He was the patriarch and unofficial ruler of a Scumble River clan the locals called the Red Raggers—a derogatory term for kinfolk who lived in shacks by the river and led a different sort of life from the majority of Scumble Riverites. For the most part the Red Raggers kept to themselves—except when they were running some kind of con on the out-of-towners.
The problem wasn’t that the Red Raggers were poor, although they were, and it wasn’t that they dwelled in squalor, although they did; it was more that they seemed to enjoy living that way. As Skye had once tried to explain, the Red Raggers were the original out-of-the-box thinkers—as long as the box was a case of beer.
“Miz Skye.” Earl peeked out from behind his wife’s shoulder. “I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”
“Earl, Glenda.” Skye nodded to the couple. She had established a good relationship with Earl from working with his many children, sisters, brothers, nieces, and nephews in her job as a school psychologist, but she and Glenda had started off on the wrong foot when Skye first moved back to town, and they’d never quite gotten into sync. “It has been a while. Last Halloween, right?”
“Yep.” Earl’s toothless smile widened. “At the haunted house when I saved you from them-there spooks.”
“Yeah, you sure saved her. If nearly gettin’ shot in the ass amounts to savin’ someone.” Glenda snorted and hitched up her Daisy Duke cutoffs. From her grimy feet shod in red plastic stiletto sandals to her dyed blond hair with its two-inch black roots, she was the embodiment of an ideal Red Ragger woman.
“Uh, sorry to rush off, but I’m in a big hurry,” Skye said. Not wanting to get involved in the inevitable squabble between the pair, she looked around for Frannie. “I’ve got to run.”
Before Skye could move, Earl darted in front of her, his cowboy-boot-encased feet moving remarkably fast. “What-cha doin’ here anyway?” he asked. “I heard you was puttin’ on that fancy weddin’ for that snooty cuzzin a yours now that the other lady got herself kilt.”
“That’s right.”
“I sure hope people don’t start yellin’ at you like they did her.”
“I hope not, too.” Skye stepped backward, trying to escape. “I’m here to pick up a few things we need for the big day.” She made a show of peering at her watch. “Gee, look at the time. I better scoot.”
“You know”—Earl blocked her getaway—“I was thinkin’ of maybe stoppin’ on by and seein’ how y’all put on a shindig like that, but it turns out we got our own hitchin’ to throw. Ours is on Friday, and your’n is on Saturday, but I’ll prolly be too hungover to get outta bed until Sunday.”
“Well, we certainly understand.” Skye blew out a relieved breath. Earl may have been several inches short of a ruler, but he’d always been a good friend to her, and she would have hated to see what Riley would do to him if he crashed her wedding. “Who’s getting married?”
She crossed her fingers that it wasn’t Earl’s younger sister Elvira, who had just graduated high school in May. Elvira was a bright girl, and Skye had hopes that she might do something more with her life than popping out a kid each year and getting drunk every Saturday night.
“Elvis.” Earl’s bony chest swelled underneath his tank top. “Everyone said he didn’t have it in him, but the boy went and knocked up Mavis Beckman.”
Elvis was Elvira’s twin, but where she had gotten the brains, he hadn’t even gotten the brawn. He had dropped out of school at sixteen and worked odd jobs ever since. Odd being the operant word.
“Okay, then.” Skye wasn’t sure what to say. Congratulations just didn’t seem appropriate, and she had no idea who Mavis Beckman was.
“Wooee! Mavis’s pa is madder’n a wet hen.”
“But your family is happy about the wedding?” Skye sought clarification, something she often had to do when dealing with the Dooziers.
“Well, now, it is a durn shame she’s not the purtiest pup in the litter.” Earl tried to hide it but couldn’t quite disguise the avaricious twinkle in his muddy brown eyes. “But Mavis’s pa did promise he’d give her and whoever she ended up marryin’ twenty acres and a tractor.”
“I see.” Skye edged backward. “Well, I really do have to go.” She turned to make her escape but was blocked by a burly man holding two scrawny teenagers—his meaty hands wrapped entirely around their upper arms.
He shoved past Skye and marched up to Glenda and Earl. “Are these brats yours?”
Skye recognized the boys as the Dooziers’ son Junior, who had just turned thirteen, and their fifteen-year-old nephew, Cletus.
“What’s it to ya?” Glenda reached inside the too-tight purple tube top she barely wore and adjusted her breasts. “You got a problem with ’em?”
“I sure as hell do.” The man’s head was shaved, and he was built like a weight lifter. “These little turds have been wreaking havoc all over the store.”
Skye tensed. She guessed he was security, and he had no idea what a shallow gene pool he’d just entered.
“What’d they do?” Glenda narrowed her eyes, which were heavily framed in black eyeliner and false lashes. “I’m sure they were just havin’ a little fun.”
“Having a little fun?” the security guard sputtered. “First they took a bottle of Mountain Dew and used it to make a path leading to the restrooms.”
Earl bleated, “Ya mean they wasted Dew?” He turned to Skye. “You know I raised ’em better than that. They shoulda knowed to drink it first, then use what the good Lord gave ’em for free to mark their trail.”
“Shut up, Earl.” Glenda flicked her spouse a poisonous glance. To the security guard she said, “That don’t sound too bad.”
“Next, they went into electronics, tuned all the clock radios to a polka station, turned the volume to ten, and set the alarms to go off simultaneously.”
“You don’t like polka music?” Earl screwed up his face. “That’s just not right.”
The security guard ignored Earl and continued, “I finally caught up to them when they set up a valet parking sign by the store’s entrance.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Earl asked. “Cletus has his driving permit, and it’s a long way to the back of the lot for some of the old people who shop here. They was just doin’ a public service.”
“Public service, my ass!” The guard’s complexion turned maroon. “Either you all leave right now or I’m calling the police.”
Skye cringed. Everyone in Scumble River knew you didn’t accuse a Doozier of wrongdoing, at least not to his face and without backup, but this guy wasn’t from town.
The guard lifted the boys off their feet, and Junior started crying, “He’s hurtin’ me, Ma. Real bad.”
Skye noticed Glenda slipping a switchblade from her purse, and Earl was fingering a suspicious bulge in the pocket of his saggy knit shorts.
Damn! She so didn’t want to get involved, but blood was about to be shed, and it might be her own. She’d seen enough movies to know that the innocent bystanders were always the first to get hurt.
Using her most soothing psychologist voice, she asked the guard, “Uh, sir, was there any actual monetary damage done by the boys?”
“They paid for the pop,” the guard snarled. “But stealing a car is grand theft.”
Four pair of eyes swung to the two teens. The redhead froze.
“Junior Doozier.” His mother yanked him out of the guard’s grasp. “You explain yourself right this minute!”
“Ma.” He tried to wiggle away, but Glenda’s grip tightened. “Shucks, Cletus and me was just messin’ around.”
“Messin’ how?” Glenda shook him slightly.
“Well, we just took a couple of the cars for a little ride.” Junior finally squirmed free and ducked behind Skye. “We didn’t take ’em outta the parkin’ lot or nothin’.”
“Tell them what you did with the cars when you finished your joyride,” the guard demanded.
“What did you do?” Skye stared Junior in the eye. He was young
er than his cousin but, in her experience with the pair, always the ringleader.
He scuffed the floor with the toe of his tennis shoe. “Cletus and me didn’t crash ’em or nothin’.” He glared at the guard. “They’re fine. We parked ’em in front of the store so their owners could find ’em easy-like.”
“In the loading zone, with their keys in the ignition and their motors running,” the guard added.
“Were they okay?” Skye asked. “No damage done and the owners got them back?”
“Yeah.” The guard reluctantly nodded.
Before he could say anything more, an announcement blared from the PA. “Code Red in sporting goods. All personnel report immediately.”
“Son of a bitch!” The guard froze, then blurted out, “That means someone’s stolen a gun.” He started to run, saying over his shoulder, “You all better be gone by the time I get back here.”
As the guard dashed out of sight, Earl snickered. “I bet that’s Elvis. He said he had to pick up a present for his betrothed, and he mustta run outta quarters for the claw machine.”
Despite the guard’s threats, the Dooziers seemed to be in no hurry to leave the store. Earl ordered Cletus and Junior to wait in the car—their own car—then held a whispered conversation with Glenda, who stomped away with a scowl on her face.
Earl sauntered back to where Skye was searching for the pink boxes, and said, “I hopes you can stop by our weddin’. It’s gonna be the most fun shindig ever.”
“Well ...” Skye inspected a box but saw that there was a tiara printed on one side and reluctantly returned it to the shelf. “I’ll be pretty busy with my cousin’s rehearsal that day.”
“But, Miz Skye, we got us the best theme.”
“What’s that?” she asked absently.
“Beer.” Earl jumped from foot to foot like a Chihuahua about to pee. “We made this here arch outta hangers and decorated it with beer bottles, and we got big ol’ beer cans that we cut in half and stuck fake flowers in for the centerpieces.”
“Wow.” Skye attempted to picture what Earl was describing but gave up.
Earl patted his bowling ball–size stomach. “And it was my job to empty all the bottles and cans.”
“I bet that was a lot of work.” Skye tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Yep. But somebody had to do it. And he’s my only brother.” Earl thumped Skye on the back. “Least ways the only one we knows about.”
“Uh-huh.” Skye was rapidly running out of patience.
“We even gots a mechanical bull for the reception, and you can have the first ride.” Earl frowned. “After the bride and groom, a’course.”
“Of course.”
“Ya know, we tried to have the reception here.”
“At Wal-Mart?” Skye asked. “Why?”
“Makes it easier to return the gifts.”
“Good thinking.”
“Thanky.” Earl beamed. “But in his infantile wisdom the manager turned us down.”
“That’s a shame.” Skye wondered if Earl really thought the man was a baby. “Where did you move the reception to?”
“Uncle Slim’s big toe says it ain’t gonna rain, so we’re havin’ it in the backyard.”
“Happy is the bride who has a sun—”
“Yep.” Earl interrupted. “Who has a son that doesn’t arrive afore the hitchin’.”
“Right.”
“Anyhoo, the ceremony’s at four. You really should come. The reception’s right after and’ll go on ’til everyone passes out.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Skye figured they’d be too drunk to know if she showed up or not, so there was no harm letting them think she might.
“We even got stuff to give the guests. Some real nice-smellin’ rose perfume for the ladies and a can a Copenhagen for the men.” Earl scratched his head. “What I don’t understand is why we gots to give people somethin’ just for comin’. We’re already givin’ ’em food and beer, and Uncle Slim’s jug band is playin’. Isn’t that enough?”
Skye had stopped listening somewhere after the mention of chewing tobacco. Just as her eyes were glazing over, she saw them. There, in front of her, was just what she was looking for—plain pink boxes.
There were twenty-four to a pack and a trio of packages swung enticingly from the peg. She snatched all three of them off the hook and hugged them to her chest, then reverently stowed them in her cart. Now all she had to do was find Frannie and get the heck out of Dodge before the next Doozier disaster blew up in her face.
CHAPTER 18
A Class Act
Skye checked on the progress at the country club and arrived back in Scumble River at two forty-five. After inspecting Frannie and Justin’s work, she let them go and immediately started telephoning vendors to confirm the details for the next three days.
Two hours later, Skye said good-bye to the caterer and hung up the phone. Her ear hurt and her throat was raw, but she had managed to contact four of the major participants. She still had nearly a dozen vendors on her list, but she was meeting Wally at five thirty, so they’d have to wait until tomorrow.
As soon as she got home, she jumped into the shower. With no time for her usual makeup routine, she smoothed her curls into a French twist, dusted her face with bronzer, and brushed on a coat of mascara. After putting on a lime green and black cotton skirt and matching silk T-shirt, she dashed out the door, nearly tripping on a package with a large gold bow on top.
Skye snatched it up and opened it once she was in her car. Inside the box were several travel brochures and two airline tickets. The card read, I think our second chance should start in Bermuda. Love, Simon.
Sighing, she tucked everything under the passenger seat and resolved to think about both the gift and the man after the wedding was over. Five minutes later she was walking into the Feed Bag.
Wally waved to her from his seat in the booth nearest the door. The restaurant had been redecorated in 1984, with lots of mauve, brass, and plants. Twenty-one years later, time was catching up with the interior. Rips in the vinyl seats had been repaired with duct tape, smudges on the walls had been dabbed with a color that didn’t quite match the original paint, and the ferns had long since withered and been replaced with plastic greenery.
After a quick kiss, she slid in across from Wally, and he asked, “How was the rest of your day?”
“I had to go over to Laurel to get something from Wal-Mart and ran into the Dooziers.” Skye glanced at the menu to check out the daily special, then put it aside. She knew the rest of the choices by heart. “Did you know Elvis is getting married?”
“Yeah.” Wally’s eyes glinted with amusement. “I heard it was a case of wife or death.”
Skye snickered. “Earl is all pumped up about the wedding. He was bragging to me about his ideas for the décor and entertainment.”
“That’s Earl, all right.” Wally winked. “A real self-made-up man.”
“Too true.” Skye giggled. “He must have gotten hold of an etiquette book or something, because they’re even having party favors.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Wally gave her a startled look. “What on earth does a Doozier give as a party favor? A possum and a six-pack?”
Before Skye could enlighten him, the waitress approached to take their order. Skye ordered a Diet Coke with lime and the fried chicken, which came with a baked potato, soup, and salad. Wally asked for coffee and the meatloaf plate.
Once the waitress had filled his coffee cup and left, Skye wrinkled her nose. “It’s a good thing I skipped lunch. If I eat everything I just ordered, I won’t be able to fit into my bridesmaid’s dress.”
“I’m sure you’ll be beautiful.” Wally captured her hand, caressing her palm with his thumb. “I can’t wait to watch you walk down the aisle.”
“Thanks.” Skye flashed on a vision of herself in the Pepto-Bismol pink gown and shuddered. “But you’d better reserve judgment until you see me.” Beautiful wasn’t th
e adjective that came to her mind.
Wisely, Wally changed the subject. “Will the bridal party be in town tomorrow? Every time I try to find one of them, they’re off on some excursion.”
“They’ll be at the bowling alley for the bachelor/ bachelorette party in the evening. During the day they’re going to Arlington Park to watch the horse races and do a little gambling.”
“Where were they today?”
“In Chicago picking up the dresses and tuxes.”
“I’m surprised your cousin didn’t make you go along,” Wally teased.
“Believe me, it was a close call. I had to promise on my mother’s life that mine would fit in order to be excused. Afterward they went to a Cubs game.” Skye made a scornful noise. “Riley seems to think they need constant entertainment.”
“And do they?”
“I have no idea.” Skye paused, considering. “The one good thing about agreeing to take over for Belle is that I’ve been able to avoid participating in all the outings. But I haven’t gotten to know any of the bridal party very well.”
“Good thing?” Wally questioned. “You don’t think the activities would have been fun?”
“In different circumstances.” Skye toyed with her silverware. “But . . . I don’t know how to explain it. I guess it just seems like a forced good time to me. Everyone is so rich and so successful, but no one seems really happy.
“Look at Belle and her hunger to be famous. Who knows what she did to achieve that ambition.” Skye’s lip curled in disgust. “Then there’s the fact that even though she was already wealthy, it wasn’t enough for her; she had to scam the vendors for more money. The sheer greed is appalling.”
“But hardly surprising,” Wally commented. “Look at the CEOs who take huge bonuses even when their companies are going bankrupt.” His expression was unfathomable. “My Dad’s friends are like that. They have everything, and it’s still not enough for them.”
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