by Amy Metz
Then she turned and stalked off while everyone stared after her.
* * *
Hours later, sitting around Lou’s big pine kitchen table, Martha Maye served cake. “You mean this whole thing was over a reputation?”
“Greed, reputation, love. All powerful motivators,” Jack said.
“But yeah, it does all boil down to reputation,” Tess said. “John Hobb was killed because Nate Hunter didn’t want his reputation hurt; Henry Clay was protecting his and his grandfather’s reputation; while John Ed was protecting his own, and Henry Clay’s. He looked the other way because he suspected his son was involved.”
“I still can’t believe the hurtin’ Tessie put on old Henry Clay!” Martha Maye said, shaking her head. “Lands sakes, you sure did a number on him! Y’all shoulda seen her in action. When they loaded him in that ambulance, it looked like you’d beat him with an ugly stick, Tess.”
“Ugly stick, hell, he looked like he fell out of an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down,” Lou said.
“Well, I’m relieved he’s going to be okay,” Tess said. “I wanted him out of commission, but I didn’t want him dead.”
“I ‘spect he’ll have one mighty fine headache for at least a week,” Jack said. “And a ringing sound in his head for even longer.” Everyone laughed.
The doorbell rang, and Butterbean yelled, “I’ll get it.”
Moments later, the state trooper walked into the kitchen. “Evenin’ folks, pardon the interruption. I just wanted to tell y’all that sure enough, just like you predicted,” he looked at Tess and Jack, “two thousand dollars was found under the floorboard in an office at the First National Bank.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Poor old Henry Clay was walkin' around it all that time, and his grandfather did the same. They never knew it.” He shook his head. “How’s that for irony? Uh . . . “ he cleared his throat, “I also wanted to make sure everyone’s all right.” He looked at Martha Maye, who lit up like a red pepper.
“Well, isn’t that the sweetest thing! In all the commotion over at the fillin’ station I don’t think we were properly introduced. I’m Martha Maye . . . “ she got up to shake his hand.
Johnny blushed and stuck his hand out. “Yes ma’am. We’ve howdied, and . . . uh . . . hugged, but we ain’t shook yet. I’m Johnny Butterfield.” He wiped the sweat off his brow.
“Have a seat, Trooper Butterfield, how ‘bout I cut you a nice big slice of chocolate cake?” Martha Maye smiled up at him.
“Just Johnny will be fine. And thank ya, ma’am. Thank ya ver’ much.”
Johnny pulled his eyes from Martha Maye and said, “I also wanted to tell y’all that John Ed has resigned his position as police chief. He’s under review for hinderin’ an investigation.”
“Who’s gonna be police chief?” Lou asked.
“Well . . . the position’s open. And they’re takin’ applications,” he added, darting a glance at Martha Maye.
Tess said, “What I don’t understand is why John Ed overlooked all the mayhem? If he wasn’t in on it with Henry Clay—”
Johnny broke in, “Hank asked him that, actually. He won’t admit it, but I think after the first break in, Henry Clay told him not to look into anything at the old Hobb house. After that, I think he just assumed Henry Clay was involved.”
There was another knock at the front door, and Lou craned her neck around the edge of the kitchen door. “Shh . . . y’all be quiet now. Charlotte’s here. Not another word ‘bout her daddy and granddaddy, ya hear?”
Butterbean ushered in Charlotte and Pickle, who was carrying two suitcases.
“There’s the man of the hour,” Jack said. “That was some quick thinkin’ you did under pressure, Pickle. I’m proud of ya. And grateful.” He clapped Pickle on the back and everyone cheered. Pickle blushed.
“Thank you, Mizz Louetta, for lettin’ me stay here,” Charlotte said softly.
“Oh law, child. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now come on, I’ll take you up and get you settled. This way, Charlotte . . . you too, Pickle.”
“That was really nice of you all to take Charlotte in like you’re doin’,” Tess said to Martha Maye after the three had gone upstairs.
“Well, it kinda seems we’re bound by the same tragedy. She’s prob’ly the one hurt most out of all this. Her mother ran off a few years ago and never looked back. Now she’s lost her daddy and granddaddy, too, in one fell swoop. Henry Clay for sure will do time, and John Ed prob’ly will. She didn’t have anywhere else to go, and we’re glad to take her in. She’s gonna need some TLC. Mama’s good at that. And b’sides, we’ll have a built-in babysitter.”
“Or two. It looks like Pickle might be around here a lot now, too,” Lou said, coming back into the room.
Jack stood and said, “Well, we’d better be on our way, folks. It’s been a long day.”
Lou hugged Tess. “Honey, you take tomorrow off, now, ya hear? You rest up.”
“If you insist,” she said, as Jack grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door.
“She insists,” he said firmly. “Trooper Butterfield, thank you for all you did today. We ‘preshade it more than we can say.”
“Just doin’ my duty, and call me Johnny,” Butterfield said.
“Thank you, Johnny,” Tess said.
“Goodnight, y’all!” Jack and Tess said together, leaving the kitchen. Jack looked at her with a smile in his eyes and whispered, “You’re turning into a Southern Belle already.”
“Night, you two,” Martha Maye said almost as an afterthought. She was preoccupied watching Johnny.
Lou followed them to the door. “I swan, y’all are cuter ‘n a sack of puppies. Jackson, you haven’t let go of her hand for one second today. Just be sure you let her go tinkle by herself now, ya hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thanks for dinner, Lou. Goodnight.” They both waved and stepped out onto the porch.
Outside, he put his arm around Tess. “Hey pretty lady, wanna come to my house and eat green M&M’s?”
Tess smiled, put her head on his shoulder, and answered, “Absolutely, Vernon. Absolutely.”
The End
About the Author
Amy Metz is the mother of two sons and is a former first grade teacher. When not actively engaged in writing, enjoying her family, or spoiling her dog Cooper, and granddogs Gage and Arlo, Amy can usually be found with a mixing spoon, camera, or book in her hands. She lives in Louisville, Kentucky and can be reached at:
amymetz.com.
