Only Good Yankee

by Jeff Abbott

  “It’ll be lovely when it’s done.”

  “You have a lot of that wire on hand?” I cleared my throat, knowing that it wasn’t about to be ripped (at least for the moment), and righted the chair I’d knocked over.

  “Sure. I do lots of Southwestern-style pots for that crafts store over in Bavary. Barbed wire’s a big decorating item there. You can get pottery, sculptures, all sorts of stuff like that.”

  So the killer wouldn’t necessarily have had to cut the wire from the fence that bisected Dee and Bob Don’s land. He or she could have filched a length from Dee’s studio. Dee knew it was here, and presumably so could Parker and Jenny—or anyone who bought Dee’s ceramics. Of course, it wouldn’t be filching if Dee herself took it to wrap into Greg’s neck like soft clay.

  “I’m sure you mentioned to Junebug that you had that kind of wire on hand, didn’t you?”

  She shrugged. “He didn’t ask. I didn’t volunteer.”

  I shook my head. “Are you just trying to make yourself look bad? Is this some game to you?”

  She finished setting the sharp wire into the pot and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Of course it’s not a game, Jordy. A man’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Two men. Don’t forget Freddy.”

  “Poor Freddy. He was really an oaf, wasn’t he?” “You’re ice, do you know that?” I suddenly wanted to be away from Dee Loudermilk. “You make that pot right after a man is strangled with wire. I think that’s sick.”

  “Aren’t you the sensitive boy? Then leave, Jordy. No one asked you here anyway. Why don’t you run back to your little friend Junebug Moncrief and tell him what I’ve been up to?” She smiled hollowly at me. “I’m a Loudermilk. See if he’ll do anything about mean ol’ me.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. “Not cooperating with Junebug in his investigation isn’t going to help your husband.”

  She laughed. “I’m not a good political wife and Parker knows that. I could frankly not give a rat’s ass about him being mayor. If I did, I’d have him fire your ass in a minute. You’re not exactly behaving like a loyal employee. But maybe it’s good for old Parker to have a thorn in his side.”

  “Do you give a rat’s ass about your daughter? She’s in there—” I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence as Parker Loudermilk barreled into his wife’s studio, looking for all this world like his senses had fled him. He stared hard at me, venom contorting his face.

  “Jordy. What are you doing here?” The breath that powered his voice was ragged with fury. His eyes slid to Dee, who stood calmly by her wheel, arms crossed over her breasts.

  “Just talking with Dee about all the goings-on in town,” I offered. It sounded idiotic, but I frankly didn’t have a witty excuse available.

  “Would you mind leaving?” he asked, the politician in him kicking in belatedly. “I mean, I need to talk with Dee privately. And I’m sure you must have work at the library to do.” His dark eyes darted to her and lingered. I saw the folds of flesh in the corner of his eyes crinkle in annoyance when he saw her standing disinterestedly watching us.

  He might be the mayor, but I’d had enough. “Yes, I think I will leave. Y’all are just too strange today for me. First Dee makes a big production of letting me know that she’s got a bunch of the same kind of wire that killed Greg”—he swallowed hard at that little announcement—“and your daughter’s got a solid drunk on in the house. I’ve had my fill of Loudermilks today, thank you kindly.” I turned to go.

  “Goddamn you!” Parker roared, and I whirled back, thinking he was coming after me. But he wasn’t. He was after Dee, seizing one of her arms and shaking her hard. Her eyes were frozen on him, unblinking, like marbles left in sand.

  I had no wish to get involved in their domestic squabble, but I couldn’t very well walk out when it looked like he might hit her. I grabbed his shoulder, said, “Hey, Parker, calm down—” That’s when he spun around and belted me, hard.

  I landed on the floor. You don’t know how much getting hit in the face hurts. It’s a lot, trust me.

  “Parker!” Dee shoved past him to kneel by me. I was busy working my jaw; it seemed okay. My eye, though, sure was sore.

  “Oh, aren’t you tough?” Dee spat at her husband, who stood staring down at me with a look of utter blankness. “Hitting a man who’s got his arm in a sling! And he’s a librarian, too.”

  I decided to ignore that implicit slur against my profession and my manhood as I got to my feet. My left eye tingled, as though announcing that its skin would soon darken like an overripe plum. I was still so surprised that I hadn’t even gotten ticked at Parker. I just thought: The mayor hit me.

  Dee steadied me. “What the hell is wrong with you, Parker?” she snapped. “Have you just totally lost your mind?”

  Parker Loudermilk continued to glare at me, but his fingers unfolded out of fists. Finally his well-worn mask of local government slipped back into place. He smiled, nearly beatifically at me, then walked out of the studio.

  ‘Tell me he’s not going to get his gun,” I said to Dee, holding my good hand up to my eye. This investigating crap could get you damaged if not outright dead.

  “No, he’s not going to get a gun,” she answered, but I saw her delicate teeth biting the top of her lower lip. She looked worried, which did nothing to reassure me. “Let’s get a cold compress on your eye.”

  Dee helped me into the kitchen. We heard the squeal of tires in the driveway; Parker leaving, I guessed. Jenny wasn’t in the kitchen. I sat on a stool while Dee wrapped a baggie of ice in a dish towel and pressed it against my eye. I was feeling better—so well, in fact, that I wanted to kick Parker Loudermilk’s ass for him. Dee pressed the coldness to my face. Another lock of her blonde hair dangled before her face and I wanted to push it back behind her ear, the way I did back in her pottery shed. I didn’t.

  “I’m sorry, Jordy. But maybe you shouldn’t go around asking so many questions.” I saw her eyes dart around the kitchen again, as if looking for something.

  “She might be passed out, but I don’t think she’d drunk that much,” I answered, guessing that she was looking for her daughter.

  “Jenny’s much like her dad. Prone to stupid decisions. But I really don’t want to talk about my daughter with you.” She pushed down hard on the ice over my bruised eye. “Does that feel better?”

  “Not when you’re trying to drive it through my skull like that,” I answered. I pulled on her hand to ease the pressure and she let go of the compress entirely. I took hold of it and watched her walk to the sink.

  “You know, it’s not like I barreled in here, guns blazing and accusations flying,” I said. Well, maybe I did, but that was beside the point. “Your daughter’s drinking heavily and your husband—a public figure—is belting city employees. What are y’all trying for, a guest spot on Oprah?”

  “I’m sorry that Parker hit you. He doesn’t deal well with anger.” Her back was to me and I saw her chambray shirt wrinkle and smooth as her back tensed.

  “No, I guess not. But never mind his behavior to me—that I can figure out. Why’s he so mad at you?”

  “He’s not mad at me, he’s mad at the world.” She ran water in the sink and rinsed her face.

  “No, he’s mad at us.” Jenny’s voice came from behind me. She walked slowly and steadily around me, pulling the ice down from my face. “That’ll turn cool colors. It’ll go with everything.” Her words didn’t slur, but I could see the effort in her face to enunciate.

  “That’s a real comfort,” I answered.

  Jenny watched her mother, who had turned to face us. “Is this how the end starts, Mom? I’d like to know so I can get my front-row seat.”

  “Jennifer Louise, go upstairs. You’re drunk. You and I will talk later.” Dee’s voice was as hard as fired clay.

  “No,” Jenny said, not even looking at her mother but staring at me. “Greg’s friend, she’s your ex-girlfriend, right?”

  I nodded.

&nbs
p; “Jenny! I said go upstairs!” Dee yelled.

  “That’s where I hide the liquor now, Mom,” she retorted. “Are you sure that’s where you want me to be?”

  I stood up, keeping the ice pressed to my swelling face. “This has all been charming, ladies, but I’m frankly tired of this bullshit I’ve already gotten my eye punched, so I might as well go for broke. Rumor has it that you were both sleeping with Greg Callahan.” I turned to Dee. “Now he’s dead, and your family is falling apart. Your daughter’s drinking and your husband’s pissing mad and beating up innocent librarians. What am I supposed to think, Dee? Maybe that hunk of wire in Greg’s neck did come from your studio.” I sounded cruel, but this dancing around the sour core of what might have happened with them had grown tiresome. I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.

  Dee’s mouth, pale and unlipsticked, worked as though trying to form words. A vague smile haunted her face.

  Jenny didn’t wait for her mother. “Leave her alone. She didn’t kill Greg.”

  “Jennifer Louise, hush, right now!” Dee came forward in a burst of motion like a runner exploding from the block. She seized her daughter’s arm. “I told you to go upstairs.”

  “How long are we going to protect him, Mom?” Jenny screamed. “I can’t do this anymore! I can’t—” The slap against Jenny’s face reverberated in the tiled kitchen. She stared at the hardwood floor, and a thin dribble of blood formed on her lip. She shuddered. “Mommy—”

  Dee whirled on me. “You. Out. Now.”

  I lowered the ice from my face. “Y’all are, without a doubt, the most screwed-up family I’ve ever seen.” I glanced over at the stunned teenager. “Jenny, you okay?” She didn’t answer.

  “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the cops,” Dee said, taking a step toward me.

  “Good idea. Let’s have them all over.” I shook my head at her, Jenny’s words ringing in my ears. How long are we going to protect him, Mom? “Whatever the hell mess y’all have gotten yourselves into, Dee, get out of it now. Let me help you—”

  “I don’t need help. I need for you to go. Goodbye, Jordy.” She put her crying daughter under her arm like a bird protecting a wobbly nestling and escorted Jenny out of the kitchen.

  I left, keeping the bag of ice and the dish towel it was wrapped in. They owed me that much, surely. And I drove to the police station just as fast as I could.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “JUST WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU were doing, Jordy?” Junebug barked, shaking his head at my black eye.

  “Never mind me,” I said, wincing as Dr. Meyers probed at the bruise. “Why don’t you go talk to our fruit-headed first family? I swear those Loudermilks redefine dysfunctional.”

  “You’ll have a nice shiner for a few days, Jordy, but there’s no permanent damage.” Dr. Meyers shook his gray head at me. “Honestly, aren’t you too old for this?”

  “My behavior is beside the point,” I stressed, keeping my voice polite. “It’s our mayor who’s the threat to society.”

  Dr. Meyers smiled. He’d been Mirabeau’s favorite doctor for nearly thirty years. “You look more like you’ve been threatened by society, what with your arm and your eye.”

  “You’re gonna be the poster boy for people who stick their noses into police business,” Junebug snapped. “Hold still while I get my camera. Doc, see if you can knock out a couple of his teeth for completeness.”

  “All right! Are you going to do anything about what I told you about the Loudermilks?”

  Junebug sat down across from me. “Depends. You want to press charges against Parker? Jesus, this is going to be a mess. The mayor smacking around his staff. He’s probably going to lose the next election over this.”

  “You sound heartbroken. As to pressing charges, I’m not sure. Right now I’d just like to give him a shiner and call us even.”

  “I don’t think that’d solve anything.” Junebug coughed. “Not to mention that a boxing match between the mayor and the chief librarian could lower civic morale.”

  I ignored his feeble attempt at comedy. “Look. He went after Dee, he went after me. He’s beyond his boiling point, and we need to know why.”

  “Maybe he and Dee are having problems.” Junebug stood to look out the window.

  “And maybe that problem was Greg,” I said. “Have you found out where any of them were the night of the murder?”

  “Dee says they were all at home.”

  “Well, I’d ask Miss Jenny again if I were you. She made some remark about protecting him and I think they’re covering for Parker. My guess is that Jenny thinks her father was involved with Greg’s death and she’s incapable of keeping up the charade. Dee I don’t get. If she’s covering for Parker, why’d she show me that wire?”

  Junebug kept staring out the window. “Maybe she’s tired of covering for him—but she wants us to figure it out so she doesn’t have to tell on him.” He looked back at the window.

  I stood. “What is it, Junebug?”

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Jordy. Now you go on home. Let me know if you want to file assault charges against Parker.”

  “Go home? Listen, I think that—”

  He turned to me like a father admonishing a wayward lad. “Go home, Jordy. Or go to the library. Someplace that’s safe. I think you’ve gotten into enough trouble for the day.”

  I tried the library first, because on the way home I’d remembered a resource I should have remembered before, when I was begging Junebug to tell me whose phone number was scribbled down in Greg’s room. The library was still open and Florence Pettus yawned at the counter, looking surprised to see me and my shiner.

  “Jordy! What happened to—”

  “I’m fine,” I lied, hurrying toward the reference stacks. “I walked into a door.” I found the book I was looking for next to a collection of Mirabeau phone books that went back to the first telephone in the town.

  I pulled down the reverse phone book and found the slip of paper in my wallet where I’d scribbled down the number from Greg’s notepad. If you haven’t seen a reverse phone book, they’re great fun; they list phone numbers according to the number, not by the person. You can look up any phone number and find out who it belongs to. I felt like an idiot for not remembering sooner that we had this reference book in the library, but what with all the emotional confusion going on between Lorna and me and the subsequent bombing, it’d slipped my mind.

  555-3489. I found it: Edward and Kathy Johnson, over on Heydl Street. I didn’t know them. I went back up to the front counter and checked our Rolodex of library-card holders. No Edward Johnson, but there were two Kathy Johnsons that had cards, and one had the Heydl Street address. I quickly flipped through the rest of the Johnsons and found two other cardholders at that address. Brice Johnson, age seventeen, and Becca Johnson, age sixteen.

  I sat back. Who were the Johnsons and why on earth did Greg have their phone number?

  I was reaching for the phone to call home when I saw Nina Hernandez come in. She eyed me warily and walked over to the counter.

  “I take it you and Eula Mae have covered every square inch of town with y’all’s flyers?” I asked.

  “Hello, Jordy. You look a bit worse for wear.” She studied me. “I do hope Tiny didn’t do that to you.”

  “Hardly, Nina. But I suppose it’s not an unlikely guess. He’s already threatened me once about you.”

  She shook her head. “Tiny’s sweet. Just overprotective. And I’m afraid he’s a bit smitten with me.”

  “Very. It makes one wonder what lengths Tiny would go to to win your affection.”

  She frowned. “Sorry?”

  “Tiny. He’s a doer, not a thinker. Did you know he nearly strangled me once, in a rage when we were children?”

  She gestured at my slinged arm and my black eye. “You seem to be very beloved in this town. Maybe if you kept your nose out of people’s business, you wouldn’t need higher health-insurance premiums.” She had a wi
cked grin.

  “I’m not the one who came from out of town to stir up trouble, Nina. You are.”

  “I’m not jousting with you, Jordy. I didn’t come to stir up trouble, I came to stop it.”

  “But you weren’t counting on Tiny. He’s not stable, Nina. You should know that before you get involved with him.” I nearly blurted out that Junebug suspected Tiny of being Mirabeau’s munitions marauder, but I bit my lip instead.

  She sniffed disdainfully. Her motto of loving all of earth’s creatures apparently didn’t extend to Tiny Parmalee. “I’m not involved with him. But I can’t help what he feels or thinks about me. I’ve made it clear to Tiny that I’ll be leaving Mirabeau soon and I’m not interested in a relationship with him.”

  I almost felt sorry for Tiny. Notice the almost. “So what can I help you with?”

  “Miss Twyla’s not feeling well, and she asked me to return these books for her.” I glanced at the stack—older Phyllis Whitneys, with the latest potboiler thrown in for a modern touch, and a Stephen Hawking to appeal to her scientific side. “She didn’t want them to be overdue.”

  “Miss Twyla is very civically minded. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine. And hopefully she can worry about overdue books more than the river being plundered, now that Callahan is dead.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “You must have hated him extraordinarily. I mean, to have fought him more than once.”

  “I didn’t care about him, one way or the other. I just wanted to stop Intraglobal.”

  I remembered the rather surprising news of Lorna’s that Intraglobal was a three-person shop. “Do you know who Doreen Miller is?”

  Her lips thinned. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, she was Greg’s silent partner in Intraglobal. You know that Intraglobal wasn’t a big company, right?’

  “Small companies can do a lot of damage to our ecosystems, Jordy. It’s a lack of responsibility, not a lack of money, that plunders our environment.”

  “I just wondered if you knew who she was or where she might be found. Last I heard, they were having trouble tracking down this woman to tell her about Greg.” And I’d forgotten to ask Junebug if he’d made any progress on that front. I’d call when I got home.