by Jeff Abbott
Junebug cleared his throat, as unrushed as ever. “Well, the lady from the Austin Bomb Squad is gonna come back out and take a gander. Looks like blasting caps with an attached timer and battery. It left lots of fragments for the folks at the Austin Bomb Squad to analyze.”
I swallowed. I’d heard that blasting caps—usually used to set off dynamite charges—had been found in the rubble from Fred’s toolshed and the château de Tepper, along with the remains of an eight-inch pipe bomb. My spine felt a cold tickle, like a ghost’s nip.
Although I’d already given Junebug a statement, he asked me to retrace my steps of that morning—where I was on the lawn, what I saw. I told him, omitting only that I’d seen Miss Twyla spying on me in the yard. No need to embarrass my favorite teacher. Junebug jotted down more notes after I’d finished, then asked me if I’d seen anyone near the mailboxes. I said no.
“Now, look here, Junebug,” Candace intoned, “this has gone far enough. Jordy could have been killed. Just what are you going to do about this?”
Junebug began his monotonous answer, which was what I’d already read in our local paper, and I tuned out. I wanted a Tylenol and a cup of coffee. Then I’d go to the library. Surely that would make for a Safety First day. Wrong.
* * *
You don’t want former lovers to come calling. It’s as awkward and messy as trying to change your oil with two left thumbs. And you especially don’t want an old lover showing up at work. Not when your current paramour is there to make the scene complete.
I was in my office, planning the attack to weed rarely used books off our stacks. We have to go through this agony at least once each year, determining from our records which volumes have gathered the most dust and sparked the least interest. We sell them to dealers, hoping to make a little money back so we can buy more books. Lord knows our regular book-buying budget isn’t growing much.
I heard giggles out on the floor from my two newest staffers, Itasca Huebler and Florence Pettus. I didn’t doubt that some interesting town gossip was being told; I believe Itasca has a satellite dish implanted in her beehive. Itasca’s in her forties, a funny, big-boned lady with a kind, rosy face and a barbed tongue to rival my own. Florence is closer to my age, a mother of two, who somehow finds it hard to believe ill of anyone. She’d grown up poor and black in Mirabeau, odds that didn’t favor success. She ended up married to Joe Pettus, owner of a big carpet store over in Bavary. Florence worked at the library because she liked the people, the children, the smell of the books; Itasca was a tad more practical, having already outlived and outspent two husbands. I was grateful to them both; there’d been no full-time staff when I took over as chief librarian and both women had learned quickly and worked hard.
I listened to the laughter crescendo then abruptly cut off. No doubt Itasca was flinging the latest mud and Florence, too embarrassed to tell her to stop, had just murmured her standard line about getting back to work. Florence appeared at my door, apparently barely able to keep the laughter in.
“Oh, Jordy, you have a visitor. Out at the checkout counter.”
“Who?” I asked.
“She didn’t say.” Florence murmured.
Great. Another book salesperson, no doubt, ready to pitch the latest best-seller that no small rural library could do without. I put on a smile and sauntered out—and saw Lorna Wiercinski perched on the checkout counter. The shock value of seeing Lorna was roughly akin to seeing Jesus sitting there with a HI, I’M BACK button. I confess that my jaw moved up and down without any sound emerging. I’m sure Lorna appreciated that up-close view of my molars.
“I’ve got something that’s overdue, Tex,” Lorna rumbled in her thick Boston accent. And yes, rumbled is the right word. Lorna’s a big girl, nearly six foot, with long alabaster legs, a broad Slavic face, deep-set gray eyes, an admirable bosom (if size matters to you), and a stunning mane of jet-black hair. Dressed in a miniskirted business suit with black pumps that made her as tall as me, she would have gathered a crowd, not merely stuck out in one. She leaned back on the counter and fluttered her eyelashes. “I do declare,” she intoned in an awful pseudo-Southern accent. “That boy’s got the vapors.”
After a long, arduous search, I found my voice.
“Lorna? Oh, my God—” I was always one for witty banter.
She smiled, a rich, luxurious smile I’d seen many times before. It was her patented cat-who-ate-the-canary-and-the-fish grin, full of self-satisfaction at her own cleverness.
“It’s good to see you, too, Jordan.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward. “Still breathing, Tex? Keep those involuntary responses going, babe. And what the hell happened to your arm?” I told myself: Okay, she’s here. Just deal with it.
I stepped up and hugged her awkwardly, keeping my slinged arm close by me. I don’t believe in just shaking hands with someone you’ve slept with (albeit in the past) for three years. She hugged back, a little too warmly for my taste. When I pulled my head back, she planted a kiss right on my mouth. A friendly peck I could have dealt with; Lorna’s hello kiss melted toenails. My eyes popped wide and I saw a grinning Itasca and a frowning Florence.
Which of course, following today’s theme of “Keep Jordy in Trouble,” was when Candace returned from reshelving the stacks. To her credit, she didn’t scream or rage or faint. Oh, no. What she did was far worse. She was icy calm and polite.
I broke the embrace and tried to think of a well-mannered way to wipe the kiss off my mouth and not insult Lorna. I instead sucked my offending lips into my mouth, thinking that hiding them from view might lessen my culpability. I looked instead like an old man who’d had his dentures yanked right from his gums.
“Candace, hi!” I said brightly. She smiled her chilliest smile, the one reserved for people who made a snotty comment about someone she liked. I stumbled onward, feeling totally uncool: “This is an old friend from Boston, Lorna Wiercinski. Lorna, this is Candace Tully—um, my girlfriend.” I gestured feebly toward Candace.
No one could have ever deduced my taste in women from looking at these two. Lorna was tall, where Candace was petite. Lorna was dressed like a businesswoman in heat, à la the heroine of some Jackie Collins miniseries. Candace looked like she’d tiptoed out of Laura Ashley University with a bachelor’s in Prim. Lorna was smiling, Candace was not. If I’d had one ounce of sense I would have kept talking, but I was a little too rattled by Lorna’s unexpected appearance.
“Candy. How nice to meet you.” Lorna offered a hand.
Candace smiled and took Lorna’s hand. She looked ready to keep it in a jar. “It’s Candace, Ms. Weird-chintzy. And how nice to meet you.”
Lorna ignored the mispronunciation jab. After all, Candace had nearly gotten her name right.
“You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve taken Jordan quite by surprise. He certainly wasn’t expecting to see me. I’ve just arrived from Boston.”
“Since he’s never mentioned you”—a glare went Jordyward—“I’m not surprised. How nice of you to visit. And what brings you here?” Candace asked. I was awful interested in that question myself. So were Itasca and Florence, who edged closer.
“I stopped by to donate some books,” Lorna said innocently, handing me a plastic bag. I regarded it with suspicion. She’d always been one for yanking my chain. Peering inside, I saw that Lorna felt that the Mirabeau Public Library was missing some key volumes: The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty (one of my personal favorites), The Tourist’s Guide to New England, and—oh, boy!—the Kama Sutra. Now, would that go under sports or biology?
“Two of those might be for you, Jordan. Can you guess which ones?” Lorna smiled.
Since I already owned a well-worn copy of the Welty, it wasn’t a hard guess.
Itasca made a snatch at the bag. “Shall I catalog those for you?”
I yanked them back, somehow keeping my smile in place. “I’ll do that later, thanks, Itasca.” Candace crossed her arms and one eyebrow went up questioningly.
“I
have a proposition for you, Jordan.” Lorna beamed and the air temperature continued its downward slide. I’d never thought of Candace as possessive before, but I knew her well enough to sense the seething under her calm exterior. Like I said before, Candace is plenty smart. For an old girlfriend to show up, all the way from New England—I took a deep breath.
“Do you now?” Candace asked. I drew closer to Candace to show my allegiance. She leaned (unthinkingly, I’m sure) against my hurt arm. I winced, but let her stay.
Lorna pulled herself down from the counter. “Yes, Candy, a business proposition.” She blinked as though shocked at the thought that she could have any other suggestions for me. “I’d like to discuss it this evening with you, Jordan—say, over dinner. Nothing wrong with mixing business with pleasure.”
“Gosh, Lorna, you’ve kind of popped up from nowhere and taken me by surprise.” I wanted to convince Candace that I hadn’t been expecting Lorna. “Can’t you tell me what this is about?”
Lorna smiled at Candace. “I’d prefer to discuss this privately with you, and not during your working hours.” She glanced around the modest library. “Not exactly like your old office, is it, Tex?”
I squirmed at the nickname; up north, it had seemed clever and given me the vaguest sense of home; now it seemed silly. “No, it’s a real different office. It’s better, if you ask me.” I hesitated. “Well, Lorna, why don’t you come to the house? We can talk there. Say at six?” I jotted down the address and directions for her.
“Fine, Jordan. It’s wonderful to see you again, by the way. You never did say what happened to your arm.”
“I had a little accident.” I didn’t feel like discussing Mirabeau’s mad bomber. “It’s okay.”
“How’s your mother?” she asked unexpectedly. Lorna had been none too pleased that I’d left Boston—and her—to come home to take care of Mama.
“About the same.”
“I’m sorry. Well, I’ll see you at six. Nice meeting you, Candy.” With that, she turned, nodded at Florence and Itasca, and sauntered out the door, like a hurricane moving in from the coast. The only difference was that hurricanes are indifferent to the destruction and chaos they cause.
I turned to Candace. “Now listen to me—”
“Candy! How dare she call me that, after I told her what my name was. I’m no confection.” Her voice was low and cool and anything but sweet.
“I’m sorry you saw her kiss me. She took me by surprise—”
“How stupid do you think I am, Jordy? Of course she took you by surprise. That was all over your face and I could read it like a book. Or in this case, a comic strip.”
Itasca walked up to me and, very thoughtfully, wiped lipstick off my mouth with a crumpled tissue. She is always one for attention to detail, even at the worst possible times.
“I liked your friend,” she announced bluntly, shooting a glance at Candace. I’m fond of Itasca because she’s smart and funny, but I don’t like her resentment of Candace’s money. Itasca hadn’t been particularly supportive of my relationship with Candace. “She’s gorgeous and she’s got style.”
“Is that what you call style, Itasca? Her throwing herself at a man who left her months ago?” Candace parried. I handed over the bag of books and she peered inside.
“How transparent,” she finally said. “Your favorite writer, a guidebook to her stomping ground, and a sex manual. Honestly, Jordan, is this the kind of woman you dated up north?” Note she called me Jordan. Big trouble ahead.
“I’m sure she was just glad to see Jordy,” the generous-hearted Florence piped up. Itasca rolled her mascara-encased eyes.
“Some people might be critical of a lady like her that takes what she wants.” Itasca stuffed her tissue back in her purse and took the opportunity to reexamine her own makeup. “I’m not.”
‘Takes what she wants?” Candace sputtered. “What on earth makes you think she’s going to get Jordy back?”
Itasca closed her compact with an authoritative air.
“Jordy didn’t seem too broken up to see her, did you, honey?”
Three pairs of eyes trained on me and I felt as embarrassed as a preacher with a broken zipper. “Look, Itasca, you’re as wrong as wrong can be. Candace, I’m as surprised as you are to see her here. Those books are just Lorna’s idea of a joke. I can’t imagine that she wants me back, and I don’t know anything about her business proposal.”
Florence attempted peace. “Well, now that she knows Jordy’s involved with someone else, I’m sure she’ll leave him alone.”
“Excuse us, please,” Candace said, taking my good arm and leading me back to my office. She shut the door.
She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and crossed them again. “Just one thing. You had no idea she was coming?”
“None. And I don’t know what this secret business proposition is about either. When I left Boston, Lorna worked for a consulting firm that specialized in real-estate development. I don’t have any idea why she wants to see me.”
“She’s a good kisser, isn’t she?” Candace demanded.
“Of course not!” I bleated. What did Candace want from me? An undying pledge of commitment? We hadn’t discussed future plans—too much had happened in those tense couple of months when we’d come together and realized our feelings for each other. After the double punch of a murder investigation and learning about my parentage, long talks about the days ahead held little appeal. I was concentrating too much on past lies and present woes.
“Look, I’ll see her, find out what this is all about. If it’s just a ploy to get me back in her life, I’ll swat her on the ass and send her on her merry way.”
Her frown didn’t waver. “C’mon, you trust me to handle her, don’t you?” I asked. “Whatever this is, it isn’t trouble. We’ve already had our share of that today.”
She nodded, nearly imperceptibly, then hugged me, being careful of my arm and shoulder. After a moment she let me go and went off into the stacks. I sank down into the front desk chair. My body and mind felt stunned—except for my lips, which tingled from Lorna’s kiss. No trouble, I told myself, is going to come of this.
Of course, I was dead wrong. It was trouble, and in the worst way.
CHAPTER TWO
“IT’S NOTHING BUT DAMNED CARPETBAGGERS!” Miss Twyla fumed in my office. For Miss Twyla to utter the word damned portended serious trouble. She’d rushed into the library late in the afternoon. I’d felt tired and lethargic and my arm was awful sore. I should have listened to the doctor, gone straight home, and pulled a pillow over my head. Right now all I wanted was some quiet, an icy-cold Celis bock, and another Tylenol. If I didn’t watch it, I’d get chemically dependent and end up on Donahue, discussing my woes with nine million people. “Librarians Who Are Injured by Prank Bombs, Then Have Close Encounters With Ex-Girlfriends.” I’d do wonders for the show’s Nielsens, no doubt. Only problem was I’d be the sole panelist.
I had been ready to call it a day when Miss Twyla arrived, looking bad, mad, and demanding some of my time.
“What was that about carpetbaggers, Miss Twyla?” I leaned back in my office chair that dated from when vinyl was first invented and tried to find a comfortable position.
“Car-pet-baggers!” Miss Twyla repeated. I’m sure the term has more emotional weight with her than it does with me, since I don’t recall using the word except in a history paper.
“Would you care to explain?”
“Have you had the pleasure of meeting Miss Lorna Wiercinski and Mr. Greg Callahan?” Miss Twyla asked.
I’d had all sorts of pleasures with Lorna but didn’t care to discuss them with Miss Twyla. “Yes, ma’am, I know Ms. Wiercinski. We knew each other in Boston. I haven’t met Greg Callahan—who’s he?” I paused. “I’m supposed to meet with Lorna this evening about a business proposal.”
“Well, hide the silver,” Miss Twyla advised. “Those two are nothing but thieves. They want our land, Jordy.”
I had thi
s sudden image of Lorna bartering with Chief Manhasset, tossing a few extra beads on the pile. “What land?”
“The land you and I and some others own, that fronts down on the river. They want to buy it up and build condos.”
“Condos? In Mirabeau?” Mirabeauans are house dwellers, except for the hardy few who call the trailer park home and those who live in the town’s one, rather shabby apartment complex. So this was the reason Lorna was in town. Good—it had nothing to do with our former relationship. Then I remembered the kiss and Lorna’s dictum that there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with mixing business with pleasure.
“I know. It’s stupid. Who’d want to buy a condo in Mirabeau? But that’s what they want. And we’ve got to stop them. Condos would ruin that lovely view of the river, not to mention cause all sorts of nasty runoff into the Colorado. And possibly bring an undesirable element—weekenders.” Miss Twyla shuddered.
“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, Miss Twyla. It could pull some money into town.” Mirabeau wasn’t exactly lacking in funds, but aside from cotton and peanut farming, cattle, pig raising, a couple of bed-and-breakfasts, a few odd service industries, and some antique stores, there wasn’t much to hold folks. Which made me, in reflection, even more curious as to why Lorna or anyone else would want to build condos.
“It’s time for action!” Miss Twyla announced, and if she’d had a walking cane, I’m sure she would have stamped it to emphasize her point. “I’m calling a meeting of all concerned citizens tonight. Those developers might think they can ignore me ‘cause I’m old, but they’re dead wrong!”
“It seems to me that the easiest way to stop them is just not to sell them the land.” The fire in her eyes scared me a little; Miss Twyla was one of those old ladies who, once they’ve gotten their dander up, aren’t likely to put it back down until they’ve had their way. Plus most of the Oudelles, while respectable, had turned out crazy in their later years. Miss Twyla had taught chemistry at the high school and it always made us a tad nervous that she had so many poisons at hand.
