Doubt it, Stella thought. Oh, some men—when it came to love, their feelings were like tender little shoots under the snows of spring, so vulnerable. It certainly beat the angry, cocky, beat-the-crap-out-of-you brand of boyfriend, but Stella herself couldn’t imagine putting up with a mooning sap like Salty.
Man up, she wanted to say.
She didn’t think Salty had killed anyone. But she’d be the first to admit that some of the darker reaches of humanity were way beyond her understanding. There was just no telling what a man was capable of when he’d had his feelings hurt.
“When’s the last you talked to her?”
“New Year’s Eve,” Salty said a little too quickly. “Got her on her cell. Called her from a bar—she thought I was someone else.”
“And after that?”
“I’ve, you know, tried a few times.”
“Leave messages?”
Salty shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe one or two. I don’t remember.”
They had circled around through the neighborhood and were back at the strip mall. A few icy flakes blasted out of the sky with force, stinging Stella’s cheeks.
“Well, I guess I shouldn’t keep you from your workout,” she said. She was beginning to think she understood why he came to this gym. Salty was the kind of guy who wanted to be admired—needed—by a woman. But at the same time, he wasn’t strong himself, but he was attracted to strong—bossy, even—women.
He probably came here and watched attractive women working out, maybe chatted a little, maybe offered to spot them or adjust the machines for them. Maybe most of them didn’t give him a second look, with his neat, pressed gym clothes and his bland combed-over hair and his hopeful expression.
Maybe he was even looking for Priss’s replacement, another woman to fulfill his fantasies of helping out, of being useful. Doraleigh, Stella was willing to be, didn’t fit that bill. She seemed like she’d be great at the ordering-around part—not so good with the grateful part. Priss—no matter how calculating she was, no matter how ice-cold her heart—well, she was the kind of woman who’d pour on exactly the right amount of whatever it took to grease a fella’s wheels: she’d simper, and sigh, and squeal with fake gratitude—and Salty would have been putty in her hands.
And the thing about that kind of a man was that the entire rest of the world could be standing around on the sidelines hollering at him to grow a pair, to stop being her poodle, and he’d just keep on defending her. Because once that type of man got himself smitten, it didn’t get undone easy.
“Look,” Salty said, twisting the handle of the gym bag in his hands nervously. “I heard what everybody else did—that Liman disappeared while Priss was visiting. Tell you what I think.”
“Okay.”
“I think she came down to visit and maybe gave him a little bit of cash. Like, you know, maybe it was his birthday? And they got to drinkin’ and all, and she didn’t want to drive her car, so she called up and got a friend to come get her. On account of Liman would have got ugly with her, ’cause no matter what she did, it was never enough for them. Priss used to tell me about it, how her family was always hounding her for cash.”
Stella found that hard to believe, since she’d often seen elderly Mrs. Porter in the FreshWay with her food stamps, still wearing that old housecoat. Oh, she and Liman may have asked Priss for money—but Stella would bet the answer was a big fat no.
“Wait,” she said. “Back up. You’re saying she would have called a friend from Kansas City to drive down and get her, over an hour each way, and she was going to just leave an eighty-thousand-dollar automobile sitting on the driveway?”
“Well, she would of come back for it.” The effort of keeping his preposterous scenario going was causing Salty to bounce anxiously on his toes. “She didn’t know you all were going to have it towed. And now she’s got to figure out how to get it without the sheriff and them going up to the city and poking around her business. You know, the escort business—now that Walsingham went and took it down to the gutter level with all that illegal shit.”
So Salty—and presumably the rest of the town—had no idea what had been found in the trunk. Stella was relieved that news of the blood evidence hadn’t leaked.
“Go on,” she said skeptically.
“So when Liman figures out she’s leaving, he gets all pissed off, she won’t give him any more money, right? And maybe he calls the cops, you know, to make out like it was some sort of abuse thing, his sister whaling on him or some such. Only her friend showed up and they left. And then I bet he got it in his head to cut his losses. Take the cash she already done give him, and left. He’s probably on a bender now, down at the lake.”
“Nice theory,” Stella said after a few moments, once she’d processed all the layers of idiocy. “Only how do you suppose he went? Seein’ as his vehicles are all still on the property.”
Salty shrugged. “He could have had a friend come. Maybe a lady friend. You know, call her up—hey, honey, I got ahold of some cash, pack you a nice dress and we’ll have us a weekend.”
Stella resisted shaking her head in dismay at the level of dumbassery concentrated in Salty Mingus. Or maybe it was just the sheer power of lovelornity. Never mind that Liman was known to have no special lady friends. Or, for that matter, any friends.
“So both Priss and her brother, in your view, are off somewhere with friends, not bothering to check on their personal property or address the complaints made against them or check in with the authorities who have opened a case against them or, you know, return for a fresh change of underwear,” Stella said. “And you’re not concerned. That about it?”
A storm cloud to rival the ones scudding across the late afternoon sky passed over Salty’s expression. “Uh. Yeah.”
“Well, all right, then. You have a nice workout. I guess I’ll be getting back home.”
She made for her Jeep, holding her coat tight to her neck against the biting wind.
“Stella,” Salty called, and Stella turned to see him standing rooted to the spot, one hand raised in a half wave.
“Yeah?”
“When you do find Priss … I was thinkin’ … maybe you could tell her to give me a call?”
“Sure,” Stella muttered. Like that was going to happen.
Chapter Twenty-two
On the drive home, Stella cranked up Steve Earle’s “I Thought You Should Know” and thought about love.
I won’t tell you I don’t need you tonight
I won’t pretend I ain’t burning inside
Salty Mingus was a guy who lost the woman of his dreams to another man, and who did he blame? Himself? His poor conversational skills, his lack of ambition? No. It was the other guy at fault, for showing up and making a play for her—and it was Priss, for falling for him. Meanwhile, Salty was wining and dining and romancing, in theory, a whole string of ladies for profit, never stopping to consider how Priss might have felt about that. Sure, he claimed it was all part of his business model, but he was still the one drinking the champagne and encouraging all those heaving bosoms while Priss had only her spreadsheets for company.
A woman who got tossed out of her lover’s life tended to have a different reaction. Where did I go wrong? she might wonder, and then answer herself with a whole list of failures. Not pretty enough. Not entertaining enough. Not a good enough cook, a neat enough housekeeper, a sexy enough lover, a clever enough conversationalist. Heck, give a woman enough time, and she could probably write you a whole catalog of her shortcomings.
That was clearly an area where men had gotten the better deal, evolution-wise. How had that happened? Stella wondered. Had some long-ago lady ape caught her mate banging the cute primate from the cave down the road and blamed herself? And how could that have possibly been an evolutionary advantage?
For the children, of course, she realized. Men got to get crazy, get stupid, get laid with abandon. Women got to get the kids picked up from school and get dinner on the table.
> Stella let out a long, indulgent sigh and hummed along with Earle.
Speaking of children, what would Ollie have made of their daughter’s new romantic direction? The thought brought an unexpected smile to Stella’s face. Oh, that would have been rich, Ollie Hardesty contemplating having fathered a gay child. That would have thrown him for a hell of a loop. It almost would have been worth letting him live a few extra years to see the look on his face when Noelle made her announcement.
Almost. But not quite.
* * *
Who would have expected BJ Brodersen to be such a punctual man?
Stella was wearing only her Spanx Slim Cognito bodysuit when he came to the door, but at least Noelle had almost finished her hair and makeup. The girl had been a virtual whirlwind, fussing with the food and setting up an impromptu tabletop bar with a kettle of ice and a bowl full of lemons and limes sliced into wedges and a vase of pink and white carnations, which barely left room for the impressive variety of liquor bottles arrayed in a half circle.
“That must of set you back,” Stella marveled.
“Well, like I said, I got that money put aside.”
“Your rainy-day fund,” Stella pointed out. After Ollie’s death, she had purchased herself a few hours’ time with a financial advisor, who had laid out a self-education plan that left Stella keenly aware of the paltriness of her resources but also better suited than most to manage them. “This don’t strike me as a rainy day.”
Noelle had just tutted and ignored her. Oh, the wild irresponsibility of youth, Stella thought, but she kept her mouth shut. Sometimes a mother’s best strategy was silence.
When the doorbell rang, and Noelle peeked out and confirmed that it was BJ, Stella bolted for her bedroom, yelling at her daughter to keep him entertained. She shrugged into her old leopard-print jersey wrap dress and took a second to enjoy the fact that it fit far less snugly than it had a year ago, thanks to her stepped-up workouts and physical therapy. She swiped on her Avon Anew Youth-Awakening lipstick in Regal Red—a shade she reserved for special occasions. Noelle had put a good half hour into making up her eyes until they practically smoldered. All that was left to do was to pick up all the outfits she’d tried on and abandoned and shove them into the closet and shut the door. The she fluffed the pillows and straightened the towels in the bathroom.
Because you just never knew.
Out in the living room, Noelle was perched on the edge of a chair chattering away while BJ listened with a rather glazed look in his eyes.
“Them oxidative dye molecules are all well and good,” Noelle was saying, “but if you don’t follow up with a sulfate-free surfactant, why, you’re just screwed.”
When BJ noticed Stella, he leapt to his feet and grinned wide. “Ain’t you a vision,” he said, letting his gaze travel up and down her clingy dress.
“Thank you,” Stella said modestly, jutting one foot in front of the other and setting her shoulders back to better show off her curves. “You’re the first to arrive! Has Noelle offered to fix you a drink?”
“She, um, yeah,” BJ said, rattling the ice in his plastic cup with a look of consternation on his face. “She’s got a generous pour on her.”
“Lemme taste that,” Stella exclaimed, taking the drink from him and slurping the edge. Tasted like pure rum, though there was a faint orange tint and a few shreds of pulp floating in the cup among the ice. “Lordy, Noelle, you like to pickle the man?”
Noelle pouted. “I don’t know how to make a drink, Mama. I don’t hardly ever have anything but a beer myself.”
“Well, sugar, you could of asked for help.”
“It’s no problem at all,” BJ said. “It’s tasty. Maybe I’ll just add a little bit of orange juice—”
The doorbell rang again, and Noelle went to answer it. Stella grabbed BJ’s cup and carried it to the sink, where she poured most of it down the drain. “She means well,” she said, topping off the concoction with juice.
“She’s a very nice young lady,” BJ said, and Stella felt her insides warm up a few degrees. Now that was something they ought to teach in man school—compliment a woman’s children, and you’re halfway there.
“Oh my God!” Noelle shrieked as a trio of women came through the door, brushing snow out of their hair.
Stella hurried over to greet her daughter’s guests and see what the matter was. Noelle staggered back a couple of feet and clamped her hands to her face in horror, as though the three young ladies had fangs and claws and flames shooting out of their nostrils.
“What have you done,” she wailed. She opened her eyes and stroked the ponytailed hair of the closest one almost tenderly, and only then did Stella realize it was Joy. Her brown hair had been dyed a pale blond with chestnut lowlights, which made her look almost Nordic, but other than that, she looked about like she had the other night, with her face scrubbed free of makeup and a shapeless fleece sweater over a turtleneck and jeans. On her feet were heavy black work boots, which she rubbed carefully on the rug by the door.
“Do you want me to take these off, Mrs. Hardesty?” she asked politely, ignoring Noelle. “I’d hate to drag in snow on your nice floors.”
“No, no, dear, that’s just fine. Please, let me get your coats. Noelle,” she added pointedly, “help me take your guests’ things.”
To her credit, her daughter snapped to attention then, though her face bore a stricken, wounded look. “This here’s Pamela,” she said, indicating a tall brunette. “I met her at Sidewinders, and I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name—”
“Maxine Groat,” the shorter girl said, shaking Stella’s hand. “From up to Independence. It’s nice to meet you.”
“And this is my mother, Stella Hardesty, and this is Mama’s friend Mr. Brodersen.”
There were handshakes all around, and Stella managed to wrest the coats and scarves and mittens away from the little group. “BJ, I wonder if you would do the honors,” she said, pointing to the array of bottles with her chin, “since you’re the professional and all. Noelle and I won’t be but a minute.”
In the guest room, they laid the coats out on the bed and Stella shut the door. “Noelle Elizabeth Collier Hardesty,” she scolded, “I’m delighted to have your friends in my home, and you know I am fond of Joy, but what in the name of Sam was that about? Why, you barely said hello to your guests!”
Stella was dimly aware that she sounded just like her own mother, who would have died of shame before she allowed an error of manners to be committed in her home. And Stella was also aware that she was being a terrible hypocrite.
Pat Hardesty had kept an immaculate home, dusted every Tuesday, never spoke ill of a soul, and, Stella was willing to bet, had never uttered anything more coarse than an occasional “oh, durn.” Stella herself had managed to stay civilized and polite and soft-spoken—until Ollie was gone. Then all those years of frustration and irritation came bubbling up and gave voice to a whole new person who, she had been startled to discover, may well have been her authentic self all along. And, as it turned out, her authentic self was not terribly fettered by manners.
Still, Noelle managed to look suitably chastised. “I’m sorry, Mama. It was just such a shock, seeing what Joy done to herself—especially after all that work.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well—” Noelle gestured helplessly. “Her hair? I did all these soft waves that took forever. The color’s perfect, Mama, and she’s got it up in that, that thing? That ain’t even a proper elastic, Mama, it’s just some old rubber band, she’s gonna have breakage—”
Noelle looked like she might cry, and Stella’s heart went out to her. “But with it up like that, you can see her pretty face—”
“Oh, and that. I mean, I did evening eyes on her, I rimmed them in navy and used three shades of shadow. It took fucking forever! And Mama, I loaned her my DKNY sweater, the off-the-shoulder one? And my BCBG platform boots? I mean she looked so incredibly hot. I just don’t know why she’d want to go
and, and, do that.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Stella held out her arms, and Noelle came into them and snuffled into her mother’s shoulder and let herself be hugged. “I’m sure that’s all true, and you know I love it when you do makeovers on me. I always feel so, so pretty and special. But not everyone’s like that. Some folks really just don’t care to go experimenting with their outsides. For whatever reason, they get into a rut and that’s where they’re comfortable and, really, they’re not going to thank you for trying to change it. Now, it don’t mean they don’t like you,” she said reassuringly as she rubbed small circles on her daughter’s back. “Or that you can’t be friends, even special friends. Only, you got to accept them for who they are, not who you want them to be.”
Noelle hiccupped gently and drew back, wiping her eyes carefully so as not to smudge her own luminous violet eyeliner. “I know you’re right, Mama. Only I’m just trying so hard to find the things that Joy and I have in common, that we can do together, you know? Since we’re in a relationship and all, and I’m trying to honor that, I really am. I want us both to be givers, but I just don’t know how to give what she needs.”
“Mmm,” Stella said. “Well, now, let’s get back to your party.”
What she wanted to say was that if you had to try that hard, it might not be the perfect match, but that was the sort of motherly wisdom that was almost never welcome.
BJ was standing behind the table looking just as comfortable as he did behind his own bar, but he had a big, pleased smile on his face and didn’t appear to mind being on duty one bit. Several more guests had arrived, mostly women, and he was busy mixing drinks.
“These little gals remind me of my nieces,” he confided when Stella went over to pour her own generous splash of Johnnie. “Don’t none of them got boyfriends, though? Them two there, hate to say it, but I believe they might just be battin’ for the other team, you know what I’m saying?”
He gestured with an unopened bottle of Miller High Life at the lone male guests, who were scrutinizing the contents of Stella’s china hutch, one of the few pieces of furniture she’d owned ever since getting married.
A Bad Day for Scandal Page 17
