Dr. Strange Beard: Winston Brothers #5

by Reid, Penny

“Yeah,” I said, “I’ll be staying in Nashville through tomorrow.”

  Her hand paused, mid-douse, and her eyes cut to mine. “No. Now that you have Roscoe’s agreement, you need to be back in Green Valley.”

  “What? Why?”

  “What if your contact needs to reach you? So close to the Derby, what if you’re not at the diner when she or he shows up?” Nelson leaned closer. “You need to tell your contact about Roscoe agreeing to the treatment, so we can make plans to extract Winston and get his statement. The sooner this loop is closed, the sooner this will be over.”

  I breathed out through my nose and glared at Agent Nelson, hating the fact that she was right even as my brain clamored to find an alternate solution.

  Maybe . . . maybe I could hire some white dude to drive me back to Nashville every night? Deveron Stokes was a shady character, but he was always looking for more work. Or maybe I could talk Roscoe into meeting me halfway? At least for one night, because four days—four miserable days—separated us before the Derby and I didn’t know if my heart could make it that long without seeing him. Kissing him.

  And debauching him.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath, my rib cage squeezing my lungs painfully. I hadn’t meant to say the word aloud, but it was perfectly reflective of this shitty situation.

  Shit.

  Shit shit shit shit shitter shiticker shite shoot shat shit.

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking sorry, and the show of sympathy caught me off guard. “But think of it this way: thanks to you and your boyfriend, we might be able to wrap this up by next week. Lundqvist might have to stay put until the trial, but the rest of us will be able to move on to new assignments.”

  Nodding faintly, I reluctantly abandoned thoughts of meeting him halfway and instead turned my energy towards working through the ramifications of leaving Nashville today. What version of the truth could I share with Roscoe? Was it possible to salvage my integrity while also keeping the case confidential and my colleagues safe?

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I was just thinking about that.” I tapped my fingers against the top of the table, working through possibilities in my mind and trying to guess Roscoe’s reaction to each.

  “Not the truth.”

  I gave Nelson a flat look. “Obviously.”

  “A family emergency?”

  “No.” My flat look persisted. “Everyone in Green Valley knows everyone. He’d know I was lying as soon as he called a member of his family.” Plus, I didn’t plan on lying.

  Something that’s not the truth, and not a lie either. . . help me out here, God. I don’t ask for much, just racial equivalence, new episodes of Shonda Rhimes's canceled period drama Still Star-Crossed—and yes, I understand the irony—and Roscoe Winston’s eternal love and soulful devotion. Oh! And occasionally a good hair day, but I understand if this last one is too much to ask.

  We sat in silence for a bit while Nelson inhaled her hot sauce with egg whites and veggies, and I said my little prayer. I’d just decided to tell Roscoe a version of the truth—that I needed to get back to work in Green Valley at the diner, even though it sounded weak—when my contemplations were interrupted by the buzzing of my phone.

  Retrieving the cell from my bag, I glanced at the screen and immediately checked the time. It wasn’t yet 8:30 AM.

  Swiping to the right, I answered, “Roscoe?”

  “Hey,” he said, using his regular voice, and my heart did something unexpected. It became the figurative equivalent of that hearts-eyes emoji, you know the one with the big stupid grin? Sighing happily, it melted into warm wonderfulness.

  I said, “Hi,” like a doofus, unable to stop my grin and blush. But at the same time, I was aware of Nelson’s eyes on me. Therefore, I strong-armed the grin and the blush into concealment, cleared my throat, and asked, “Uh, what’s up?”

  How am I going to make it four days without his voice? Impossible!

  “Did your momma get a hold of you?”

  A fissure of alarm passed through me. “No. Why?”

  I heard Roscoe sigh. “I got a call from Cletus. He just made it to the police station and overheard someone say Officer Strickland was fired this morning.”

  “Oh.” I sat a little straighter, my gaze flickering to Nelson for no reason. I hadn’t told her about my run-ins with Officer Strickland. I didn’t consider them relevant to the case. “What happened?”

  “Cletus spoke to Jackson, and Jackson said your grandpa and your Aunt Dolly came in first thing with Bitty Johnson to talk to the sheriff. When they were done, Strickland was called in and fired.”

  Now I sighed, long and loud and frustrated, leaning my elbow on the table and rubbing my forehead. “Crap.”

  “My guess is you’ll be hearing from your momma any minute now.” He sounded concerned.

  “What a mess.” I twisted my lips to the side, wanting to curse Bitty Johnson, but also recognizing that she likely believed she’d been doing something good. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Roscoe seemed to hesitate for a moment before adding, “If you have to go back home, I completely understand.”

  “Thanks.” I felt my mouth curve into a regretful smile, laughing inwardly—with some bitterness, but mostly self-deprecating amusement—at the timing of everything.

  I’d been saved from lying to Roscoe by having to explain to my parents why I’d been lying (or more precisely, withholding information) from them. Now I’d have to tell Nelson the story as well, just in case the attention and scrutiny I would receive post Strickland-gate jeopardized my place on the case, because I would definitely receive attention and scrutiny.

  Folks would come into the diner to gossip—to me, about me—and would want the whole story. My earlier low profile was now compromised, at least for a little while. But “a little while” might as well be forever.

  I should have known better. God usually answered my prayers, but the prayers always seemed to be answered in the form of a practical joke.

  * * *

  My mother called after I briefed Nelson on my interactions with ex-Officer Strickland—and the alleged happenings of this morning with Sheriff James, et al.—but before I’d made it to Roscoe’s work to pick up Pavlov. I was just three blocks away when I spotted her avatar flashing on my screen paired with her ringtone.

  Bracing myself, I answered the hands-free link. “Hello, Mom.”

  “Hello, daughter,” she said, making me chuckle, because she’d echoed my resigned tone. Seemingly pleased by my light laughter, she continued, her voice full of compassion, “Okay, baby. Tell me what happened.”

  My eyes and nose stung, so I rolled my lips between my teeth as I pulled into the veterinary parking lot and gathered a steadying breath, prepared to tell her the story.

  But then she said, “Don’t tell me it was no big deal. Bitty Johnson said he unclipped his weapon and was shouting at you, that he’d shifted back on his foot, like he was preparing to shoot. If Ashley Runous hadn’t come running out, she was about to call the sheriff.”

  The worry in her voice sobered me and I found my composure easily. “Everything Bitty said is true.”

  My mother made a sound of distress. “Why didn’t you tell us? And why didn’t Ashley tell anyone? Dolly said Ashley’s brother-in-law was harassed by Strickland months ago, and Boone told me Strickland had been on suspension for it until last month. What is going on?”

  “Firstly, I specifically asked Ashley to keep it to herself.” I put my car in park, but didn’t cut the engine as I wanted to keep using my hands-free. “I made her promise to not tell you or Grandpa, or Dolly or Boone, so don’t get mad at Ashley. Second—”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I’m working here.” The “undercover” was implied. “You know I need to keep a low profile.”

  I listened as my mother gathered a deep breath. When she released it, it sounded frustrated. “That man was harassi
ng more than just you, Simone. Your Aunt Dolly said she and Billy have been hearing stories from folks at the mill for the last month, even Eve Templeton was pulled over! Can you imagine? Eve in her Armani suit and BMW? What was she going to do? Give him a paper cut with a hundred-dollar bill?”

  I smirked at that, but then immediately sobered, because Eve Templeton was smaller than me, had grown up sheltered, and must’ve been terrified.

  Yes, I was sure she’d received “the talk” when she was a kid, about how us darker-skinned folks must never do anything or say anything that might draw negative attention or suspicion. Green Valley was much more of a melting pot than many places, thanks in large part to the Payton Mill being the major employer in the area as well as the work of my grandfather as a federal judge. We’d felt safe in our small corner, but my parents had to prepare us for the world. Every black kid I knew received the talk, about how to behave around police and law enforcement (outside of our small town) in particular.

  Never smile.

  Always say, Yes sir or No ma’am.

  Make eye contact, but try not to look threatening or scared.

  Keep your hands where they can see them at all times.

  Don’t move unless instructed, and even then, don’t move too fast.

  Keep your voice calm, respectful, and even.

  Don’t say anything more than required.

  My father had been careful to tell us that police officers outside of Green Valley were not inherently bad people, but that police and law enforcement in general—those institutions—would not be looking out for our best interest.

  My brother had received the same talk, but with one slight variation. My mother, fighting back tears, had told him that when he grew up, the world would perceive him as a big, scary black man. That he must never help anyone stranded or on the side of the road. That he must never leave his car for any reason unless absolutely necessary. That he must be careful about driving or being in public places at night for his entire life.

  “It’s not who you are, baby,” she’d said, her voice shaky, “but no matter what you do, it’s who people will see.”

  Even so, they told us that if we were very careful and always behaved perfectly we would still draw negative attention and suspicion just by existing. We should be prepared for inexplicable hostility. We should behave in a manner above reproach, always with calm reason, and never allow our frustration or emotions to guide our response to irrational aggression.

  But most of all, they reminded us that no matter how people saw us, we must never forget that the color of our skin didn’t define us.

  As a teenager, Dani had raged against this information, but always in the privacy of our home. Her rage became passion, and she vowed to dedicate her life to tearing down institutions and destroying people who perpetuated these injustices. Her weapons of choice were power, money, and influence.

  “We have to force them to change,” she’d said ardently. “We force them to see us and treat us as equals. No justice, no peace.”

  That, in a nutshell, was my sister.

  Poe’s reaction had been to question and research the issue tirelessly. Once he’d researched and felt he understood the phenomenon, he’d followed my parents’ advice meticulously. He then moved to an area of California that had the lowest use of force complaints (made by black people per capita) in the country. As soon as he was finished with high school, he left, and he rarely visited. His coping strategy was avoidance.

  “I don’t like bugs,” he’d said pragmatically one Christmas. “Or worrying about being shot on the drive from Knoxville to Green Valley because I’m six foot three and black. If I were shorter, or if my skin were lighter, or if I could fly directly into Green Valley, I’d visit more often.”

  That, in a nutshell, was my brother.

  My response hadn’t been to rage and it hadn’t been to avoid. I’d been upset, which I think was normal and natural, and I’d researched the issue like my brother. In the end, my conclusions about how to best push positive change differed significantly from my sister’s.

  I joined the institution.

  I became law enforcement, which often put me in an awkward position.

  Case in point, right now.

  Presently, my mother was still speaking. “Billy has already spoken to the sheriff—last week as a matter of fact—and Dolly was planning to meet with him next week to follow up. Sheriff James had been moving forward with the officer’s dismissal, going through the proper channels and whatnot. Your cousin Boone said the man wasn’t bad, just ignorant. Which, you know what? I don’t really care if he was bad or not when the end result is people scared out of their minds just for driving down the road.”

  “So Officer Strickland was told he was fired because of me?”

  “I don’t know what that man was told, but Bitty claims the Runous’s have the whole thing on their security footage and that Strickland man apparently confirmed her version of events. What happened to you made the process of firing him move faster, and I’m glad.”

  I grunted, frustrated. “If he was going to be let go anyway, I wish Bitty had kept her mouth shut.”

  “Don’t you get angry at Bitty Johnson.”

  I continued, undeterred, “And why didn’t Aunt Dolly or Grandpa come to me first? Why not ask me what I wanted?”

  “Simone Payton, you will not disparage your family members for loving you and watching out for you.”

  “You’re right, I won’t. But I do want to point out that no one is talking about a solution to the problem.”

  She huffed. “He’s fired. That’s the solution.”

  “And where does he go? Another town? Where he harasses those people? Wouldn’t it be better to pair him with someone like Boone or Evans? Make them partners and educate him instead, so we stop the cycle? What if Strickland’s parents—”

  “Are you saying it’s our job to coddle and reeducate adults like this Strickland man? An adult man of thirty-three? You think Boone and Evans have time for babysitting? Or the mental and emotional energy? Good Lord, why should it be their responsibility? It’s not. It’s not your responsibility, either. The fact is, Officer Strickland failed in his duties over and over, and now he’s getting fired for it.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. If a black officer had done this to a white woman, all hell would break loose and you can be damn sure he wouldn’t get a second chance. Giving this individual chance after chance after chance because his parents might or might not have been bigots isn’t the answer. It perpetuates the problem. It keeps him in a position of authority where he can continue to do harm.”

  “It’s short-sighted to think—”

  She wasn’t having it. “We all have to take personal responsibility for our actions, Simone. Black, white, yellow, blue. Expecting a man to behave like an adult—which he is—by taking personal responsibility is not an undue burden. Maybe if someone had held this person accountable prior to now, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

  “Mom—”

  “You know what? Just you wait. Wait until it’s your daughter or son being pulled over for no reason, and the police officer puts his hand on his weapon and threatens your child with a gun. Your child. Wait until that happens. You find me and tell me I’m being harsh and short-sighted. Stop making excuses for him,” she said firmly, communicating with her tone that this conversation was now over.

  Gritting my teeth, I shook my head and leaned forward, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. My neck and chest were hot. I was frustrated. My mind was going in circles.

  On the one hand, I fully comprehended and appreciated my mother’s perspective. It made sense. It was fair.

  On the other hand, maybe the answer wasn’t less chances for people like Officer Strickland, but more chances and understanding for everyone.

  She sniffed, and I heard some papers shuffle, before she spoke again. “Now, tell me when you’ll be home.”

  “This a
fternoon.” Leaning back, I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, because staying frustrated with my mother or pushing the issue would lead nowhere productive.

  “What?” Her voice was suffused with confusion, and perhaps a little dismay. “Why so soon?”

  I couldn’t help my little smile. “You don’t want me to come home?”

  A sound of annoyance, then she said, “You already know I want you home, I always want my babies home, where I can see them and make sure they’re getting enough iron in their diets. Stop being cute and tell me what happened with Roscoe.”

  “Nothing happened with Roscoe.” I eyed the front door to the veterinary clinic, wondering if he was inside right this moment, covered with puppies again, just lying in wait for another cuteness attack.

  Part of me hoped so. But part of me dreaded seeing him again because it already felt impossible to leave him. I wanted to stay and snuggle. I wanted to force him to talk to me about his theories, argue with me about mine. I wanted him to tell me stories of his travels.

  He needed to tell me about each and every one of the places he’d visited. We’d then make a list of all the places we would go. Together. Listening to his recollections of Doubtful Sound in New Zealand, the way he painted scenery in vivid detail, as though I’d been right there beside him, had been as soothing as it had been exciting.

  Of course, the deep cadence of his voice didn’t hurt either.

  Yeah. I loved his voice. In fact, I especially loved his voice.

  I sighed, a little confused by the intensity of my feelings. Was this normal? To crave and pine for a person who had already given himself to you? To abhor the mere idea of a separation? How did people do this? How did they function, go through the motions of day-to-day with such persistent longing?

  “Simone.”

  My name sounded like a warning.

  “Sorry.” I shook myself, coming out of my reflections. “Uh, things happened—all good things—but I need to get back to Green Valley.”

  “What? Why? Stay in Nashville and play house for the week. Good Lord, it’s not like you two don’t deserve a little happiness. He is the sweetest boy, and your father and I used to hope—”