“What are you doing here?”
I wheeled around to find myself staring into Laney Burns’s raccoon-lined eyes. The extra eyeliner must have been what she considered her evening look. “Laney! How are you doing?” I couldn’t stop my eyes from wandering upward toward her previously casserole-covered hair, a giggle rising in the back of my throat. Despite a poorly executed attempt to cover it with a cough, a couple of chuckles escaped.
“Y’all probably found that incident in the alley funny.” She fingered her hair. “Let me tell you, it took forever to get those tiny chunks of beef out of my hair.”
I bit my lip to keep from exploding into hysterics.
“Why, I’ve never been so mad in all my life,” she went on. “The nerve of that woman. She must be unhinged to act that way. No wonder Ben couldn’t live with her.” We moved closer to the wall so that a couple of other ladies could pass around us. The bathrooms were always busiest on two-buck-beer night.
Squaring my shoulders, I maneuvered until I was directly in front of Laney. “I bet you were mad, Laney. Anyone would be. In fact, no one would blame you if it crossed your mind to get back at her . . . somehow.”
“Get back at her? What do you mean?” I’d seen this act before from Laney. All dumb and innocent. But the sudden darting of her eyes and fidgeting with her blouse gave her away. I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t hide her reactions well. I continued to watch her closely, but didn’t offer any further explanation. I’d learned long ago that sometimes the less said, the better. Lulls in the conversation often made people uneasy and they’d rush to fill the gaps. Especially a chitchatter like Laney.
“Are you talking about that car thing? Because that wasn’t me. Don’t you read the paper? That was Hollis that did that!”
“Is that so?” I pursed my lips and stared her down for a few more seconds. When she didn’t crack, I decided to switch tactics. “Say, do you have time in your schedule tomorrow to work on my nails?”
She shook her head. “No, sorry. All booked up.”
I held out my fingers for her inspection. “That’s too bad. I got so many compliments on the last manicure you gave me, but I’m afraid it’s about worn off.”
She glanced at my nails and openly cringed. Still, she held her ground. “Nope. Too busy.”
“Really? I’d be willing to throw in a little extra for working me in on such short notice.”
She started to weaken. “How much extra?”
“Five bucks.”
She raised a finely arched brow.
“Ten. But that’s as high as I can go.” Heck, it was higher than I could afford to go already. Still, the extra time to work the truth out of her would be worth it.
“Well, I suppose I can cut my lunch short. Fine. One o’clock, then.”
Hattie sidled up next to us, two beers in hand. “Hey, there you are!” She handed me a warm plastic cup and turned to Laney with a plastered-on smile. They exchanged a chorus of “hey alls” and looked each other up and down: Laney checking Hattie’s hair, and Hattie surveying Laney’s choice of outfit.
“Bless her heart,” Hattie started as soon as Laney excused herself. “That girl should come into my shop. I’d fix her up with something decent to wear.”
I looked over my own outfit—a pair of long khaki shorts and a white T-shirt—and back at Laney’s getup—a mini that was so short it could have doubled as a belt, and a low-cut blouse. As Laney walked away, I recalled that Hattie had invited me in early Saturday for a little “fixing up.” Obviously she wasn’t lumping me into the same fashion category as Laney Burns, but it was as likely that in Hattie’s eyes I’d fallen off the other side of the scale just as far.
“Can you believe the crowd that’s here?” Hattie was saying. “Have you found Millicent yet?”
I pointed to the booth where she was sitting. “She would have to pick that booth. Unless I walk right over there and say hi, I’m not going to be able to see who she’s talking to. I’d much rather get the information I need without her knowing I’m here.”
“Think she’d recognize me?”
“Probably. We talked awhile when she was in your shop, remember? And we asked her some pretty pointed questions. That’s why I’d prefer to stay incognito. Besides, who knows who’s sitting across from her? What if it’s someone we both know?” I took a quick sip of beer and gagged—warm, flat and really bitter . . . ick! No wonder it was so cheap. “Oh, well. Guess we can wait it out. Eventually they’ll finish talking and get up to leave. We’ll see who it is then.”
“Wait it out? I don’t have time for that. I told Pete I’d meet up with him later.”
“Oh? You two cooking up something hot and spicy tonight?” I teased.
“Not if I’m here all night, we’re not.” Taking a long drag on her beer, she studied the crowd before turning back to me with a twisted smile and holding out her cup. “Here, hold this. And don’t ever say I don’t make any sacrifices for you.”
With a little extra wiggle in her step, she sashayed across the room and, with a devilish grin, made her own selection on the jukebox. Then she turned and made her way over to some men sitting at a table cluttered with empty beer cups. I didn’t recognize the fellows, but judging by their soiled T-shirts and steel-toed work boots, they were just a bunch of good ol’ boys kicking back after a hard day’s work. Hattie flipped her hair before leaning down to whisper in one of the guys’ ears. A wide grin broke over his face as he stood, wiped his palms across his ratty jeans and snatched her eagerly by the waist. In a flash, they were out on the dance floor, Hattie’s partner performing the most aggressive two-step I’d ever seen. Not that Hattie couldn’t keep up; I’d seen her cut loose a number of times. Although I did suck in my breath at a couple of their dizzying spins and one backbreaking dip. Soon, the dance floor filled with couples, each doing their own version of the boot-scootin’ boogie. Still, Hattie’s strategy didn’t dawn on me until, with a few well-placed spins, she and her partner danced their way toward Millicent’s booth. Then, with a curt nod and a passing spark of conspiracy, her partner picked up the tempo. With a couple quick steps and one long shuffle, he guided her directly in front of the booth.
That was when the unthinkable happened. I wasn’t sure what she’d seen, but whatever it was caused Hattie’s eyes to pop and her muscles to tense. And, as everyone knows, two-stepping with stiff muscles is like trying to herd cats—downright impossible, dangerous even. Because the very moment Hattie’s muscles tensed, her partner decided to send her spinning across the floor. Only instead of gracefully spinning like a top—a move I’d seen her do a thousand times before—the heels of her calf-hugging cowboy boots collided and she fell like a ton of bricks, smack-dab against another dancer’s elbow. Poor Hattie. It was possibly the first time in the Honky Tonk’s history that someone had busted their nose, not once but twice, from something other than a drunken brawl.
Blood spurted, she grabbed her face, the other dancers twirled on oblivious, and Hattie rushed from the dance floor, leaving her compatriot-in-crime in the dust. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” She scurried past me toward the door, cupping her face in her hands.
I chased after her, snatching a clean rag from the bartender’s hands as we passed by, hightailing it to the parking lot. We leaned against the hood of her car, pressing the rag against her face until the blood finally stemmed. “Let me have a look.”
“No,” she wailed. “It hurts like a son of . . .”
“Let me look,” I insisted, pulling the rag away. I angled her, taking better advantage of the light streaming from a nearby lamppost. “Hey, it doesn’t look all that bad. I don’t think it’s busted this time.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, giving it a tentative wiggle. “Are you sure?”
I got real close and squinted. “Well, it’s a little swollen, and you’ll probably have a shiner tomorro
w, but it’s definitely not broken.”
“Sure hurts like the dickens.” She started fishing through her pockets for the keys. “You’d better drive in case the bleeding starts again. I swear, the things you talk me into.”
“Me? I was willing to kick back and wait it out. It was your idea to head out on the dance floor with Mr. Cotton-Eyed Joe.” I paused for a beat, drawing in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Hattie. I do appreciate you. What’d you find out anyway?”
She glanced back toward the bar just as a couple cowboys staggered out, blaring music following them through the open door. “Come on. I’ll tell you on the way back to town.”
Chapter 17
Georgia Belle Fact #082: A Georgia Belle knows life isn’t always perfect, but your nail polish sure better be.
Although I’d only had half of a beer the night before, I awoke Wednesday morning feeling like I’d been on a two-day bender. Probably because the truth about who met with Millicent at the Honky Tonk kept me awake most of the night. Well, that and the guilt of knowing I’d failed miserably in the puppy-sitting department. When I’d arrived home from the Honky Tonk, I discovered Roscoe had chewed the cushion on Mama’s favorite armchair and left a yellow puddle the size of Hill Lake by the front door. Guess I’d left him alone for too long. Poor thing. Today, I was determined to make it up to him with an extra-long early-morning walk through the orchard. Besides, I needed to think through what Hattie told me she’d seen at the bar the night before: Hollis in the booth with Millicent.
I was afraid Hollis’s meeting with Millicent had something to do with that new plan Ida had mentioned. The one she said Hollis had come up with to recoup the money he’d lost. Really, though, could he actually be stupid enough to get involved with Wakefield Lumber again? Or had his drinking simply muddled his senses? Or . . . I hated to think it, but was there possibly something going on with Hollis and Millicent? It gave me the shivers to think about either one of them in that way, let alone together. I shook my head. Too many thoughts to sort through at once. Especially without my usual morning caffeine fix.
So, after downing a couple cups of coffee, I grabbed Roscoe and headed out to the orchards to clear my mind and mull over this new twist of events. “Watch out for those ears!” I warned him, as we trudged along the southeast portion of our farm. As usual, his nose was to the ground, ears dragging, as he followed closely on my heels.
While moving between the rows, I found myself assessing the state of the orchard: ground moisture levels, leaf conditions and any telltale signs of crop-eating pests. I knew my father made these walks on almost a daily basis. He had to. Changes unfolded daily in the orchard and a good farmer took note of these changes, adjusting his strategy along the way. Now that I’d decided to stay and help out, I’d need to start looking at the orchard with a keener eye. I slowed my pace, moving my gaze to several trees where sucker growth shot up along the base of the trunks and some sort of invasive weed had settled in around the roots. In my mind, I made a to-do list of pruning, ground clearing, weed control . . . The tasks were endless, but since I’d committed to staying, the challenge excited me.
Still, despite my best efforts to clear my mind and focus on other things, Hollis and his meeting with Millicent remained in the forefront of my thoughts. I just couldn’t shake the thought that he was getting himself back into the thick of things. I made a mental note to call Ray as soon as I got back to the house. Until then, I tried pushing those thoughts aside and kept walking, making my way out of the trees and down a steep hill bank to one of my favorite childhood stomping grounds. The Hole, as we’d always called it, was a spot where our little branch of the Ocmulgee tumbled down the rocky hillside, forming a deep pool of water before flowing on through the countryside. An excited Roscoe ran ahead, dipping his nose in the cool water while I stood under a far-reaching live oak and fingered the frayed rope that hung from one of its branches. As a kid, I’d delighted in swinging Tarzan-like and dropping into the cool pool of water. Lots of memories . . . good memories.
Then my eyes wandered down the river a bit, toward the secluded spot where, years ago, I’d spent those few fateful hours with Hawk. To this day, I wondered how different things would have been if I hadn’t left the dance early to steal away on the back of his bike. At the time, I’d felt so free, so wickedly rebellious. But under the stars, with the sweet smell of spring grasses and the night sounds of tree frogs to serenade us, things went too far. Then, when I discovered . . . I sighed. Best not to think too much about the past now. There were too many other things, important things, to keep my thoughts busy. Like Hollis and Millicent. What could they have been meeting about? And why so late in the evening and at the Honky Tonk? Of course, these days, mixing business and pleasure was the standard mode of operation for Hollis. According to Ida, and half the townsfolk, he spent most of his evenings at the bar. He’d probably come to think of it as his home away from home. Or, in this case, his second office.
Drawing in a deep breath, I shook my head and let it back out with a low groan. Being back at my childhood hangout wasn’t bringing as much solace as I’d anticipated. I called to Roscoe, who was poking his nose in a crawdad hole, and started back to the house. My appointment with Laney was only a few hours away, and with the festival quickly creeping up, I had several other errands to run, including picking up my jar labels from the print shop and getting enough supplies to make another batch of preserves. While there were more than enough jars in Mama’s pantry, I hated the thought of her coming home and finding I’d stripped her cupboard bare. Besides, I needed to figure the normal expenses for this enterprise to determine my proper price structure.
Approaching the house, I was surprised to find Joe out by the barn, parking the tractor. “Joe! How’s it going?”
“Just fine.” He hopped down and pulled a hanky from the back of his overalls and began dabbing his brow. As he wiped, I noticed an angry red mark on the side of his arm.
“You’ve hurt yourself.” I pointed at the blistering wound and wrinkled my brow with concern. “It looks painful, too.”
He quickly pulled down his shirtsleeve, turning his gaze downward. “It’s nothing. Just burned myself when I was repairing the tractor engine. Guess these old hands are out of practice. But I got everything mowed down. Took a while. The grass was gettin’ pretty tall.”
“Thank you, Joe. My daddy’s going to be glad that job’s marked off the list.”
He raised his chin and puffed out his chest. “When’s he comin’ home?”
“A week from this Sunday.”
He slid his eyes sideways, rolling his lips before spitting out the side of his mouth. “Is that so? Got more chores that need doin’ before he gets back? I could use some extra cash.”
I wanted to talk to him about helping me replace some of the irrigation lines, but knew better than to rush into any deal with the sly fellow. “Care to come in for something to drink?”
He grinned, reaching back into his pocket and handing Roscoe a nibble of something. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“What’s that you’re giving him?” I kept my tone in check, but I wished people would quit feeding Roscoe. He was going to get spoiled.
“Just a little bit of dried pork jerky. I keep some in my pocket while I work. Look, he’s taken to it.”
“I’d say.” Roscoe was looking up, eyes wide and licking his chops, while his tail excitedly thumped in anticipation of more. I snatched him from the ground and headed for the door just as Joe was reaching back in his pocket. “Come on in, Joe. Looks like both you and Roscoe could use a little refreshment.”
Inside, I turned Roscoe loose with fresh water and a bowl of puppy food and poured Joe an ice-packed glass of tea.
After a long drag, he sighed and swiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Boy, that hits the spot.”
“Have a seat,” I said, reaching up and flipped on the radio. The twangy ly
rics of a popular country tune filled the kitchen as I glanced around for something to offer. I finally placed a couple slices of toast in the toaster. “How about some toast with a little peach jam.”
“Sounds right nice, thank you.” I turned to see him tapping the toe of his worn boots on the floor.
“You like this song?” I asked, waiting for the toast to pop up.
“It’s a good tune. Heard it played at your folks’ party, too.”
I gathered the butter and a jar of preserves from the fridge and started to explain it was remix of an older song, but stopped mid-sentence when the full weight of his words hit me. “You were at the party? I didn’t see you.”
As I set the butter and preserves on the table, I saw him lean away. His eyes grew wide and he stopped tapping. “Just for a bit.”
I heard the sound of the toast popping but his reaction made me pause.
Shrugging, he reached for another sip of tea, but his hand trembled and the ice clinked. He set it down and stood, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Think I’ll pass on that toast. Best be gettin’ back home. Got my own chores to tend to.”
“Wait, Joe,” I called after him as he took off through the mudroom and out the back door. Out in the yard, I caught up to him, maneuvering to cut him off before he could get any farther. “Joe, is there something you want to tell me?”
He rubbed his fingertips over the beads of sweat forming over his lip. “No, I don’t reckon so.” He reached into his pocket. “But here’s the keys to the tractor.”
When he reached out, his shirtsleeve crept up, revealing the wound again. “You should have Doc Harris take a look at that.”
He shook his head. “Naw. Don’t have much use for doctors. I’ll just put some salve on it. Don’t you worry none about me. I’ll be fine.”
Peaches and Scream (Georgia Peach Mystery, A) Page 21
