by B K Baxter
The receptionist stared at me like I’d grown another head. “Uh huh.”
“I’m doing this as a personal favor to her memory.” Lowering my voice again and injecting it with a dash of stupidity, I went for the coup de grace. “We don’t want her coming back to haunt us for not following her wishes, do we?”
The idea of a spectral Tabby lurking around the refinery seemed to do the trick. I saw her touch the little gold cross hanging from her neck.
“God forbid,” she murmured with a little more force than was polite. She gestured toward the chairs lining the wall. “Give me a minute. I’ll see if Mr. Means is available to see you.”
Sitting down, I let out a huge breath. Although I’d displayed as much confidence as I could muster, I hadn’t really expected to pull this off. Telling myself not to start counting hatching eggs in one basket yet, I tapped my foot against the floor nervously, going over the script I’d rehearsed all last night in my head.
The receptionist returned more quickly than expected, so I fixed her with an eager smile. From the look on her face, I thought Means might have told her to give me the brush off, so I was surprised when she said Mr. Means would see me now.
I followed her down a hallway lined with windows. At the end, an imposing walnut door stood closed. The receptionist knocked twice, then turned the knob, opening the door and motioning me through.
I entered the office, taking it in as I made my way toward the seating area in front of the wide wooden desk. The ceilings were high, exposed girders crisscrossing above them. The walls were a mixture of stained wood and exposed brick. Two large windows sat behind Means, backlighting him like he was the subject of a work by one of the Dutch masters. I swallowed, even more nervous than before.
“My receptionist said you were sent here by Tabby?” he asked as I was sitting in one of the plush chairs in front of him.
I nodded, a little taken aback, expecting to exchange some pleasantries first.
“Correct,” I said, crossing my legs carefully and putting my folded hands primly in my lap. “I had mentioned my idea of a mobile library to her after our book club meeting, and she encouraged me to come see you.” I launched into my cover story, gaining confidence as I went. “As you likely know, the hours of the library overlap with the hours of the employees on your biggest shift. Since they can’t get to the library, I figured we could bring the library to them.”
I went through a few statistics I’d memorized about how reading improves cognitive performance and how I could include professional development selections to build a better workforce. For his part, Vince Means looked bored.
“I could bring by my offerings once or twice a week. I could even organize a book club over the lunch hour if there is enough interest.” As he glanced at his watch for the second time, I started to lose steam. Figuring it was time to get to the real reason I was here, I weaved Tabby back into my story. “We could call it the Tabitha Means Memorial Library Extension, in honor of your lovely wife. And let me offer you my condolences. She’s in a better place now.”
Vince let out a huff of air, something halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “That all?”
I nodded, even though I hadn’t found the opening I’d been hoping for. Still, I wouldn’t give up. I wouldn’t let Stanley go down just because I was scared off by some bulldog businessman. “You know, Tabby mentioned to me that she was joining the book club at your behest. She’d even admitted that she wasn’t fond of reading herself.”
Vince just stared at me, saying nothing. Desperate for a way past his iron demeanor, I took a risk.
“She’s very different from your first wife, if I may say so. Mercy is also a book club member. It seems the community is very passionate about literacy, which is why a mobile library is such a good—”
I’d apparently struck gold because Vince interrupted. “That’s enough of that. No one wants you bringing around a box of moldy books once a week. I know Tabby wouldn’t have sent you here with an idiotic idea like that. I have my doubts that she could even write her own name, let alone understand a work of literature. I sent her to that dang club because I wanted her out of my hair for one night a week.”
My eyes widened but I tried to keep my expression blank while he unloaded on me.
“I’m not interested in your mobile library idea, just like I’m not interested in filling you in on gossip about either of my wives. Now thank you for stopping by, but you can go ahead and get out now.” Vince stood, gesturing toward the door.
I took the hint and stood to go. “Thank you for your time,” I said softly as he led me to the exit.
As he passed, I noticed his collar had a smudge of lipstick on the inside. It was the same baby pink his receptionist was wearing.
Outside, it was even hotter than when I’d entered. I was beginning to think that my uncle had sent me to New Orleans as a punishment. He’d enticed me with the world’s most perfect home library, only to torture me every time I had to leave said library.
I raced to my car but paused when I noticed that a lunch truck was pulling up alongside a few picnic tables in what must comprise the refinery’s break area.
It wouldn’t hurt to grab something before I headed to the library to start my shift. The pastries I’d had for breakfast were long digested, and I didn’t want to be dependent on the lone vending machine next to the library’s bathrooms. I approached the truck, digging my wallet out of my purse while eyeing the menu.
Stepping up to the window, I was surprised to notice the older woman inside it was wearing a black armband over her kitchen whites. Glancing around the confines of the truck, I noticed an old photo stuck to the far wall with peeling tape. Although I hadn’t known her for long, I was able to recognize Tabby Means in the photo.
“What can I get you?” the woman asked, and I recognized that she shared some similarities with the girl in the photo. Their features were similar, but this woman was clearly older, with sun-bleached skin and dirty-blonde hair in a style that was at least twenty years old. Could this be Tabby’s mother?
“Turkey sandwich and a lemonade.”
“Be right up.”
I’d managed to beat the lunch rush, it seemed, because I was all alone at the truck. This was my chance to continue the investigation, and I couldn’t waste it. “You have my condolences. I didn’t know Tabby well, but she seemed like a fine young lady.”
The woman glanced up at me, her eyes evaluating me before they returned to her work. “Fine young lady ain’t how people generally describe my daughter. So yeah, I’d say you didn’t know her well.”
It wasn’t the response I was expecting, but I knew from Char already to expect a curveball from Tabby’s mother.
“I’m sorry. This must be a tough time for everyone.” I wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t seem intrusive.
“Everyone but the man inside that building who killed her.”
I started. “Beg pardon?”
Tammy looked at me again. “That damn Vince Means. He didn’t even give my girl a proper funeral, just a graveside ceremony during her burial and with no one but family allowed. What kind of a sendoff is that?”
I figured that Char had it right. Tammy was upset at her missed opportunity. It seemed rude to think that way about a woman who’d just lost a child, but she didn’t seem like a woman who was afraid to express herself.
“Didn’t even get a wake,” she said. “Not that any of the stuck-up people in this town would come to any wake I throw, even though I was her mother. Too busy keeping their self-righteous noses up in the air.”
Tammy passed the sandwich over and filled up a cup to the brim with ice before dumping in some lemonade from a plastic picture. “Here.”
She turned away, paying me no further attention.
“You think Vince killed your daughter?” I asked, trying to sound scandalized.
Tammy turned around, attracted by the call to drama. “I know that sorry bastard killed her. Tabby told me she
had something on him, something that could ruin him in this town. Two weeks later, she shows up dead. You tell me. Doesn’t that sound like proof positive?”
“Did you take this to Sheriff Rains?”
Tammy turned her face to the side and spit on the floor, her face covered in a scowl. “We ain’t the type to go to the law to handle our business for us. That sheriff hassles us so much as it is that I wouldn’t ask him to whiz on me if I was on fire.”
“Sorry for your loss,” I mumbled, taken aback by her response, and I started in the direction of my car.
A whistle blew, making me jump, and workers in coveralls started spilling out of the building. I carried my sandwich and drink into my car, rolling down the windows instead of starting the car. I’d have to speed to make it to the library on time, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to watch Tammy Carter for a few moments.
I didn’t consider Tammy a suspect. She was Tabby’s mother, after all. But her hatred of Vince was clear, even though Vince had stood up for her against her own daughter when Tabby wanted to evict her—if Ethan was to be believed.
I unwrapped the sandwich, took a bite, and chewed slowly while I watched the workers order their own lunches from the truck.
I finished my sandwich by the time the crowd started to thin. Looking up from my lemonade, I saw Tammy exiting the food truck and lighting a cigarette. She waved at one of the coverall-wearing employees, a tall man with a mop of curly hair. He walked over to her, bending down so she could kiss him. Tammy looped her arm through his and they headed over to the bank of ashtrays by the picnic tables.
I realized that spying on Tammy wasn’t getting me anywhere but late for work. Glancing at my phone, I saw my shift at the library started in less than fifteen minutes. The thought of facing Luanne’s wrath had me racing out of the parking lot, hoping Sheriff Rains didn’t have any of his men stationed on the highway that led into town.
Chapter 11
The dream had started simply enough. I’d been riding in an old roadster, the wind whipping through my hair. Looking down, I realized I was wearing a loose velvet dress, old-fashioned and not at all like my normal wardrobe.
I looked to the driver’s seat and saw a well-dressed man there. His profile was familiar, although his clothing was like mine. Antiquated, like something out of the Roaring Twenties.
Glancing back to the window, I watched as ashen fields blurred at our sides. “Look at them go past,” I murmured.
“Past,” the driver said, drawing my attention back. “Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course, you can!”
His look was half-crazed, but when I heard his voice, I realized who he was. It was Stanley. The moment I grasped this fact, his clothing shifted. It was still old timey, except for the Tasmanian Devil T-shirt.
His voice filled with determination. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before. She’ll see.”
I had no idea what “she” he was referring to, but suddenly, the car jerked from an impact. I screamed and tumbled over…
And landed on the floor next to my bed. “Holy moly,” I muttered.
Chonks lifted his head to look over the edge of the bed at me. Seeing I was in no real danger, he blinked twice and went back to sleep.
I checked the clock. Since it was practically dawn, I didn’t bother trying to return to bed. Besides, I didn’t want to risk falling right back into the dream. It had been jarring, seeing Stanley there. Guilt hit me, guilt at failing to uncover the truth about Tabby’s murder.
The dream stayed with me throughout the day, my anxiety increasing. By the time my shift at the library ended, I’d decided to go over to the jail to make sure Stanley was okay with my own eyes. When I arrived, however, Sheriff Rains was not so eager to see me.
“He’s fine,” he barked when I asked to check on Stanley. “Miss Sally’s in here just about every day, bringing him some treat or another.”
“But does he eat them?” I fired back. “Or does it end up in a uniformed belly instead?”
He narrowed his eyes, his hands on his hips. “We don’t take kindly to accusations without proof.”
“Funny you should say that because that’s basically what you’re doing to poor Stanley! There are plenty of other good suspects. Like the ex-boyfriend, for instance. Or her not-so-loving husband.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I see someone else doesn’t know how to mind their business. I told Char on Saturday that if I caught her snooping around again, I’d make sure she lost the coroner gig.” He looked me up and down. “I might not be able to fire you from the library, but I can cite you for interfering with an active investigation.”
“Why Stanley though? Why not Jimmy Beal or Vince Means?”
“Because they both have alibis that check out,” he replied. “So unless you know something I don’t, the prime suspect is still Taz Lane.”
“Tabby’s mother thinks Vince killed her because Tabby knew something about him that would be disastrous to his business. He might have an alibi, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have paid someone to bump her off.”
The sheriff ran a hand through his hair and let out a sigh. “You got any evidence to back that up? Or just the word of a substance-abusing petty criminal?”
I could see this was getting me nowhere. “I don’t have evidence yet, but—”
“There is no yet, Miss Hastings. You’re gonna stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“I’m not stopping until I figure out who did this and you let Stanley go!”
Rains seemed to sense I was bordering on a display of emotion, and like most alpha-male types, he did what he could to prevent it.
“I’ll take you back,” he said. “You can visit with him but not for long.”
I followed the sheriff out of the office area and down a long brick hallway that led to an area with two identical cells. One was empty, but in the other one, I could see Stanley, his eyes trained on the floor, shoulders slumped.
I approached the cell, but Rains stopped me, pointing at a white line painted on the floor. “Stay behind it.”
“Hi, Stanley,” I said softly, waving at him and then feeling foolish for doing so. My greeting got no response, and I was struck by how forlorn he looked in his oversized jail jumpsuit.
“I’m here to help you. Several of us know you couldn’t have done what you’re being accused of. We’re trying to figure out who did, but if you know anything that can help us help you, you need to tell me.”
“It was nice of you to come all the way down here just to do my job for me,” Rains said behind me.
I turned around. “Have you been able to get him to talk?” I asked, my tone confrontational. “Been having long intimate conversations? Or better yet, did you get a confession out of him?”
Rains’ eyes narrowed and I wondered momentarily if I’d pushed things too far. I held up my hands and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. What is it going to hurt to let me have a try? You’re right here, so you’ll hear everything, and if he says that he did it, then I’ll actually be helping you out.”
The sheriff swept his hand out in front of him as if to say be my guest, crazy lady. I turned back to Stanley. He wasn’t going to respond to my questions about that night, not with the tension high enough to choke us all. No, I needed to try to connect on another level. We’d bonded over books. Maybe that would work to draw him out now.
“The book club hasn’t been the same without you,” I told him. “I’m not even sure most of the women are reading the book.” I let out a laugh, hoping for at least a smile from Stanley, but he sat there, still.
“I thought maybe you and I could talk about Gatsby since we’re both fans. I keep coming back to something you said during our first meeting, that everyone in the book traffics in lies, either the lies they tell others or themselves. I’ve been wondering about those lies. Do you think a person knows they’re lying, or do you think they could believe a lie so well that it becomes the truth, after
a fashion?”
Stanley finally looked up at me, a lost expression on his face. I was about to apologize for blabbering at him when he finally spoke. “Lies beget more lies. They don’t become the truth. Subjective belief is a powerful thing, but it doesn’t change objective reality.”
The world had underestimated Stanley Lane, and every time he opened his mouth, I was even more impressed by his intelligence. “Even Nick’s lies are transparent, and as the narrator, he paints the reality of the story. He detested Gatsby by his own admission, from beginning to end, and yet he tells him he’s better than the bunch of rich idiots who attend Gatsby’s parties.”
“A rotten crowd,” I murmured.
Stanley nodded, his eyes brightening. “Tabby was part of that crowd,” he said suddenly. “Like the girls in that book, the ones who come to Gatsby’s house to drink his liquor and flirt with men who aren’t their husbands.”
“What happened that night?” I asked softly.
“She asked me to come to her house, to help her find a few things in the house’s library since she was convinced I knew a lot about books and she didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of her husband.”
Stanley looked into the distance, and I wondered if he was remembering that night. “I believed her, believed that she wanted to impress her husband and that she was afraid that he found her inferior. In a way, she was like Gatsby, having elevated herself to chase the one she wanted but never realizing that wealthy people like Vince Means will always see through her because she isn’t like him and she never will be.”
He was the first person to humanize Tabby, and it made me suddenly sad for the girl that most folks considered a nuisance at best and a curse at worst. “Did you go back to her house with her?”
Stanley nodded. “It was dark when we got there, which Tabby didn’t take well. She mumbled something about evening the score that I didn’t entirely catch. We went to the library and Tabby offered me a drink. I refused, so she poured herself one and drained most of it in one long swallow. Then she refilled her glass.
