“Seriously?” Stella goggled incredulously. “Considering you and Taffy been on a steady diet of sass since you brought Divinity home from the hospital, seems like you might of got used to it by now.”
“Don’t you say nothing about my daughter,” Marty snapped, his face going purple with fury. “Divinity isn’t like me and you. She’s gifted. She’s a natural talent, not like all of these bubbleheaded trollops parading on stage with no modesty at all.”
“The thing I don’t get is, how did you figure killing Bryant was going to help anything? He was trying to help her get there, making her audition video.”
“Ha.” Marty spat the syllable out with contempt. “That’s where you’re wrong. Bryant was only ever trying to help himself. He made two videos, did you know that? Divvy told me. One with some brand-new girl he’d taken on, and Divvy’s, and he was only going to send one of them to the show. That’s how he always did it, pitting his girls against each other, and even though he was dating my daughter, he never once sent her video in. Hillbillies in Love, Bet the House, Pawn Stars—she worked up auditions for all of them, but he always picked other girls in the end. How is that fair?”
“Who ever said life was fair?” Stella demanded. “He was a promoter, Marty—he was just doing his job, sending along the video for whoever showed the most potential.”
“It ain’t just a job when he’s crushing my little girl’s dream,” Marty snapped.
“Well, if running around in the woods in a bikini top and eating squirrels was Divinity’s dream, then I guess you got me there. Only, unless I misunderstood, there ain’t a whole lot of singing going on in the show, is there?”
“It’s a vehicle.” Despite telling her to mind her own business, Marty couldn’t seem to keep from defending himself. “Once we get Divvy in front of an audience that can appreciate her, why, she’s on her way. I’m telling you, there’s no stopping her now.”
“You really think they’re going to want her after this whole arrested-for-murder business?”
“Hah! That shows what you know,” Marty said smugly. “My Side of the Mountain called today. Got my tape in the mail and Googled her, saw the story about Bryant—they think they can spin it as a tragedy, get viewer sympathy. She’s practically guaranteed a spot.”
“You mean, if she ain’t busy being a prisoner and all.”
“Which won’t happen because you got us that lawyer. Which I guess I ought to thank you for, except I’m a little too busy being annoyed at you for being such a busybody and poking around in everybody else’s business. Now get your handcuffs out of that box of tricks of yours.”
Stella glanced at the box, which had opened when she dropped it. Restraints and clamps spilled out onto the rug. Marty didn’t appear to be especially surprised to see any of her gear. “How do you know any of that’s even mine?” Stella asked.
Marty barked out a laugh. “Time was, your little business was a secret. Sure, people talked, but it was all rumors and whatnot. Why, Taffy and I even defended you. We told people there was no way a God-fearing woman such as yourself would be involved in something as ugly as that.”
“Yeah? Well, sometimes God-fearing folks have to step up for what’s right. I think if you take a look at the Good Book, you’ll even find some precedent there.”
Marty shrugged, kicking over the restraints and jabbing at Stella with the gun. “Whatever. If I hadn’t come along, it was just a matter of time before you got caught. Now get a move on.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Stella said with conviction, reluctantly snapping one of the zip ties on her wrist. “I mean, yeah, it’s possible somebody will eventually find something out I wish they didn’t. Maybe somebody will turn me in, and I might even spend a little time in the joint.”
She took a breath, trying not to shudder, because she’d spent more time considering this scenario than she cared to let on. In the past few years, she’d often been one passerby, one chance sighting, one set of loose lips away from discovery. Dealing out justice on the sly meant you were always looking over your shoulder, because unlike real cops, you couldn’t count on backup units or the courts being on your side.
But Stella had a few assets that the rest of the entire criminal justice system lacked, and when she spoke again, it was with a steady voice.
“But I got an assistant who would never let me fry alone. I got a whole lot of men who practically pee their pants whenever they hear my name, and they ain’t going to roll over that easy, which is gonna make it damn near impossible for any serious charges to stick to me. And finally, I got a whole army of women who’ve discovered they’ve got steel of their own. Women who are pleased as all get-out not to have the shit beaten out of them anymore, who’d say any number of things to get their old pal Auntie Stella out of a jam. So you see,” she said, concluding her speech with her chin high as she got the other wrist bound, a feat not many people could pull off but which she figured she could accomplish with less discomfort than Marty would probably cause, given his lack of experience, “you can’t scare me, no more than any other soft-palmed pansy-ass smarmy-voice shyster. Why, the Big Guy’s probably up there shaking his head at you right now—you ought to be ashamed.”
Over the course of this speech, Marty’s face was becoming more and more contorted with fury, until he looked like he was about ready to lay into Stella with one of her custom-tailored floggers. Which wouldn’t have had the effect he might have liked, since Stella knew firsthand how much practice and technique it took to deliver the maximum amount of pain; it was something of an art.
“Git up,” he snapped. “You and me, we’re walking down to the dock now, where you’re gonna suffer yourself a bad fall and bump your head on a sharp edge before you go tumbling into the lake and drown.”
“With these on?” Stella held up her wrists. “Good job, boy genius, then they’ll just know my killer was here tonight, and it ain’t gonna take ’em all that long to narrow down who’d be mean enough and dumb enough to pull a stunt like that.”
“No, Stella, I ain’t gonna leave those on, what do you take me for?” Marty jammed his free hand in his pants pocket and came up with a pair of wire snips, which Stella had to admit was more preparation than she would have expected out of him.
“Fine,” she sighed, then yanked her hands apart so hard and fast that the welts from the plastic restraints rose immediately and a little bead of blood popped up where the sharp edge cut in. Then she launched herself at Marty and raked her nails down his arms as hard as she could, leaving long red scratches. He jumped back and squawked like a turkey on the run, nearly dropping his gun, which would have been handy.
“What was that for, you damn crazy woman? I ought to shoot you now,” Marty said, cradling his arm tenderly.
“Well, you just go ahead,” Stella said. “Do it here or in the lake, I got restraint marks and enough of your DNA under my nails now that you’re pretty well fucked.”
“Lake’ll wash it out,” Marty said uncertainly.
“Hell no it won’t—don’t you ever watch Cold Case?” Stella demanded, though she was pretty sure that after a few days in the lake they wouldn’t be able to tell much about her other than the fact she’d spent more on her bra than her electric bill, which was a damn shame because now all the pretty new things she’d bought to wear as a warm-up for the romping she’d hoped to do this weekend were all going to go to waste, which was only one of many reasons she was pissed off she was about to be dead. “You’re gonna watch Divinity on TV from jail while your roommate appreciates your tight little butt.”
“That won’t happen—that crime-scene team they brought down from Fayette ain’t managed to do anything but destroy evidence.”
“Yeah, but it ain’t gonna be Fayette that brings you down—it’ll be Goat Jones. If you kill me, he won’t rest until you’re put away for good. You’re messing with the wrong sheriff now.�
��
“I’ve had about enough out of you,” Marty said. “Now here.” He grabbed Stella’s sweater off the chair where she’d left it, and draped it over her hands. Then he pulled off his own V-neck sweater—a fancy-cable number that looked like he bought it in the ladies’ department—and used it to cover up the gun he was holding. “We’re going to walk down the hall and out the back way real friendly-like. We run into anyone, you tell them you weren’t feeling well and I’m going outside with you to get some fresh air. And now I know how your mind works, don’t even be bothering to tell me to just shoot you on the spot, because I’ll do worse. You so much as look at me sideways, when I’m done with you I’m going to go after Noelle.”
Stella faltered at the mention of her daughter’s name; she couldn’t help it.
“Yeah, how you like that?” Marty demanded, pushing her toward the door in front of him. “You got a daughter, too. We both want the best for our girls. Only, my daughter has been denied what she deserves. She has more talent in her little finger than the rest of the girls in this whole state ever had. She could sing La Traviata when she was four. Four years old. You want to guess how much money I’ve spent on the pageant circuit and lessons and getting her set up in Branson? And then Bryant goes and gives her big chance away.”
“Save it, Marty,” Stella sighed. She didn’t wish to spend her last few moments on earth hearing the ranting and railing of a bitter man who figured life had screwed him; that was an old refrain she’d heard enough times over the years.
Marty opened the door and Stella was almost into the hall when she was shoved violently out of the way and, unable to brace her fall with her bound wrists, she bounced off the wall and fell down on her ass in time to see a housekeeping cart plow into the doorway. From the resulting oof followed by a wail that sounded more or less like owowowowowow—and from the distinct lack of shooting—it was clear that Marty had lost his weapon on his way down.
“Get up!”
Stella twisted onto her stomach to see Chrissy standing in the doorway, her hands on the housekeeping cart’s handle, her face pink from the effort of, apparently, trying to crush Marty under the wheels. Bottles of cleaner jostled and towels tumbled off the pile as the cart jostled and shook but didn’t budge.
“Stella, get off your ass and help—this thing’s wedged in there and he’s going for his gun!”
Stella scrambled to her feet, grunting and wincing from the pains shooting down her arms and up into her elbows, not to mention her bruised ass.
“Pull it back,” she said, getting a grip on the handle, and she and Chrissy yanked backward, sending the rest of the towels and a shower of little bottles and soaps to the floor. With the cart out of the way, they had a clear view of Marty on his hands and knees, taking aim with the gun. A purplish shiner was already blooming on one eye, and his lip was split and bloody, but otherwise he looked unharmed and madder than ever.
Just as he squeezed, Stella landed a kick to his shoulder. The gunshot echoed at the same moment Stella felt the bullet slam into her side, but before she could react Chrissy threw herself onto Marty.
And she hadn’t changed her shoes after all. So Marty was suffering the repeated impact of a pair of four-and-a-half-inch molded plastic faux-leather heels, which seemed to subdue him pretty quick. Chrissy barely paused to pluck the gun off the floor and hand it to Stella.
“I’m hit,” Stella protested.
“Yeah, and we’ll get to that in a sec, but right now you just point that thing at him, ’kay?”
Stella dabbed at her side experimentally while she took aim at Marty’s forehead. The area around her ribs smarted, but she seemed to be able to breathe just fine and she was still standing, so she stepped out of the way.
Chrissy dragged the cart into the room, swept up all the fallen supplies and tossed them into the room, too, and closed the door, panting. “You dumb shit,” she said to Marty, who was holding on to his knee for dear life; Stella wouldn’t be surprised if Chrissy had managed to crack his kneecap or worse. “I ripped my skirt. You can bet I’m sending you the bill.”
He started to protest, but Chrissy gave him a little nudge with her shoe and he stopped.
“Honey, let me lift up here,” she said, pushing up Stella’s sweater and pressing her fingers to Stella’s skin with surprising tenderness. “Well, what do you know,” she whistled. “This bra of yours saved the day. What the hell is it made of, anyway?”
Chrissy turned toward the wall and ran her fingers across the wallpaper, then bent over and picked something up off the floor. “Why, this bullet barely grazed you, honey, and that bra slowed it down so much it didn’t even penetrate the wall.”
Stella examined the wall. Sure enough, there was a dent in the wall, the paper torn and the wallboard shredded, but the bullet hadn’t gone all the way through.
“Still hurts,” Stella said. She groped under her sweater. A section of the bra’s underwire had been ripped clear through by the bullet. Underneath, the beige foam was shredded, the padding hanging in pieces. Her rib felt bruised, but the skin was barely broken.
“Aw, I seen worse from a pellet gun,” Chrissy said. “Now here, I’ll take care of this one. You go change your underwear and we can still show up at the party fashionably late.”
There was a tentative knock at the door. “Miss Hardesty?” a man’s voice asked.
Stella and Chrissy looked at the door and then each other. Chrissy dropped down on her knees and wrapped her hand around Marty’s mouth. “Not one sound,” she hissed. “Not one little peep, or cough, or fart, you hear? Stella, give me that.”
Stella handed her the gun, and Chrissy pushed it into Marty’s doughy neck. “You feel this? Huh? You feel it?”
“I think he gets it, honey,” Stella whispered. Tears were forming in Marty’s eyes, and he was trembling like a lamb.
More knocking. “Miss Hardesty? Are you all right in there? People heard sounds.”
“I’m fine,” Stella called. “Just, uh, I… tripped. On a thing. I fell down.”
There was a pause, and then an entirely different voice chimed in.
“Stella, you open this damn door right now.”
Goat.
He hadn’t stormed back to Prosper in disgust. Not yet, anyway.
The heaviness in Stella’s heart lifted just a little, enough for a sly breath of hope to slip inside. “Um…” She went to the door and looked through the peephole. Outside in the hall were an anxious looking bellman with a sprinkling of acne along his hairline… and Goat, his unbandaged hand clenched in a fist.
“Sheriff Jones?” Stella said, causing the bellman’s face to screw up in confusion. “Can I, um, talk to you alone please?”
“If you don’t open up that door in ten seconds flat, I’m shooting it open,” Goat snapped. And Stella realized something. He wasn’t just angry—he was worried. About her.
“I’ll come out,” she said quickly. “But I wonder… could you ask your friend to, um, go?”
Goat’s eyes narrowed, and then he turned to the bellman. “Safer for you if you go on back to the desk,” he said. “I’ll keep you apprised.”
“Yes, sir. My manager’s going to want me to check—”
“I said I’ll keep you apprised.” Goat didn’t bother to inject any warmth into his voice.
“Um.” The bellman retreated, looking back over his shoulder a couple of times. The minute she heard the elevator door ding, Stella opened the door and slipped into the hall.
“What happened?” Goat said, grabbing her hard by the shoulder with his good hand. Stella winced.
“Are you hurt? Where? What happened?” Goat’s voice grew more and more agitated as he turned Stella around, examining her from every angle. “What’s this?”
He lifted the torn sweater. Underneath, her skin was beginning to turn purple and yellow. It was going to be
a world-class bruise.
“I was. Um. I’m fine,” Stella said. “I mean, I will be.”
From inside her room came a muffled exclamation. Stella stiffened, then relaxed as she heard a familiar sound—the bolts on her portable spreader bar being snapped into place. Once Chrissy got Marty’s wrists bolted down, he wouldn’t be able to so much as pick his nose.
“Who’s in that room, Stella?”
Gently, Stella pushed Goat’s hands away from her body. She couldn’t afford the distraction, not with what she was about to say. Not even when Goat flinched and she realized that she’d wounded him—again.
“Nobody,” she said. “Nobody you need to worry about, anyway. I, um, I told you I was going to make it right. Earlier today, when I, when I… made that terrible mistake. And I did. I made it right. Only, you can’t know about it. Because you’re the law and I’m, well, it looks like I ain’t got any choice but to keep being me, no matter what comes of it. Oh, Goat, if I could change, I would do it for you. I’d do anything for you, actually, I’d saw off an arm if I thought it would fix things between us, but… how did you know to come up here, anyway?”
One of Goat’s eyebrows slowly crept up. “I just drove Kam’s mom all the way to Kansas City. Waited around in some restaurant where nobody spoke a lick of English, and carried about eight hundred pounds of food out to my truck. On the way back, I heard all about how long it took Kam to learn to use a potty. I heard about his first haircut and the first time he lost a tooth and every rank he earned in the scouts and the name of his high school algebra teacher. And the whole damn time Mrs. Rangarajan was talking, all I could think was, I wonder if she’ll be there when I get back. I wonder if I lost her for good this time. And then we’re walking through the lobby and Mrs. Rangarajan’s got me weighed down with all those boxes and trays, and I hear this—”
He stopped and shook his head, as though trying to shake loose a bad memory. “I heard this man at the desk saying he thought he heard a gunshot from room 202. Your room, Stella.”
Sophie Littlefield - Bad Day 05 - A Bad Day for Romance Page 20
