T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison

by T. Lynn Ocean

  THIRTY-SIX

  When Chuck walked into the lab, Peggy Lee dropped the sandwich she held and ran to meet him. She was even more ecstatic than usual to see her boyfriend—she had wonderful news. Peggy Lee was quite sure that she’d never before experienced a miracle, but knew that her current situation qualified.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” she said, snuggling into his arms. “I’ve got something great to tell you.”

  He laughed and let her kiss him. “You’ve met your weekly quotas?”

  “Of course,” she told him. “Don’t I always? But it’s something else.”

  He went to the refrigerator, where she kept cold drinks for him, and took out a can of seltzer water. “So what’s made you so happy? You’re almost glowing.”

  Peggy Lee had thought about this moment and gone over and over it in her head. She’d rehearsed the words she’d use, how she would say it, and visualized how his eyes would light up with delight when he heard. But now, in the pressure of the moment, she forgot her monologue and went with the short version.

  “I’m pregnant,” she said, almost jumping up and down.

  Chuck stopped in mid drink and, frowning, set his can down on a table, next to a row of glass vials. It was not the reaction she anticipated, and her enthusiasm level dissolved into confusion.

  “How did this happen?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, wringing her hands. “Obviously it happened because we had sex. But I don’t know how I got pregnant. I’ve been sterile my whole life.”

  Sitting on an oversized rolling desk chair, Chuck wondered whether the woman had tricked him into believing that she’d been born with defective eggs. Had she planned to get pregnant all along, hoping for child support, or better yet, a quick marriage proposal? Studying her hurt face for a full half a minute, he determined that she couldn’t have lied to him. She didn’t have a shrewd bone in her body. Brainy and book smart, sure. But way too naïve to have deceived him.

  Chuck finished his seltzer water and motioned her to sit on his lap. “Come here, Peggy Lee.”

  She did, and tried not to cry.

  “You surprised me, is all. You being pregnant is the last thing I’d ever have expected, especially after you told me you can’t have children,” he soothed. “Had I known there was even a chance, you’d have gone on the pill.”

  “But, don’t you see? This is … well, it’s a miracle. The fact that a baby is actually growing inside me, right now. The doctors said I’d never be able to conceive.”

  Last week, when she woke up to throw up for the second morning in a row, she’d gone to a walk-in clinic, thinking she had a virus. And when that doctor told her she was pregnant, she immediately made an appointment with Daisy Obstetrics&Gynecology to confirm the diagnosis. The doctor who examined her quickly agreed that she was indeed with child, and after reviewing Peggy Lee’s medical history, was as astounded as she’d been. A fertility specialist, he ordered some special tests and he planned to personally oversee every stage of the pregnancy, he’d told her. Once the baby was born, he was going to submit an article to the American Medical Association’s journal.

  Chuck took Peggy’s face in his hand and gently angled it so she had to look at him. “I’m happy that you’re able to get pregnant, Peggy, if that’s what it takes to make you feel more secure about being a woman. But a baby simply doesn’t fit into my plans right now. Or your plans. Our plans.”

  Struggling to keep in the tears, she could only nod.

  “We’ll make an appointment for you to get it taken care of, first thing next week. All right?”

  Getting off his lap, she flashed back to just days ago, when she’d watched from the beach on Bald Head Island as the young couple exchanged their vows with plans to spend a lifetime together. It was the same day the specialist confirmed her pregnancy, and witnessing the wedding ceremony, she’d felt her cheeks grow wet with tears of joy. She wondered if the bride, Janie, hoped to have a child with her new husband. And when the explosion happened just minutes later, knocking her to the sand, she’d instinctively put her arms around a still-flat belly to protect her baby. She didn’t want to abort it. She didn’t want to lose Chuck, either. Miserable, she stared into space, wondering why nothing could ever go right in her life.

  “All right?” he repeated, louder.

  Peggy Lee nodded.

  He stood. “Good, then, let’s get to work. I’ve got a lot of information for you, and believe it or not, we have to up production again. We’re almost there, Peggy. The initial phase of Project Anti-sis is almost there.”

  The chemist barely listened as her boss told her to alter the formula, tripling the amount of active ingredient. She should have protested, citing the negative side effects it would cause. She should have told him that a reformulation at this point might compromise the project. But lost deep inside herself, she didn’t bother.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Spud, you can’t keep depositing your trash at the Block,” I told my father. He’d paid a towing company with a flatbed to haul his burnt alligator sculpture to my bar and deposit it outside, next to the impaled Chrysler. “I’m sure we’re violating a city ordinance of one sort or another.”

  “You can’t violate any rules with art, for crying out loud,” he said and his walking cane punched the ground with each syllable. “Besides, a photographer is coming to get photos of my new sculpture for the cover story. And Sally the magazine lady is coming again to interview Lindsey about Derma-Zing.”

  I asked Spud what he planned to do with the gator afterward and he said something about selling it to the highest bidder. Ever the optimist.

  “Hey, glad to find you both here,” Dirk said, walking up. “I’m pleased to announce that the department is not going to press any charges against you, Spud, for the gun club fire. Nobody could find anything on the books to address the incident, other than disorderly conduct, and I talked the chief out of that one.”

  “Thanks, Dirk,” I said since my father didn’t.

  “You’re welcome.”

  We sat at the end of the bar. Ox served me and Spud a draught, gave Dirk an ice water, and delivered a basket of grouper bites with hush puppies. Dirk loaded the fish with Tabasco and dug in. “Owner of the shooting range is fine with that, as long as you pay to repair the clubhouse. Damages come to”—he pulled a sheet of paper from his breast pocket—”twelve thousand, four hundred dollars.”

  Spud’s mouth worked for a minute before any sound came out. “What? Are they insane? Twelve thousand dollars?”

  “Twelve thousand and four hundred,” Dirk repeated, enjoying the moment. “The building had wood shingle siding. If the firefighters hadn’t arrived so quickly, you’d have burned it to the ground.”

  Spud’s mouth worked some more.

  I tried not to laugh. “Spud, how much was the repair bill for Fran’s Vespa scooter?”

  “Almost six hundred dollars, for crying out loud. The Vespa dealer said the whole front fender and tire had to be replaced. And he claimed that my mannequin’s arm scratched the little windshield, too.”

  “Well,” I said, “you got out of that one by dating Fran, so she’d pay the bill.”

  “Woman’s loaded,” Spud reasoned. “She can afford it.”

  “My point is, maybe you should go talk to the owner of the range. It’s a woman, right? Ask her out. Maybe your dating charms will work a second time.”

  Ox smiled at me from behind the bar. Dirk ate his fish. Spud’s face grew red. Sally, the magazine lady, walked in and spotted my father. Rushing over, she greeted him warmly and asked if his sunburn hurt.

  “He’s not sunburned,” Dirk said. “He’s just red from the heat. Spud has been outside putting the finishing touches on … what’s your new sculpture called?”

  “Nature’s Wrath,” Spud muttered.

  “It’s striking, Spud,” Sally said. “I don’t love it as much as the other one, Road Rage, but it certainly does make a statement.”
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  Spud’s color, starting as his forehead, inched its way back to normal. “Thanks.”

  The local contracted photographer arrived shortly after Sally and the three of them went outside to gaze at the alligator. I caught a glimpse of Spud posing between the two heaps of scrap when Ruby called my name. Somebody was looking for Spud, she said, and the visitor had come through the side door so he hadn’t seen see the trio.

  “I’m his daughter,” I told the man. “Can I help you?”

  Dressed in casual business attire, he looked to be in his fifties, and like everyone else entering the Block, his clothes stuck to his body. Overhead, all the fans spun at full blast.

  “I’m here from the insurance agency to look at Mr. Barnes’ Chrysler LHS.” He handed over a business card that declared him to be a senior insurance adjuster. “It’s my understanding that the other adjustor wasn’t quite sure what to make of the vehicle, so the case was assigned to me. Once I see the vehicle, we can get your father paid.”

  Smiling, I led the man outside.

  Dirk followed me. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

  “Got to see this,” Ox agreed. Ruby came, too, along with a few regulars who’d been keeping up with Spud’s blooming art career.

  The insurance adjuster introduced himself to Spud and did a double take at the mannequin-eating blackened alligator before turning his attention to the car. He felt some of the bullet holes and slowly walked around the crushed heap, touching the giant forked prongs that had impaled the Chrysler’s belly. An astounded expression overcame his features. “Amazing,” he said to himself. “I never would have believed this if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.”

  “It is utterly amazing, isn’t it?” Sally said to the man. “I think the piece is really incredible. It belongs in a gallery, that’s for sure.”

  Eyes jumping back and forth from Sally to the insurance adjuster, Spud’s mouth started working again, but the sounds that came out weren’t forming words.

  “Excuse me?” the adjuster said. “What are you talking about Miss—?”

  She stuck out her hand. “Sally Stillwell, Eclectic Arts&Leisure magazine.”

  He shook it. “Al Hughes from Action Auto Insurance Company.”

  “You’re an art enthusiast?” Sally said.

  “No,” he said. “But if I was, I certainly wouldn’t want to see a totaled passenger vehicle sitting in a gallery.”

  Flustered, Spud stepped between the two of them. “Er, uh, Sally, if you’ll just go inside, we can finish talking where it’s cooler. Lindsey should be here soon, for the Zerma-Ding interview. I mean Derma-Zingerview. Oh, for crying out loud. Just go inside and wait, would you?”

  “Of course, Spud. But first I want to finish my conversation with this rude man.” She turned to the adjuster. “You don’t have to be so insulting, just because you don’t like the sculpture.”

  Al Hughes snorted out a laugh and pointed at Spud’s car. “You call that thing a sculpture?”

  Sally took a step toward the man. “For your information, Road Rage could easily bring in twelve or fifteen thousand dollars, maybe more, from a serious collector. I can already envision it sitting outside a museum of modern art. Once my article prints and word gets out about the group of law enforcement officers who created it under Spud’s direction, there’s no telling who might buy it!”

  The adjuster cocked his head at the mention of a dollar amount. “You mean to tell me that this… this… impaled, shot-up, twisted wreck of a Chrysler could be sold to somebody as art for fifteen thousand dollars?”

  “Of course! Why are you so shocked?”

  Al Hughes jotted something down inside a folder. “Because I am an insurance adjuster. I’m here to inspect the vehicle so my company can pay Mr. Barnes’s claim. As I understand it, his car was run over by a garbage truck while parked outside this bar, and then it was used for cover during a violent shootout. Now that I’ve seen it, we’ll haul the heap to a salvage yard and pay the estimated market value. Forty-three hundred dollars and some change.”

  Sally told the photographer to stop taking pictures. “I was under the impression that the sculpture was Spud’s vision, created from scratch.”

  Sally and Al studied each other for a split second. In unison, they turned to look at Spud.

  “Oh, for crying out loud! It’s the car from hell!” my father said and stomped into the Block without explaining himself.

  Ox convinced everyone to sit around the same table and, once drinks and hush puppies were served, Sally and Al were laughing it up like old friends. Decked out in some of her new clothes, Lindsey joined the group and patiently waited for the magazine writer to stop flirting long enough to conduct the promised interview.

  Food and drinks tend to flow much more freely when those doing the eating and drinking know it’s free, and even Dirk decided that he was off duty for the rest of the day so he could partake in a bourbon and Coke. The photographer stuck around, too, and called his girlfriend to join him. When Spud’s fan club—Bobby, Hal, Trip, and Fran—showed up, we moved an empty table to connect with the two already pushed together. Cracker happily sauntered from human to human, collecting bites of hush puppy and shelled peanuts. After the third round of drinks and much prompting from Sally, Spud finally spilled the real story about his car. Dirk and Bobby filled in the details.

  “Well Spud, I feel as though I’ve been duped,” Sally said, brushing a peanut shell from Al’s pants leg. “You’ve deceived me and my magazine.”

  “You’re the one who saw the stupid car and said it was a sculpture, for crying out loud. You’re the art expert.”

  She sipped on her chardonnay. “True, but you didn’t correct my assumption. And now, I’ve got an upcoming magazine with no cover story and we’re on deadline.”

  Spud coughed up the piece of food he was in the process of swallowing. “You’re bumping me off the cover?”

  She nodded, sipped. “I can’t, in good conscience, put an artist on the cover who is a fraud.”

  “He’s not a fraud, sweetie,” Fran said. “He has a studio and everything.”

  “A studio that, by his own admission, he just rented two weeks ago.”

  The conversation went back and forth like this for another ten minutes. Ignoring the two women, everyone else ate and drank and made it a point to be merry. Except for Spud, who’d removed a paper menu from its plastic slip and busied himself scribbling numbers on the back side of it. Sally declared again that she would not have Spud on the cover of her publication and that her decision was final. Grinning, Lindsey pulled out a Magic Marker—sized tube of Derma-Zing and began applying a grapevine to her forearm. As Sally watched, Lindsey used a different color to draw tiny daisies where the grapes should be. Smartly, the teen remained silent and waited for Sally to come up with the idea.

  “Derma-Zing will be the cover!” Sally said, touching Al on the knee. She instructed the photographer that his assignment had changed and told him to get the girl. Within minutes, two portable lights with umbrella-looking canopies were erected on tripods and he began snapping shots of Lindsey and her arm from different angles.

  Spud finished scribbling on the paper and slunk in his chair. “Seventeen thousand dollars! That stupid car is going to cost me almost seventeen thousand bucks.”

  The rest of us were wise enough not to ask, but Bobby had to know the details. Arms flying overhead, Spud rattled off a list of expenditures: supplies for the new sculpture including the possessed alligator, his studio rental, business cards, repairs to the shooting range clubhouse, and the cost of taking Fran out to dinner, twice.

  “If it will make you feel any better, Mr. Barnes, you’ll be receiving a settlement check shortly.” Al produced a calculator and calculated. “Forty-three hundred and thirty-two dollars.”

  “That won’t even buy me a decent new car,” Spud muttered.

  “You don’t really need a new car,” Lindsey theorized, “since you can’t see to drive and they too
k away your license. Right?” Nobody else at the table could have gotten away with voicing it.

  “They took away your driver’s license?” Fran said, rubbing Spud’s back. “Poor thing. They wanted to take mine, too, but one of the ladies in my bridge club forged a report from the eye doctor so I could get it renewed.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Dirk said, and drank.

  “I’m the proud holder of a valid driver’s license,” Fran continued, “and I’ll give you a ride anytime.”

  Spud’s spine straightened and he turned on his girlfriend. “That’s why you mowed down my mannequin and got her hand stuck in your wheel! Because you didn’t see her! And you gave me a repair bill for nearly a thousand damn dollars.”

  “But you didn’t have to pay it, remember?” Fran smiled and the skin around her sparkling eyes crinkled. “You took me out to dinner, instead.”

  Al Hughes thanked Ox for the hospitality and stood. “This has been a most interesting afternoon, folks, but I’ve got to get going. About your uh, car-sculpture, Mr. Barnes, a tow truck will be here tomorrow to haul it to the salvage yard. But if you’d like, you’re welcome to buy it back from the insurance company for six hundred and seventy-five dollars. That’s the salvage value. If you want to do so, I need to know now, before it’s hauled off.”

  Fran raised her hand, as though at an auction. “I’ll take it, for seven hundred dollars even.”

  Al’s shoulders went up. “What the heck. Sold, for seven hundred dollars.”

  Excited, Fran kissed Spud, telling him that he’d just sold his very first sculpture. A real sculpture!

  Just to make a point, Sally argued that a sale didn’t qualify something as art.

  Al closed his notebook. “The car is Miss Cutter’s now, Sally. She can call it the Mobile Mona Lisa for all I care.”

  Not offended, Sally laughed. After exchanging phone numbers with her, the insurance adjuster left. Lindsey got her interview. And, with Fran fawning over him, Spud got drunk.