Why?

  I hadn’t seen my father since the day of my momma’s funeral, my last glimpse had been him carted away in the back of a police car after trying to kidnap my sister and brother Billy.

  Before that, he’d shown up to our family’s house at twilight, the day after my momma died, making threats and demands.

  The last time before that, he’d picked me up from school unexpectedly—he never picked me up from school—and I’d been happy to see him. He’d asked me all about myself, about school, about girls, about my momma and how she was doing.

  It had felt like the best day of my life until he’d dropped me off in the middle of Hawk’s Field, grinning his grin, telling me to find my way home. If I could. I needed to prove to him that I was a man worthy of carrying his blood.

  I’d been twelve.

  But here he was now, his boots crunching the gravel, his stride smooth and unhurried, looking at me like he knew who I was better than I knew myself.

  Why is he smiling?

  I could only wait dumbly, confounded by his approach. But I did manage to snap my mouth shut, my brother Cletus’s voice in my head saying, “Close your mouth, no one wants to see your papillae.”

  Darrell Winston slowed his steps, coming to a complete stop approximately five feet away. His eyes moved over me with a peculiar gleam.

  “Son,” he said warmly, his voice startling me. It was deep like my brother Billy’s, but roughened, presumably due to years of cigarettes and breathing motorcycle fumes. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Is it?” I asked and wondered at the same time. My own voice hoarse with astonishment, I fumbled in my confusion.

  He was the last—and I do mean the absolute last—person I’d expected to see. Ever. Not just now, but ever.

  “Of course it’s nice to see you.” Darrell’s grin spread a little more, his eyes glittered with what looked like amusement. “How have you been?” he asked in a tone laced with a sincerity and interest that had me blinking.

  Standing straight, I lifted my chin and crossed my arms. It was instinctive, a defensive posture, as though I could protect myself against his show of sincerity.

  The sincerity wasn’t real. Like I said, I didn’t know my father well, but I knew when someone was faking sincerity.

  “What do you want?” I asked, annoyance eclipsing my surprise, and made no effort to return his show of politeness or interest.

  Darrell’s eyes moved over me, still looking amused. “You going inside?” He gestured to the diner. “Let me buy you dinner.”

  My nose wrinkled, all on its own, the beginning of a sneer. “No.”

  “No?” He chuckled, like he was dealing with an adorable toddler, one he had a long-standing affection for. “Come on now, Roscoe. I haven’t seen you in, what is it now, three years?”

  “Six years and four months.” And twenty-two days.

  Now he was full on grinning, looking pleased as punch by my accidental correction of his poor recollection, and definitely reading too much into it. I remembered the date and time of each and every one of my last encounters, with each and every person I met. He wasn’t special in this regard.

  My father spoke through his laughter. “Yeah, I can see you haven’t been missing your old man at all.”

  Frustrated, I ground my jaw and looked away, determined to set my gaze anywhere but on this man who—if the bits and pieces of stories I’d managed to overhear throughout the years were true—had wrecked my family in all ways that matter.

  And that’s when I spotted Simone Payton.

  She was no longer in the diner, passing out smiles and pouring coffee. She was walking over, her eyes on me, her foot just about to leave the sidewalk and step on the gravel of the lot. I froze for a split second, rocked back on my feet, and promptly returned my attention to my father.

  Something about my unintended expression change must’ve caught his notice, because he was now looking over his shoulder. A second later, he was standing taller, watching her approach. A few seconds after that, his gaze swung back to mine, assessing, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

  “Well, look who it is,” he said, steady and quiet, like this—Simone’s sudden appearance and my reaction to it—also amused him.

  I need to leave.

  I wouldn’t leave.

  There was no way I was going to leave. Not with Darrell here, not with Simone all alone. Well, technically, she wasn’t all alone. Garrison and Jeff were still in the diner, but she may as well have been alone.

  I tried to tell myself I�
��d behave in a similar fashion with any person, but this was a bald-faced lie. I wouldn’t suffer through my father’s company for many, and Simone was probably near the top of that list. Even if she’d been surrounded by the entire police force, there was no way I was going to leave Simone Payton with my father.

  Hell. No.

  Anchoring my legs, determination—to keep her safe—calcified my chest and breath and bones.

  Darrell’s smirk widened and he openly scrutinized my face. “Looks like your girl is all grown up.”

  There was no mistaking his tone, and a thirst for violence such as I’ve never experienced exploded outward from my gut, a shock wave coursing through my veins.

  I opened my mouth to respond, maybe to threaten him.

  Before I could, Simone called out, “Roscoe? Roscoe Winston? I thought that was you.”

  I didn’t look at her, my attention focused solely on the menace in front of me, my eyes narrowing into slits when my father answered for me, “Yes, darlin’. Here stands Roscoe Orwell Winston.”

  Darrell turned to her again. I glared at his profile as his mouth curved into a full smile.

  “And is that . . . is that Mr. Winston?” she asked, sounding pleased by the possibility, and this brought me up short.

  I could not believe my ears. First of all, Simone hated my father. At least, she’d always said so when we were kids. Second, the way she was talking was . . . weird. Like, she was putting on an accent, wearing it. I doubted my father could tell, but I certainly did.