by Judy Clemens
I laughed. Pa Granger had been the perfect complement to Ma—the last person who’d ever pick a fight. If even he had gotten his hackles up about Yoder I guessed they were a problem.
“Well, that’s it, then,” I said.
But Ma wasn’t done. “Is Lucy all settled?”
“Just moved in today.”
“So no groceries.”
I smiled, knowing where this was headed. “I’m sure she’d be grateful for whatever you bring by.”
“You leave that up to me, then,” Ma said.
“Oh, I will.”
“I guess this call means we won’t see you at church tomorrow morning, Stella?”
I tilted my head back, stretching my neck. “Don’t count on me, Ma. You know how it makes me feel to have all those people crowding me, telling me how sorry they are about Howie.”
“They care about you, honey.”
“I know. But I already promised Lenny I’d go to a club picnic with him.” Thank goodness.
“In that case, we’ll expect to see you at the hymn sing tomorrow night.”
What? “I’ve never been a singer, Ma. You know that.”
“All the more reason to come when there’s lots of folks to drown you out. I’ll see you then. Seven-thirty sharp.”
She hung up on me, and I knew I was doomed to sing.
If I got lucky, tomorrow afternoon I’d come down with whooping cough.
Chapter Nine
“I never dreamed I’d be in this position,” Lenny said.
He lay on top of me, fortunately taking most of his considerable weight on his elbows and knees. It was a beautiful afternoon, and Lenny’s wild hair blocked the sun from my eyes as we reclined in the grass.
“Yup,” I said. “You’re a lucky man.”
He smiled.
“The old man’s home!” someone screamed.
Lenny jumped to his feet. I held still to keep from getting trampled by his heavy boots, then eased onto my stomach to watch him leap (well, as much as a full-grown, beer-gutted guy can leap) over our side of the fake double window sill and onto his Harley. He slammed his foot down to kick-start the bike and roared away, leaving an eight-foot skid mark in the lawn. He beat out the other biker by two seconds.
“All right!” I stood and held my fists in the air briefly, until my side shrieked a protest. Angry ribs aside, it felt good to be the “Old Man’s Home” winners for the first time ever. Dr. Peterson would be proud I let myself be coerced into joining my Harley Owner’s Group chapter for the annual pig roast. At that moment, I was glad I came.
Lenny came rumbling back and parked his bike on the opposite side of the double-sills.
“We are the champions,” he sang, to applause.
We accepted our prizes (an outdated Harley-Davidson Christmas mug for each of us) and sat down in the grass to be spectators for the last field game.
“Hey, Stella!” Bart loped toward us. “Why don’t you guys do the Weenie Bite? You’d win hands down.”
I made a face. “You want to see me throw up?”
The weenie in question is a cold hot dog speared on a plastic fork, dangling from a string. The object is for the driver of the bike to go as slow as he can underneath said wiener so the passenger can get the biggest bite possible out of the dog. They’ll spruce it up with mustard or ketchup—your choice.
“We can’t take too many prizes,” Lenny said. “It would look bad, me being a club sponsor and all.”
Bart flopped down next to me, and I felt lopsided between him and Lenny. Bart is shorter than me, about five-seven, and about as big around as an exhaust pipe. His long brown hair is tied back in a single braid, and his snake tattoo travels from one arm to the next, around his shoulder blades, without a break.
Lenny, on the other hand, is big and burly. The red hair on his head is matched only by his beard, and lends him the look of an Irish bear. He’s got tattoos, too, but they’re more the individual kind—a cross, a heart bearing the name Vonda, a nasty skull with a clerical collar.
Tattoos were abundant that day at the picnic, mine included, and I looked around at the other club members with appreciation. Our group hosts the shindig every year to raise money, half of which goes to charity. This year it would benefit a local family who’d lost everything in a house fire two weeks earlier.
“Any luck with your ad for a farmhand?” Bart asked.
“Actually, I hired somebody yesterday. She’s off to church with the Grangers this morning, so she should be getting a grand welcoming.”
Lenny grinned. “Another woman on the farm, huh? And a Mennonite?”
“You know those Menno women,” Bart said. “They come from good German stock. She’ll pull her weight.”
Lenny guffawed. “Or Stella will make her pull it.”
“It’ll be interesting to hear what the Grangers think of her.” I tipped my face up and enjoyed the heat of the sun. “So Bart, what would you think if someone told you her husband died of an illness, but you find out from someone else that he wasn’t really sick. He was paralyzed.”
Bart looked at me, confused. “Well, I guess I’d figure some people have different descriptions for the same thing. And then I’d tell myself to mind my own business.”
I thought about Lucy’s evasiveness whenever Brad’s death was mentioned. “You wouldn’t think she’s trying to hide something?”
Bart pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, unlit. “Like what?”
“Well, the guy was paralyzed because he fell down some stairs.”
“And?”
“What if it wasn’t an accident?”
His cigarette drooped as he stared at me. “Oh, come on. What is this? She’s evasive, so that means she pushed him?”
“I had a phone call, too, telling me to watch out for her.”
“And who was this thoughtful person who called?”
I grunted. “He didn’t say.”
“So,” Bart said, “your reasons for suspecting your employee of murder are a few ambiguous words about illness and an anonymous phone call?”
I shrugged. “You’re right. It’s ridiculous.”
“Who’s ridiculous?” Lenny said.
“Haven’t you been listening?” Bart took his cigarette out of his mouth and held it between two fingers. “Stella thinks her new lady farmhand is a murderer.”
“Wouldn’t that be murderess?” Lenny asked.
“It’s neither,” I said, “because she didn’t do it. So just stop.”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” Bart said. “Don’t snap at me.”
Lenny leaned over and whapped Bart on the back. “Stella didn’t come here to get talked smart to by you. I had a hard enough time convincing her to come at all.”
“Then maybe she should’ve stayed home,” Bart said cheerfully.
“What?” Lenny said. “With the murderer?”
Bart widened his eyes. “Murderess.”
“Okay,” I said. “Why else would she evade my questions? Assuming she didn’t really shove her husband down the stairs.”
They thought, but had no suggestions.
“Okay,” I said. “Seeing as how you guys are no help, I can think of a few things right off the bat. She’s tired of talking about it. Someone else—my caller, perhaps—already suspects her of pushing him and she’s sick of it. She doesn’t like talking to relative strangers, which I am. I don’t know, why else wouldn’t she talk about it?”
They looked at each other, then at me.
“Come on, Stella,” Lenny said gently. “You of all people should understand that.”
A wave of comprehension rushed over me, and I bent my head toward my knees. Bart placed his hand lightly on my back, while Lenny leaned close enough I could feel the heat from his arm against mine.
They were right. My raw grief for Howie hadn’t gone away in five weeks, and I wasn’t anywhere near want
ing to talk about it. I seriously doubted the pain would go away in a year and a half. Perhaps it never would.
“What the—?” Lenny’s voice sounded like a growl, and Bart was suddenly on his feet. I followed the direction of their eyes and went stiff.
Across the way at a picnic table, a greasy-looking biker stuck out like a sore thumb. Making him even more conspicuous was the switchblade he had pulled from his vest and was holding at another guy’s throat. Cowering behind the second man were a woman and a boy, who looked like he was about twelve.
I jumped up beside Bart and focused on the knife-wielder. Bart and Lenny’s energy vibrated on either side of me as we marched toward the picnic table. The guy with the knife glanced up and froze when he saw us.
“Don’t come any closer!” he yelled. “I’ll cut him! I’ll kill the bastard!”
We stopped.
“Come on, now.” I held my hands out so he could see I was unarmed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
His wild eyes darted from side to side, but eventually settled on me. Lenny and Bart drifted away, Bart toward the woman and boy, Lenny toward the greasy guy’s back.
“What’s the problem here?” I took another step forward.
“Don’t do it!” he screeched. “I’ll cut him!” He jabbed the knife toward the man’s neck and the man flinched backward, avoiding the point.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I won’t come any closer. Just tell me what’s going on. What’s your beef with this guy?”
He grunted, a half-laugh.
“He steal your woman?” I tried to sound sympathetic. “She leave you to be with this creep?”
“Slut.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Didn’t know good when she had it. Taking my boy and replacing me with this loser.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lenny getting closer to him. Bart was only a few feet from the woman and boy. Either the entire crowd had frozen in place and was watching in silence, or the pounding of my heart was drowning out everything except the guy’s voice.
“He your son?” I asked. “Good-looking kid.”
His chin lifted a fraction. “My son in name and blood. It’s my right to have him with me. Not with the bitch’s new fuck.”
“That’s right,” I said. “So what’s your name? The name the boy has?”
“Trey. Trey’s me and Trey’s the boy.”
“Good name,” I said. “So I’m sorry, Trey.”
“Sorry?”
Lenny tackled him from behind, grabbing his knife hand as they went down. Trey only got to thrash for two seconds before my boot found his wrist and pinned it to the ground. He yelped, and his fingers automatically opened. I grabbed the knife and handed it off to Bart, who had positioned himself between Big Trey and the man he’d had at knife-point.
Trey didn’t have a chance with Lenny’s weight holding him down, and I leaned over to put my face a few inches from his. His breath was putrid, a mixture of smoke and whiskey, and I let the disgust show on my face.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, Trey,” I said. “Sorry you’re such a disgusting, filthy bag of shit. You’re the reason regular American Joes are afraid of bikers. This here is a family picnic. Didn’t you notice we’ve got children and babies? And the drink of choice is birch beer? There’s no room here for slime like you.”
He inhaled sharply and spat in my face. The crowd took a collective breath. After a tense moment someone hung a handkerchief where I could see it and I took it and wiped my face.
“Oh, Trey,” I said. “I really wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Police are on their way!”
I looked up at Harry, our HOG club’s director, and nodded. “You okay there, Lenny?” I asked.
Lenny’s eyes narrowed. “I could stay here all day.”
I patted Trey’s cheek, none too gently. “Your friends, the boys in blue, will be here soon. Don’t you worry.”
I got up and walked over to where Bart now sat with the woman, man, and young Trey. “You folks okay?”
The man stuck out his hand. “Dave Crockett. Thanks a lot. You saved my ass.”
“Davey Crockett?”
He sighed. “Yes, it really is.”
I laughed. “Sorry.”
“Me, too. This here’s Norma. Guess you figured out this is Little Trey.”
I shook hands with both. Norma’s face was streaked with tears and mascara, and Little Trey looked like he was both thrilled and scared. He gazed up at Bart with something approaching adoration.
“He bother you a lot?” I asked Norma, jerking my thumb toward Big Trey.
She shrugged and looked away. Little Trey opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it.
Crockett put his hand on Norma’s leg and patted her thigh. “She sees him more than she’d like. Let’s leave it at that. Sorry it had to mess up the time here today.”
I gestured around. “Doesn’t look like anybody cares too much.”
The crowd had already returned to socializing and eating, and the Weenie Bite was back under way with some unfortunate woman getting ketchup all over her face.
“Huh,” Crockett said. “I guess there’s nothing more to be excited about with him sitting on Big Trey.”
We looked over where Lenny sat, ankles crossed, hands planted on Trey’s shoulder blades and butt. He wasn’t sparing any weight, either, like he did when we were playing Old Man’s Home. At least, Trey’s face was red, and his eyes were more bugged-out than they’d been five minutes earlier.
I heard sirens in the distance. A whole slew of them.
“Anything else I can do to help?” I asked Norma.
She looked intently at something on the ground, and Little Trey bit his lip and stared at me silently. Bart raised his eyebrows and gave a subtle hitch to his left shoulder.
“I think everything will be okay,” Dave said. “Now that our problem is going to jail.”
He tilted his head toward the parking lot, where a couple of police cars had pulled up. Two anxious-looking cops got out of one, and one out of the other. Harry, ever the vigilant director, hustled out to meet them. As we watched, the parking lot filled with cruisers from every precinct within scanning distance. Hilltown, New Britain, Dublin, Souderton, Telford, Montgomeryville. Looked like they’d even called in Staties, as well as a K-9 unit. Probably scared of us mean bikers. Ha. We’d see what they thought once we hit them with our buffet.
A quintet of officers carefully made its way toward Lenny, scoping out the situation. Harry followed, insisting things were under control, but they only gave him half of their attention. The rest of their focus was on Lenny and what they could see of Big Trey.
Two of the officers looked like seasoned cops, allowing the humor of the situation to crease their faces with smiles. Two seemed a little tense, and the last, probably a youngster just out of the academy, acted like he was approaching the devil himself.
Once they were situated around Lenny he pushed his way to his feet, grunting, and Big Trey lay on the ground like a deflated tire. He didn’t even try to struggle. I don’t think he had the lungs for it. In less than thirty seconds two of the cops had him cuffed and headed toward a squad car. The others looked like they were going to hang around to get the scoop. Uniforms from other cars were fanning out to take statements from witnesses, too. I supposed my turn would come soon.
I made a thorough inspection of Big Trey’s jacket while he was being led away. No gang insignias I could see, and no recognizable gang colors. I let out a sigh of relief. The last thing I needed was to have the Pagans or Warlocks on my ass because I helped to jail one of their own.
I turned back to Crockett. “So much for that.”
He put out his hand for another shake. “Thanks again.” He shook Bart’s hand, too. “Either of you ever need anything, Davey Crockett’s your man.” He handed each of us a business card.
“David S. Crockett, Esquire,” I said. “You’re a lawyer?
”
“Weekend warrior.” He grinned. The Harley world is full of weekenders—folks who bring out their bikes and leather on the weekend, and look like normal folks the rest of the time.
“Gotta have ’em,” I said.
“Lawyers?”
“Wanna-be’s.”
He laughed and saluted, and Bart and I made our way over to Lenny.
“Had enough fun for the day?” I asked him.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and turned away, almost into the face of an officer with a pad and pen. I raised my eyebrows at Bart, surprised at Lenny’s snub.
Bart shook his head, then grinned. “Too bad Abe wasn’t here to see this. Cause you’re sure sexy when you’re telling some poor slob where to go. Especially when you have spit on your face.”
I couldn’t help it. I slugged him.
Chapter Ten
Lenny and I roared onto the farmstead after being questioned by the police for what seemed like hours, and he stopped in the middle of the drive. Lucy poked her head out of the barn, where she was probably getting ready for milking. She watched us, her face betraying her curiosity.
“Thanks for the ride, man,” I yelled to Lenny.
He peered at me from under a furrowed brow and jerked his chin in acknowledgment. His gaze traveled to Lucy. He nodded, she nodded, and he performed a tight U-turn and headed out the lane.
I squinted at Lenny’s departing back. He didn’t usually allow things to get him so rattled. Today, for some reason, had been an exception. He’d been especially fun at the beginning of the day, and happy about winning The Old Man’s Home, but the fight had stripped all that away. I wondered again why he wanted to meet Detective Willard. I would’ve introduced him at the HOG club when all the cops showed up, except Willard was absent. He mustn’t have been working the weekend.
Lucy disappeared into the barn, and when I found her she was distributing grain into the troughs. The cows stood in their stalls, munching contentedly on hay.
“I thought Sunday was going to be your day off,” I said.
