Hung Out to Die

by Sharon Short

  The blue eyes flashed confusion, the perfect smile faded. The lips still looked kissable, though, even as they uttered, “Huh? I was serious. Sally there—” he gestured with his thumb, and I looked behind him to the bar, behind which stood Sally, smiling and nodding encouragingly at me while she wiped glasses, “told me you own the laundromat in Paradise. Then she sent me over here. So I thought, you know, maybe you was working on a laundry list.”

  I sighed, staring up at the proverbial gorgeous dumb blond, male version. “I am,” I said, folding the list, and tucking it into my jeans pocket. “But I can’t show it to you. Trade secret, you know.”

  “Oooh,” gorgeous said, nodding his understanding. Then he stared at me, waiting for me to take the conversation from there.

  Owen, my virtuous side thought, was a great conversationalist.

  Owen, my not-so-virtuous side reminded me, was also not there. He was with his ex-wife and son in Kansas City, interviewing for a job that would require him to move there.

  Owen, my virtuous side thought, is still your boyfriend and even if he weren’t, you know it’s stupid to take up with men just because they’re gorgeous. Wait, make that, really gorgeous. Just take Cherry, for example . . .

  My virtuous self made me look out on the dance floor, where Cherry was dancing away happily with her own gorgeous hunk, Deputy Sheriff Dean. She didn’t look in any danger of being miserable.

  And there on the dance floor near her was my mama, dancing happily with some man I didn’t even recognize. Mama had had several bourbons. I, being the designated driver, was nursing a Big Fizz Diet Cola, on the rocks, and sitting by myself in a booth. Well, not entirely alone. I had both my coat and Mama’s fur wedged between me and the wall.

  Which is why, my virtuous self reminded me, you are smart enough not to ask this man to sit down with you at this booth . . .

  Shut up, my nonvirtuous self said.

  “Have a seat,” I said aloud.

  “Okay,” the man said, sitting across from me. He put his bottle of beer on the table. Then he smiled and stared at me. “You know, you’re awfully cute. For a laundry lady.”

  I tried to ignore the warm feeling that suddenly surged in me. “Oh? What did you think a laundry lady would look like?”

  He frowned, thinking it over. Then he smiled. “Very clean?”

  I lifted an eyebrow and smiled back. “You think I’m dirty?”

  The minute I said it, I moaned inwardly. Oh Lord, I’d just topped his cheesy pick-up line with an even cheesier one.

  But he didn’t get it. “Oh, no, ma’am, you look clean. Well groomed, in fact. I just meant, um, well, I’m not sure what I meant . . .”

  Ma’am? This man had called me ma’am? Then I realized that, despite the few wrinkles around his eyes, he was probably at least five years younger than me. Maybe six or seven. Which meant he was in his early twenties, and I was just a few months shy of thirty . . . I felt like I’d just been dumped in a cold rinse cycle.

  “Look, why don’t you tell me why my dear cousin—” I glanced over at Sally, glaring, but the bar was too dark and smoky for her to see me glare, and besides, she was paying attention to a customer now “—why Sally sent you over here.”

  “Well, see, I help her out on some of her carpentry work on the weekends. I live up in Masonville and work in apartment maintenance and repair during the week. But I like to come to her place and hang out on the weekends. She said that you have two apartments over your laundromat, and you’re thinking about converting them to one. So she sent me over to talk to you.”

  He took a swig of beer, then went back to staring at me.

  “You want to talk to me about a job.”

  “Yeah.” He looked worried. “Hope I didn’t jinx it by calling you cute. I mean you are cute and all and—”

  I held my hand up. “Stop talking.” He stopped. “Thank you,” I said. He took another swig of beer. I sipped my diet cola. We stared at each other a little longer. I ignored the new wave of heat. He was just interested in work, after all. And I had Owen to think about.

  “Let’s start over, by exchanging names. I’m Josie Toadfern.”

  He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Josie!”

  I waited. Then I said, “And you are . . .”

  “Oh. I’m Randy. Randy Woodford.”

  “Randy. It’s nice to meet you, too. But the truth is, I’m not quite ready to start converting my apartments over. I’m really just in the planning stages. However, if you’d like to drop by my laundromat sometime during the work week, I could take you upstairs and show you my apartment—”

  I stuttered to a stop. Oh Lord. That hadn’t come out right. I was turning red. But Randy didn’t seem to notice that. Or the implications of my phrasing.

  “I mean, I could review with you what the project would entail,” I finished lamely.

  Randy nodded. “Okay. Next Wednesday should be slow. I’ll come by then. We’ll have lunch, my treat, and talk over your plans. Thanks.”

  He started to stand up, but then he sat back down, and grinned. It was a smile a girl—even a nearly thirty girl—could fall right into. As dumb as that would be . . . “’Course, that will be strictly business. But that’s then. And this is a Friday night. Feel like a little two-steppin’?” He held out his hand toward me.

  I looked at it. What a nice, well-formed hand. A little calloused, but a little roughness could be . . . I shook my head.

  I pulled my list back out of my pocket. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m behind on my laundry list. I really need to catch up.”

  Randy didn’t take my rejection too hard. He just nodded. “Okay. I understand. But if you change your mind, just let me know.” Then he stood up, took his beer, and walked off.

  I only let my eyes linger on his cute behind for a few seconds. Truly.

  I unfolded my list and looked at it. It was a laundry list—of questions I had about the events surrounding Uncle Fenwick’s murder:

  1. Did Aunt Nora tell the whole truth? Or did she do anything else besides worry and fret in the trailer for the five hours between Uncle Fenwick’s walk with Daddy, and Worthy and I bringing the bad news?

  2. Where did Mama go on her ride after dinner? Did she see anyone? Was she alone the whole time?

  3. What about Uncle Fenwick’s business? Find out about that.

  4. Who called Chief Worthy about the antique hunting knives?

  5. Could just one person have killed Uncle Fenwick? How do you get someone to hang themselves? Wouldn’t he have fought back?

  I’d called Rusty Wilton, the Antique Depot owner, and he’d told me that Caller ID had shown the calls about FleaMart traced to the phone booth out at Elroy’s Filling Station.

  Aunt Nora, I thought. But just because she’d called the antique store owners and Chief Worthy and was jealous of my mama, did that make her a killer? I thought it at least made her a suspect.

  What else? I looked at the list, and thought about the scene when Rachel and I had found Uncle Fenwick. There hadn’t been any footprints on the towpath, except ours. Yet Mamaw had clearly said that Uncle Fenwick and Daddy had planned to walk the towpath. That led to the next question:

  6. Could the snow have filled in Uncle Fenwick and Daddy’s footprints that fast? Or did they walk somewhere else—in the woods, off the towpath? Why?

  “Laundry list?”

  I startled, clapped my hand over my notebook protectively, and looked up at Caleb Loudermilk, who was grinning down at me.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. What’s with that line tonight?”

  Caleb’s smile faded. “Don’t tell me blondie over there used that line on you, too,” he said. He gestured to Randy, who was dancing with a thin brunette with painted-on jeans. Go away, I told my sudden surge of envy.

  “He did,” I said. “But he really thought I was making a laundry list.”

  “Ah,” Caleb said, sitting down across from me, obviously not caring he wasn’t invited. “He’s dumb. Thus, not your typ
e.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “That’s right. My boyfriend . . .”

  “Has multiple PhDs. So I’ve heard. But he’s not here. I just have a lowly BA in journalism. But I’m actually here. Which should make up for all those degrees of separation.”

  I actually laughed at Caleb’s lame line. “Caleb, I appreciate the interest but as I told Randy . . .”

  “I know. You’re taken. All alone, but still, taken.”

  I frowned at him. “Do you know you have an annoying habit of interrupting? As well as stating the obvious?”

  Caleb sighed, and took a drink from his glass, which looked like a gin and tonic with lime. “Two character flaws that have kept me from rising in the world of journalism, beyond the regional weekly.” He leaned forward. “But I’m counting on you, Josie. I plan to ride your coattails of cleaning-column fame—”

  I tapped the side of his glass. “I hope you have a designated driver.”

  Caleb thumped back into his seat. “Now you’re interrupting, and also—”

  “Sorry.”

  He arched an eyebrow at me. I grinned.

  “And also insulting me. This is tonic and lime, nothing more. I just came out to observe the wild life. And when I saw you all alone, I came over here to ask you something.”

  Protectively, I put the list back in my pocket. “If you want to know about my Uncle Fenwick’s murder, please talk to Chief Worthy. All I can say is that I’m sorry for this tragedy and that I’m sure the officials will soon find out the truth behind this horrible event.”

  Caleb pulled his face into a hurt look. “You really think I was going to ask you about your uncle’s murder?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please. My daddy is in jail for his brother’s murder. You’re a reporter. You’re not going to ask me about this?”

  “Okay. I was. But I was hoping to buy you a drink first, you know, comfort the grieved.”

  I picked up my drink glass, rattled the cubes, took a long drink. “It’s just cola. So don’t count on me having loose lips.”

  Caleb lifted his eyebrows. “I wasn’t, but that’s an intriguing image.”

  I rolled my eyes again.

  “Didn’t your mama tell you your eyes could get stuck like that? Mine did.”

  “My mama left when I was a little girl, my daddy when I was two. I consider my parents to be my dear, deceased Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace Foersthoefel. And you can quote me on that.”

  Caleb followed my gaze to the dance floor, where my mama was now dancing with Deputy Dean, while Cherry watched and laughed and clapped happily. But there was nothing untoward about Mama’s dancing. Just a look of innocent fun.

  “Your mother?”

  I nodded.

  “She seems to be taking the fact that her husband is in jail for his brother’s murder quite well,” Caleb said.

  “She’s confident he’s innocent.”

  “And you?”

  I looked at Caleb. I was confident Daddy was innocent, for the reason I’d figured out while visiting with Aunt Nora. But I wasn’t about to share that with Caleb.

  “I think the officials will do a fine job investigating Uncle Fenwick’s murder.”

  Caleb laughed. “You’re a tough interview. But thanks for the quotes.”

  “You didn’t write them down.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve heard those bland statements plenty of times before. It’s kinda like the baseball rookie saying he just wants to help the team or the politician saying he believes in the little guy. Reporters don’t need to write those things down.”

  I smiled. “Touché.”

  He leaned forward. “So why don’t you tell me what you really think. Strictly off the record.”

  “If it’s going to be off the record, why do you want to know?”

  “I’m curious.” He smiled. “You should understand that.”

  Caleb had heard of my nickname, of course. I matched his gaze evenly.

  “Okay, no comments off the record then,” Caleb said. “I have another question—”

  “I will have my column in by Monday, as promised,” I said. “In fact, I completed a perfectly wonderful draft of the column today. It’s about vinegar, which has many stain-busting properties . . .”

  “Fascinating, I’m sure, but that wasn’t my question. I have complete confidence in your professionalism, Josie,” Caleb said. “My question was . . . would you go as my guest to Rich Burkette’s retirement party tomorrow night?”

  I gaped at him. “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me out . . . even though you know I’m serious about someone—”

  “Who’s not here,” he said, grinning.

  “Whatever. Look, I can’t go with you tomorrow night.”

  “Plans?”

  “No—”

  He interrupted me with a grin this time. “I understood the ‘no,’” he said. “But let me tell you why I want you to go with me. I’m doing this piece on Rich Burkette, right? Well, I went out to their place, to do the interview. Which went smoothly, except I was getting those canned answers. You know—”

  “Yeah. Here to help the team. Belief in little guy. Trust the officials to investigate.”

  “Right. Until I say, ‘so how did you and Mrs. Burkette meet?’”

  “That’s easy. They met when she filed for divorce from her jerk first husband. Junior Hedberg. Everyone knows that.”

  “Right again. Except I did my homework before I went out to the Burkette’s. Researched every angle I could about Rich Burkette’s law practice. And the truth is, his specialty has always been real estate and corporate law. His partner does all the domestic work. Like wills, divorces, so forth. And when I asked his partner, well, didn’t Mr. Burkette write up the divorce papers for Mrs. Burkette—back when she was Mrs. Hedberg—he got all flustered and said, well, yes, but that was an exception.”

  “So?” I said.

  “Come on, Josie, you’re more curious than that. Why the exception? Why did the then Mrs. Hedberg go to Rich Burkette for the divorce papers? Why didn’t he just direct her to his partner?”

  Those were all questions I would have wanted to know, too, but I was still smarting from his taunting grin when I said I didn’t have any plans for the next night.

  So instead I said, “Aren’t you just supposed to be writing a fluff piece about Rich Burkette’s career? In honor of his retirement?”

  Caleb pounded the table with his fist, making the lime jump out of his glass. He picked up the lime, squeezed it very hard over his glass, and plopped the now-extinguished lime back into his glass.

  “That’s just it, Josie. I don’t want to always just write fluff pieces. I’m trying to make something of this chance. I’ve failed too many times before—”

  My curiosity radar went ding, ding. I didn’t know much about Caleb’s past, what he’d done before he came to Paradise. Why had he taken a job as the Paradise Advertiser-Gazette editor? He seemed too smart for the job.

  Caleb shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Okay, look, now I’m going to tell you something off the record. There’s something odd about how the whole divorce played out. So I decided to look up old Junior Hedberg, and ask him about it. But no one seems to know where Junior Hedberg took off to.”

  “So?” I asked. “He was, by all accounts, not someone anyone would miss.”

  “But I can’t find a trace of him anywhere. Where he went off to. No one disappears without a trace.”

  “My parents did,” I said. I looked out at the dance floor. Mama was dancing with yet another man, this one slightly overweight. Mama didn’t look like she’d broken a sweat. But the man was having a hard time keeping up. I hoped she wouldn’t give the poor man a coronary.

  Caleb shook his head. “No. Not without a trace. You just didn’t want to find them.”

  His comment struck me. Oh, my Lord. He was right. I’d never tried to track them. Never asked Aunt Clara or Uncle Horace to help me find them. I would probably have gone my
whole life without tracking them down.

  “Josie? You okay?” Caleb was asking worriedly. “Sorry if that was too harsh.”

  I shook my head. “No. That’s fine. So no trace of Junior Hedberg.”

  “That’s right. And I know there’s something about that divorce—about Junior—that Rich and Effie are trying to hide. I can just sense it. But the second I asked why Effie had asked Rich to handle the divorce for her, the interview was over.”

  “They actually kicked you out of their house?”

  “No. But it was clear I wasn’t going to get any information out of them. That’s when I thought of asking you to the party tomorrow night.”

  “So I can say, congratulations Mr. Burkette, and by the way, ‘why did you handle your wife’s divorce from her first husband and where is he anyway so Caleb here can ask embarrassing questions about your wife’s past?’ Somehow, I don’t think Mr. Burkette will be in the mood to answer that one in front of his peers.”

  Caleb laughed. “I know that. But when I arrived at the Burkette house, Rachel answered the door. And do you know what the first thing she said to me was?”

  “Um, ‘come in’?”

  “She said, ‘oh, I remember you. I met you at the restaurant. You’re Josie’s editor. I’m so glad you’re going to help her with her career. We’ve always thought the world of her.’ And then Lenny passed through the foyer, stopped and said, ‘That’s right. She and Rachel were such good friends. In fact, Josie was here yesterday, and we had such a good time.’ So now, I’m thinking, how about you come to this party with me, and somewhere along in the evening, see what you can get Lenny and Rachel to spill about Effie’s divorce and marriage to Rich. Surely they know something—or can at least tell you something that I can work with. People like to talk with you, Josie. You know you can get them to open up to you.”

  “And I would want to do this . . . why?”

  Caleb leaned across the table, and peered intently into my eyes. “Because I know you. You’ve got to have some questions about your Uncle Fenwick’s murder and your father’s involvement. Questions I could help you research. Off the record, of course. And if you go with me to this party and see if you can find anything out for me, then I will help you.”