"Do you always hunt the animals yourself?" she fi nally asked.
"No, not always," he said. "Some animals I can't get around here. Like the armadillos." Mike bent over and began rummaging in a burlap sack under the table. "This one's in an attack pose." He pulled out an armadillo dressed in white silk boxing trunks. It was sitting up on its heels, claws extended, a snarl twisting its leathery face.
"Yikes," Luke said.
"Yeah." Mike grimaced. "People always want the at tack pose so it looks like they're tough—like they had to kill a really vicious animal. Really, most animals when you kill them they're running away. But nobody wants them mounted like that."
"Why do you put clothes on them?" Libby asked. "Why not mount them more realistically—like they are in nature?"
"This is like they are," Mike insisted. "I show their true natures. Like if they were people. Animals don't have many opportunities, you know. A muskrat like Sadie, there's no chance she'd ever get to be a dancer. Not in real life. But that's who she is. And the frogs— well, they probably don't know anything about baseball, but they're team players, you can bet."
"Really?" Libby looked at the tiny frogs, forever fro zen halfway through a double play.
"Yeah. You ever hear them singing at night? All to gether, like a chorus. Once I did a church choir. They wore long white robes."
Weird as it was, Libby was starting to like Mike's image of the natural world.
"See, they all have the potential to be more than they are," Mike said. "I just let their true natures show."
Libby figured that would be her headline: "Local Taxidermist Shows Animals' True Natures." She delved a bit deeper into that angle, then dug out her Nikon and got some promising shots of the artist with his creations.
She was a little concerned about how the photos would look on the front page of the local paper. After all, a man embracing a tutu-clad muskrat seemed more suited to a supermarket tabloid than the Lackaduck Holler. Still, it would attract attention.
Maybe the Holler would sell a few extra papers this week.
Chapter 8
LUKE NODDED WHEN CRYSTAL STOPPED BY THE TABLE and tilted her coffeepot, but Mike shook his head and stood up. "Gotta go to the little bull's room," he said, ducking his head. Libby stifled a smile as he shambled off to the men's room.
"Thanks," Libby said to Luke. "I'm glad you were here. I think it helped make him more comfortable."
"We've been friends a long time," Luke said. "Mike's a good guy."
"A little odd, though," Libby said. "No wonder they call him Crazy Mike."
Luke grimaced. Sure, Mike was a little eccentric, but that was no reason to call him names. He'd hoped Libby would be a little more enlightened than that—a little kinder. "Don't call him that," he said. "You'd be odd too if you had to live his life."
"I'm sorry." She looked genuinely contrite, and Luke forgave her in an instant. She'd probably heard the guy labeled so many times, she hadn't even thought about the cruelty of it. "You're right. I shouldn't say that."
"It's okay. Everybody else does." Luke sighed. "Half the town laughs at him, and the other half's afraid of him. When he was a kid—well, it was awful. Everybody made fun of him."
"Kids can be cruel," Libby said.
"More than cruel." He sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of the steaming mug. "I'm glad you're doing this story. You won't make him look stupid, will you? Or weird?"
"Not at all," she said. "The way I see it, he's an artist. I mean, his quotes might put some people off, but I'll try to put them in context."
"Good." He nodded. People's reactions to Mike were sort of a test for him, and she'd recovered from her ini tial fumble to run for the end zone. "Maybe all those people who made fun of him as a kid will see that he's somebody after all."
Libby's gaze softened. "You were his protector, weren't you?"
Luke shrugged, remembering the fistfights his skinny twelve-year-old self had endured for Mike. His play ground status had suffered for the friendship, but it had been worth it. No one was more loyal, or made him feel better about himself.
"He needed someone to protect him, that's all," he said. "He still does." He pushed back his chair. "I have to go," he said. "Dad needs some stuff at the drugstore."
***
Libby watched Luke thread his way through the chairs and tables to the saloon doors. He was going to pick up stuff for his dad. It seemed like he was always helping someone. Who would've thought she'd meet such a nice guy her first day here?
Too bad she wasn't looking for a cowboy to call her own.
Because she wasn't, she reminded herself. The last thing she needed in her life was more boy trouble. She'd had enough heartache with Bill to last a life time—and she had a feeling cowboy trouble would be even worse.
Mostly because of the chaps. Luke didn't wear them all the time, but when he did, they seemed to draw her eye inexorably to parts of his anatomy she really shouldn't be thinking about.
She moved to a stool at the bar and ran her fingers through her hair while she started outlining her story. Meanwhile, Crystal presided over the late lunch crowd, along with a ratty-looking individual Libby assumed was the chef. He was thin and waifish, with the bright eyes of a young man in a face worn out by hard living. Greasy handprints decorated a ragged white apron that proclaimed, "Kiss Me, I'm the Cook."
She wasn't tempted.
There were only a few people scattered among the tables, and most of them were drinking, not eating, despite the early hour. A man in a business suit was sipping a martini in the corner, and a couple of grungy biker types were washing down burgers with copious quantities of beer.
Crystal was rinsing glasses at the bar sink. "You two make a good couple," she said. "You and Luke."
Libby frowned. "We're not a couple. We're friends."
"Oh." Crystal lined up the glasses on a rack to dry. "It's just that I've seen you two together a lot."
"Twice," Libby said.
Crystal smiled. "Around here, that makes you practi cally married."
Great. In elementary school, Libby's best friend had been convinced you got pregnant by holding hands with a boy. And here in Lackaduck, people thought you were headed for the altar if you just looked at each other a couple times. By that standard, she'd been a polygamist back in Atlanta.
Until Bill came along. Somehow, he'd convinced her she didn't need anyone but him. She'd gradually gotten absorbed into his world, losing contact with her friends, and since her parents were gone, he hadn't just left her when he took up with her boss.
He'd left her alone.
But she was finding her way back into the world, becom ing part of this small community, making friends again— including Crystal. "So what's for lunch?" she asked.
"David'll tell you." The bartender grabbed the chef's arm and hauled him to the bar. "Hey, David, here's some body I want you to meet. Libby, this is David. Makes the best buffalo burgers in Wyoming. And on top of that, he's the best handyman in town. He can fix anything."
"Then he's just the man I need. I've got a chicken coop that needs a lot of work—roof repairs, that kind of thing. Is that the kind of stuff you do?"
"Sure," David said. "I'm off Monday."
"That would work great. How 'bout noonish?"
He clicked his heels and dashed off a hasty imitation of a military salute. "I'm your man," he said. Libby still didn't want to kiss him, and she definitely didn't want him to be her man, but she was warming up to the guy.
"So what's the chef's special?" she asked.
David grinned as he rolled the entire menu off his tongue. "Buffalo burgers, Buffalo Cheeseburgers, Bacon Buffalo burgers, Bleu Buffalo Burgers, Bar-B-Q Buffalo Burgers, and Biggie Buffalo burgers. Any kind of cheese, toppings of your choice—all the veggies, five kinds of cheese, you name it."
"I'll have the Bleu Buffalo Burger, please, with mushrooms and bacon."
He hustled through the swinging doors behind the bar. A
joyous solo rendition of "Sugar Magnolia" floated from the kitchen, accompanied by the banging of pots and pans.
"Saw my baby down by the river…"
Crystal swabbed the counter in time with the song. "David's our mascot as well as the cook. He's part of the place, and he does make a mean buffalo burger."
"He looks a little… well…"
"A little rough? Yeah, he still looks like a druggie, doesn't he? But he kicked all his bad habits years ago. Now he needs to trade his 'Narcotics Anonymous' T-shirt for one that says 'Workaholics Anonymous.' You'll see. He'll have that chicken coop of yours fixed up in no time."
"How the heck do you get to be a drug addict in Lackaduck?" Libby asked. "Aren't we kind of off the beaten path?"
"Not for methamphetamines. Wyoming, Nebraska, the Dakotas—they're loaded with meth labs. It seems like Cash finds a new one every month." The saloon doors swung open and she looked up. "Don't you, Sheriff?"
Libby jerked her head around to see Cash posed in the doorway like the hero of some cheesy Western, his gun belt draped low, the star gleaming on his chest. She wasn't worried about drug dealers now, not with him around. She wasn't worried about terrorists or mountain lions either.
All she had to worry about was Cash sitting down
beside her. Because then the whole town would fig ure they were doing the nasty on a nightly basis. And judging from the way the sheriff was looking at her, he wouldn't mind making that bit of gossip a reality.
***
Cash settled down beside Libby at the bar. She seemed flustered, fooling with her silverware, pretending to look for something in her purse—anything to avoid looking at him. If he didn't know better, he'd think she'd com mitted some crime and had a guilty conscience.
But no, Libby was innocent. She just didn't want him to know how she felt about him.
She lifted her eyes to his and he felt something inside him twist with anticipation. The lady gave as good as she got. He felt like she was seeing into his soul.
Or at least into his libido.
"So is that true?" she asked.
Cash tried to remember what they were talking about. Then he remembered they hadn't been talking. The look they'd shared had said everything that needed to be said as far as he was concerned, but women liked to talk.
"Is what true?"
"That you find a lot of meth labs."
"Sure do," Cash said. "Seems like every time I shut one down, two take its place."
Libby looked down at her silverware again. She'd probably expected Lackaduck to be a regular Mayberry, with cozy small-town values and no crime more sig nificant than the occasional jaywalker. But those places didn't exist anymore—not even out here on the plains. Still, he didn't want to scare her. He'd better replace the rock he'd rolled aside before she changed her mind about settling here.
"It's not really that bad," he said. "Mostly Lackaduck is pretty clean-cut."
"Sure," she said. She didn't sound convinced.
"Anyway, what are you up to?" He pointed to Libby's notepad. "Working on a story?"
"I just interviewed Mike Cresswell," she said.
"Crazy Mike?"
"Mike Cresswell," she said again. She looked annoyed.
It figured. She was probably one of those liberal do-gooders, seeing the world through a haze of good intentions. People like that didn't understand that you needed to be careful around people like Crazy Mike.
"Oh," Cash said. "Sorry. But everybody calls him that."
"That doesn't make it right," she said.
The men's room door swung open and Mike shuffled out. "There he is," Libby said. She gave Mike a welcom ing smile, but he took one look at Cash and moved to a table across the room.
"Oh," Libby said. "He was sitting with me before. I guess…"
"I guess he's not comfortable sitting with the sher iff," Cash said. "That ought to tell you something right there." He lowered his voice. "Be careful, Libby."
"Careful? Of Mike? I thought he was kind of sweet," she said.
"Not really." Cash squared his shoulders, hoping she wouldn't take his warning the wrong way. He wasn't prejudiced against the handicapped or anything. He just knew what Mike was capable of. "He can get a little obsessive about women. Don't let yourself be alone with him. And be careful around Luke Rawlins too."
The doors swung open and a gray-haired woman en tered and settled in at a table by the jukebox.
"Luke?" Libby asked. "What do you mean? Why should I be careful around Luke?"
"Never mind." Cash stood abruptly and hiked up his belt. "Got to get back to work."
***
Libby opened her mouth to ask Cash again what he meant about Luke, but he was gone before she could blink. She wondered what he knew about her neighbor. She'd gotten over that Bundy brother thing, but maybe she should be a little more careful.
"Guess the sheriff was in a big hurry," she said to Crystal as the barkeep grabbed a menu for the latest customer.
"Cash takes his job pretty serious." Crystal scooped up a place setting and rolled it into a napkin. "We don't have to worry much with Sheriff McIntyre on the job."
"I suppose not," Libby said, "but between the meth labs and that murder they were talking about last night, Lackaduck's looking a little less rosy to me."
"Murder?" Crystal fastened a strip of paper around the napkin and turned her back, hunching her shoulders. "There was no murder."
"You know, the Della McCarthy thing," Libby re minded her.
Crystal whirled to face her, shaking the napkin wrapped flatware. "We don't know she was murdered," she hissed through clenched teeth. She slammed the place setting in front of Libby. "She's probably fine. Just fine," she stammered. "Maybe she met somebody. A man, you know? Maybe she's shacking up somewhere, like Big Mike said." Crystal gave the gleaming bar sink a final swipe. "I'm sure she's fine."
"She's not! She is not!"
Libby spun her barstool around as Mike stood abruptly, knocking his chair over backwards onto the floor. "She's not shacking up," he shouted. "She's dead! She's dead!"
Crystal set one hand on the phone and reached be neath the bar with the other. Libby wondered what she had under there—a baseball bat, maybe, or even a gun. "Stop it, Mike," she said. "You know you can't raise your voice in here. You settle down, or I'll call the sher iff. You settle down right now."
The big man bowed his head and pulled his chair up off the floor, then dabbed at the table with a cocktail nap kin where his beer had spilled. "She's not alive. She's not well," he mumbled as he shambled out of the bar.
Crystal's hands trembled as she grabbed a handful of silverware, then dropped it with a clatter. Libby had never seen her so upset.
"Oh my gosh, Mrs. M., I'm so sorry," Crystal said to the gray-haired woman. "So sorry."
"It's okay, Crystal," the woman said. She approached the bar and stood beside Libby. She was tall, with silver hair swept back in tidy waves from her forehead. She looked tired and sad, but she carried herself with dignity.
"We all know that man's—well, he's not right in the head. In fact, I've always wondered… oh, we've all wondered, right?"
Crystal nodded.
The woman's hands quivered as she gripped her purse in front of her, but she managed to give Libby a polite nod. "I'm Mary McCarthy," she said. "I was—I am—Della's mother."
Libby felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. "Oh, God. I'm sorry," she stammered. "So sorry. I—I shouldn't have brought it up. I had no idea Mike would act like that. It's just I—I'm a reporter, and I can't help asking…"
"It's all right," Mary repeated. She leaned over and patted Libby's hand. "I'm glad to have someone take an interest. Sometimes it seems like the whole world's forgotten my baby girl."
"Nobody here's forgotten her," Crystal said.
"Not Mr. Cresswell, obviously," Mary said.
"You really can't pay attention to what he says," Crystal said, her voice pleading. "He's crazy. You know that."
"Cash will find her," Libby said. "And he was just here. It's too bad you missed him."
"No, it's not," Mary said. "He left when he saw me come in, and I don't blame him. He's got nothing to say." She sighed. "The sheriff has a whole town to pro tect. He can't be running around at my beck and call, and I know it."
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