The Bogus Biker

by Judy Nickles

  Penelope had a wild impulse to pour the hot coffee over his hand but managed to get it in the cup instead. “Why is it any of your business?”

  “Just curious, that’s all.”

  “Sixteen years. We married as soon as I finished high school.”

  “Isn’t he a lot older than you are?”

  “Only five years. He finished the university and came home the year I was a senior.”

  “Swept you off your feet, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “When did you manage to work in nursing school?”

  “When Bradley started first grade, the bus brought him half-way up the road to the Point, and someone was always there to meet him, either his grandmother or Mrs. Bessie, the housekeeper.”

  “Worked out then.”

  “Good thing it did. I moved back in here with my parents when Bradley was twelve so I could take care of my mother and decided three years later to get rid of Travis before he got rid of me.”

  “Probably not a bad idea. How well do you know Travis Pembroke?”

  “What kind of question is that? I was married to the man.”

  “That doesn’t mean you knew him.”

  Penelope stirred her coffee. “I guess it doesn’t at that. He likes money, which he has, and anything in skirts, which he can get.”

  “Was he ever into anything he shouldn’t have been—besides other women?”

  “Absolutely not. He’s a good businessman and an honest one. Pembroke Point is the largest cotton producer in the area.”

  “Did you know his friends?”

  “Better than I wanted to.”

  “Including Roger Sitton?”

  “Roger’s a pussycat. Well, maybe a tomcat-wanna-be, but he’s harmless.”

  At the word ‘cat, Abijah materialized from wherever he’d been lurking and curled himself around Penelope’s ankles. She lifted him into her lap. “And so are you, aren’t you baby doll? Just a big old lover boy, that’s all.” She nuzzled his head, and he cranked up his rumbling purr.

  “A tomcat, huh?”

  “Who, Roger? He’s divorced, has a son in Kentucky, or maybe it’s Tennessee. Where is this going? Do you think Roger is mixed up in the drug business?”

  “I didn’t mention any drug business.”

  “But that’s what you’re talking about. Why you’re here.”

  “Just getting the lay of the land, that’s all.”

  “You darn well blessed aren’t!”

  He laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners in a way that made Penelope want to smooth them out and… She looked away.

  “If you’ll give me the key to the shed, I’ll move my bike.”

  “On the rack by the door. Purple tag. Put it back when you’re done.”

  She scratched Abijah’s ears as she watched Sam amble down the flagstone walk winding through her mother’s flower garden and beyond. He had shoulders like a weightlifter and the hips of a jockey. She shivered. I shouldn’t be thinking about his anatomy, especially his hips!

  Planting a silent kiss on Abijah’s head, she set him down, grabbed her purse from the end of the cabinet, and marched out to her car where she’d left it under the porte-cochere.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Penelope maneuvered her SUV into the last parking spot in front of Collier Memorial Library, between a white two-door that had seen better days and an idling gas company truck whose driver was nowhere in sight. Half-way up the cracked sidewalk, she ran into Shana Bayliss, once the librarian and now Travis Pembroke’s latest live-in. Penelope had liked Shana when she was dating Bradley, even though she wasn’t a Catholic, and felt a real sympathy for the attractive young woman who probably didn’t realize she was living on borrowed time at Pembroke Point.

  “Hello, Shana, how’s everything?” She tried not to focus on Shana’s dark-circled eyes.

  “Okay, Mrs. Pembroke. How are things with you?”

  “Getting ready for the crowd this weekend.”

  “Right—the Black Walnut Cake Festival. I’d almost forgotten.” She shifted the zebra-print cloth bag to her other shoulder. Penelope refrained from remarking that it was identical to Mary Lynn’s.

  “You better stop by for a taste.”

  “Maybe I will. I just came in to pick up some books Abigail got me through interlibrary loan.”

  “Anything special?”

  “Those Southern Sisters mysteries by Anne George. Have you read them?”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “There are seven in the series. I just turned in the two we have at this library.”

  “Well, thanks, Shana. I’ll see if they’re on the shelf yet.”

  “How’s Brad?”

  Penelope had to wonder why his ex-girlfriend would even ask, but she said, “Busy, I think. He said he called his father last week and left two messages.” She watched Shana’s expression for any hint of guilt.

  Shana’s ivy-green eyes flashed. “He did, and I told Travis, too. I guess he didn’t return the calls.”

  “I guess he didn’t.”

  Shana shook her head. “I’m really sorry, but I did tell him. Honestly.”

  “I believe you.”

  The younger woman’s auburn wedge shimmered and swayed in the morning sun filtering through the ancient oaks on the lawn. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Not your fault, Shana. You take care now.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Pembroke. Nice seeing you.”

  And she meant that, too, Penelope reflected as she climbed the dozen steps to the front door. But she’s made her bed.

  At the main desk, Abigail Talbot stood shoving cards into the old-fashioned stamping machine and placing them in the pile of books for Sonny Sawyer and his mother. She acknowledged Penelope with a brief, unsmiling nod. That girl never smiles. I don’t know what Bradley sees in her. She’s about as perky as a bare twig. Skinny as one, too. Now, Shana’s got some spark.

  “Someone recommended the Southern Sisters series,” she said to Abigail when the Sawyers had departed.

  “We have two, and they’ve just been returned.” Abigail reached for the two volumes on the shelving cart behind her. “You’ll enjoy these.”

  The familiar ku-chuk of the card machine always reminded Penelope of her childhood days and then-librarian Miss Emma Martin. Emma knew books and didn’t think twice about corralling all the young people—quite literally—in the children’s section of the library until they turned thirteen. I wouldn’t have dared go to the other side. She’d have blessed snatched me baldheaded and tossed me out.

  “Due back in three weeks,” Abigail said, sliding the books across the scratched desk, original to the pre-war era building. “Enjoy.”

  “Thanks, I’m sure I will.” Penelope tucked the books under her arm, shouldered her purse, and headed out. The gas truck was gone, but a coffee lid sized pool of fresh oil puddled on the pavement. “Look at that,” she called out to Mayor Harry Hargrove who was jaywalking in front of city hall.

  “Call the gas company,” he said, wiping his all-but-bald head with a crumpled blue plaid handkerchief. “What the heck’s going on over at your place, Penelope?”

  “What makes you think something’s going on?”

  “Mary Lynn said…”

  “You can tell her she’s no longer my best friend.”

  “Now, Penelope…”

  “Listen, Mr. Mayor, I remember having to sit with you in fourth grade when you couldn’t learn your multiplication tables beyond the fives, but you could when I got through with you, so don’t patronize me.”

  Harry tugged at this pants like he thought he might possibly get them above his paunch. “Okay, okay. I ran into your son at the PD about fifteen minutes ago. He was trying to call you.”

  “What about?”

  “No idea.” He glanced at the oil. “I’ll give Mitzi a call and get somebody over here with some cat litter to soak that up.”

  “Good. And whatever Mary Lynn told you, she
lied.” Penelope tossed the books through the open window onto the front seat of the SUV and strode off to the corner, where she felt virtuous about crossing with the light.

  Bradley looked up as she pushed open the glass door with ‘Amaryllis Police Department’ stenciled on it in gold letters that had always seemed a little off-kilter to Penelope. “I just called you,” he said.

  “Harry told me.”

  “Oh. Well, I wanted you to look at some pictures.”

  “That was one of them—the guy with the ponytail who got arrested last night in Ft. Smith.” She watched his face to see if he knew what she was talking about. He did.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Where are the pictures?”

  “In here.” He opened the door of a closet-sized room used for interrogations when they happened, which they didn’t much in Amaryllis. The Town Council even threw a fit last year when Chief Harley Malone wanted to send Bradley to a special school in Little Rock and promote him to the newly created CID, which meant a pay raise and the need to hire another officer for patrol. Enter Rosabel Deane. It was a close vote, with the two dissenters arguing Amaryllis wasn’t Little Rock and didn’t need a criminal investigation division.

  “Just look through these two books and tell me if you recognize anybody. Here’s some sticky notes to mark any pictures that look familiar. Want a soda?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back. Just take your time.”

  Penelope made herself as comfortable as she could on the metal folding chair that rocked a little when she sat down. Half an hour later, on the third page of the second book, Sam’s face looked up at her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “No, I didn’t tell him,” Penelope said to Jake while they ate hamburgers from the Burger Barn at midafternoon. She decided the burgers could serve as a combination lunch and supper—lupper, her mother called it—and they could snack if they got hungry later.

  “Maybe you should have.”

  “Tell him that a convicted felon stayed here in this house? He’d have us both in the old folks’ home before sunset.”

  “I’ll admit Brad might get a little bent out of shape over that.”

  “A little bent out of shape? He’d implode, like the old ice plant when the Chevy dealership decided to build on that lot.”

  “Maybe. So what are you going to do about Sam when he comes back tonight?”

  “Oh, he’ll be back. When I cleaned his room, I found a gym bag on the closet floor, and it’s still there.”

  “Been snooping again, have you?”

  “It was for a good cause.”

  “What was in the gym bag?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You could’ve looked.”

  “Now that would’ve been snooping.”

  “You’re sure that mug shot book said he was convicted of all that stuff?”

  “Breaking and entering, car theft, resisting arrest, assault with intent to do bodily harm, and a few blessed other things I can’t remember.”

  “Those are enough, I guess.”

  “Yep.”

  “So we’re back to the question of what you’re going to do when he comes back.”

  “Hopefully be asleep in my room with the door locked.”

  “You could lock him out of the house.”

  “I did that last night. He said he used a credit card to get in.”

  “Did he get rid of the bike?”

  “I checked earlier. It’s not there.”

  “Well.” Jake reached for the last French fry and nibbled it like a blade of grass.

  “He knew about Travis and me. Asked a lot of questions about Travis and his friends. Especially Roger Sitton.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “I got the idea he thought Travis was mixed up in this drug thing.”

  “Travis Pembroke? He’s the last man in the world who’d do something like that. I’ll admit he’s got the morals of a stray dog, but…”

  Penelope nodded. “I told him that. Oh, speaking of Travis, I ran into Shana Bayliss at the library. She looked pretty unhappy, like she hadn’t been sleeping. She swears she gave Travis the messages from Bradley, and I think I believe her.”

  “Did she say anything about Travis?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “He’ll dump her, too.” Jake wadded up the empty hamburger wrapper and laid it on his plate.

  “Maybe he already has.”

  “Too bad. She’s a nice girl.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Daddy. Nice girls don’t live with men old enough to be their fathers without benefit of a marriage license.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Nellie. Times have changed.”

  “I’m surprised at you thinking it’s okay.”

  Jake pushed back from the table. “I didn’t say it was okay, just that it’s pretty much accepted these days.”

  “I don’t accept it, and if I wanted to do something like that—which I don’t—you’d throw a fit.”

  “Well, you’re my daughter.”

  “ Do you think he has a gun?”

  “Who, Travis?” Jake frowned.

  “No, Sam. His pants fit so close that I’d have seen it on him, I think, but he might have one somewhere.”

  Jake’s frown turned to a face-splitting grin. “You were looking at his pants? That’s progress.”

  “Daddy, stop it!”

  He held up his hands in an attitude of surrender. “Just funnin’ you, darlin’. Don’t go reserving that room at the old folks’ home quite yet. I’m going to go watch the news.”

  “See if there’s anything else about those men getting stopped last night.”

  “I will. I take it you didn’t see their mug shots in Brad’s books.”

  “Just Sam. Eldred Mooney Frish, to be specific.”

  “With a moniker like that, I might be on the wrong side of the law, too. I’m gone. Holler if you need me.”

  Penelope watched him disappear. A lot of good hollering would do either one of us, Daddy. Sam could take us both down with one arm. How in the blessed name of St. Michael the Archangel did I get myself into this? Because I thought he had a cute backside? She rested her forehead against the edge of the table. Lord, Penelope, you’ve done it this time.

  ****

  She thought about sitting on the stairs again, but then what? Confront him? Ask him to leave? He’d probably laugh. When she heard him coming up the stairs at 11:06, she put her head under the cover and stopped breathing until she figured he’d had time to get into his room.

  Her eyes felt gritty when they flew open and turned automatically to the digital clock beside her bed. Two o’clock in the blessed morning, and it sounded like all hell was breaking loose somewhere. The shrill blaring of sirens—police, fire, and ambulance—she could tell the difference—brought her upright with the sheet clutched under her chin.

  For a moment, she debated hiding in the bathroom or the closet or under the bed, but then she realized the sounds were headed away from her. Leaping out of bed, she ran to the window, where she could see a red-orange glow in the too-familiar distance. Oh, dear blessed Heaven, it’s Pembroke Point! It’s going up like a tinderbox! Tripping over her gown in her haste to exchange it for the jeans she’d worn all day, she broke her fall against the bed rail and, at the same time, felt for her moccasins beside the cedar chest.

  Downstairs, she wrestled with the back door before she realized that her unwanted guest must have locked it. The keys on the rack clattered to the floor as she fumbled among them. “Nellie, what’s going on?” Jake’s voice floated out of the darkness before he hit the light switch and flooded the kitchen with painful brightness.

  Penelope, down on her hands and knees, cobbled the scattered keys into a pile. “Pembroke Point’s on fire,” she said, her voice breaking with frustration as much as fear. “And that idiot locked the door, and I can’t find the key.” At that moment, her fingers closed arou
nd the right key, and she scrambled up straight into Sam’s arms. “Get out of my way,” she screeched.

  He wrenched the key from her fingers and pushed her into a chair. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “But it’s…” She jumped up again.

  “I know what it is.” He pushed her down a second time with the same odd, firm but gentle touch he’d used on the stairs two nights earlier when he’d tucked her hair behind her ear.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You probably did it, too, although I don’t remember seeing arson on your rap sheet.”

  His face paled, but only momentarily. “It wasn’t there.”

  The distant explosion that rocked the house sent her toppling from the chair. When he grabbed for her, she beat his bare chest with her fists. “Oh, Lord, the gin and the fertilizer storage!”

  Jake took her out of Sam’s arms and held her. “You can’t do anything, Nellie.”

  “But…” She stared at her father, imploring him with her eyes to make things right.

  He put his gnarled but still-strong fingers on her shoulders and squeezed. “I know, honeychild,” he whispered. “I know.”

  She buried her face against him and sobbed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  (Tuesday)

  Mary Lynn called while Jake was making coffee. “Pembroke Point’s blazing like a bonfire,” she yelled in Penelope’s ear. “Harry’s on his way out there now.”

  “He should stay away,” Penelope said. “He can’t do anything but get in the way.”

  “I told him that, but he says people expect him to be around when something big is going on. Are you all right?”

  “Sure. We’re making coffee, since it doesn’t look like anybody’s going to get any sleep for the rest of the night.”

  “We?”

  “Daddy and me, Mary Lynn. Who else?”

  “Somebody’s staying in the front bedroom.”

  “And you told Harry, even though I asked you not to, so you’re no longer my best friend.”

  “Shut up, Pen. I’ll call you back if I hear anything else.”

  “Your friend who’s married to the mayor,” Sam said as she hung up the phone. It wasn’t a question.