In a Jam

by Cindy Dorminy

  I stick out my bottom lip and check out a hangnail. One hundred fifty million big ones. Besides never having creditors on my back again, I’d love to go back to school. It seems like ages ago since I even considered a degree. Maybe I could be a teacher or start my own business. Granny’s money would allow me to do either of those, or both.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Because the church has already made their list of things to do with that money when you screw up.”

  “And I bet the first thing on the list is a bus to drive the blue-hairs to the nearest city for Bible study.” It’s not the religion part that bothers me, but the church part. It has too many “thou shalt nots” and not enough “love thy neighbor.”

  He glances over his glasses, and his eyes grow big. “How’d you guess?”

  I groan as I rub my throbbing temples. “So, let’s back up and discuss the sober clause. That’s going to be on the honesty policy, right?”

  Tinsley shifts in his seat. “Actually, we’ve been in contact with the police department down there.”

  My jaw drops. “You ratted me out? I could probably get my newly appointed lawyer to talk to your superior about messing in my business.”

  He throws his hands up as if I’m going to take a swing at him. “I only wanted to help. Your attorney gave me the information about your grandmother’s shop, but I had no idea about the money. If it makes you feel any better, the dude I spoke to seemed real cool about it all.”

  I snort. “Great. Could you also tell how big his potbelly is over the phone?”

  Mr. Christian belts out a laugh.

  Tinsley cackles. “Actually, Diane from intake was in the room when I had him on speakerphone.” He taps my nose to get my attention. “And I’m quoting her because I would never in a million years say something like this. She said he sounded like George Clooney with a twang.”

  Heat rises up my neck. I can resist any comparison except “The George.” Heaven help me. Crap. I cannot believe I’m going to live the next six weeks in Southern Belle Hell.

  “Okay. What do I have to do?”

  Mr. Christian sits up straight and pulls out the document again to read the list. “Run the shop for six weeks. Go to church every Sunday morning, Sunday night.” He holds my gaze, and I hold my breath. “And Wednesday.”

  “Fuuudge brownies.” Thou shalt not curse during church.

  “And—”

  “Oh, there’s more?” My screechy voice makes my eyes water.

  “Try to fit in. Your grandmother’s words, not mine.” He points to the document as if I forgot it was there.

  I slump back in my chair.

  If Tinsley guffaws any harder, he’s going to get a stitch in his side. “Somehow, the last part will be the hardest of all.”

  Mr. Christian laughs and puts his glasses back on the top of his head. He slides the document over to me with a pen.

  Tinsley dodges me swatting his arm. “It’s only for part of the summer. I could do almost anything for that kind of cash.”

  I sign the document. Andrea Grace Carson. “How much do you get?”

  Mr. Christian shakes his head. “Nothing. She was a friend of my great aunt. They go way back, even friends during segregation.”

  I slam the pen down on the paper and slide both back toward him. My head screams out in pain. If I could afford it, I would make an appointment for a deep-tissue massage. After this conversation, I’m going to be one big muscle spasm. Oh, wait. I can afford it now.

  After another gulp of my coffee, I stare at the ceiling. “Summer. Ninety-seven degrees in the shade with eighty-eight percent humidity.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll come back to the city with gnats stuck to my skin and Skoal running out of my mouth.”

  Tinsley’s laughter rumbles through the office.

  Mr. Christian snaps his briefcase closed. “Behave. You might take a shine to it.”

  I stand, and after my head stops spinning, I plunk my empty coffee cup in the wastepaper basket. “Well, this was fun. Y’all come back now, ya hear?”

  Tinsley gives Mr. Christian a knuckle bump. Time to brush up on my Southernness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Andie

  Ahh. New car smell. Mr. Christian was so nice to give me an advance on my inheritance so I could make the trek to cow town in style. I’m loving being behind the wheel of my new sporty white convertible. In the past two days, I have driven through big cities, then small towns, then back to big cities. I cried when I reached Atlanta because I knew it was the last of real civilization that I would see for a long time.

  Frustration replaces the tears when a traffic snarl post-Atlanta has me at a standstill on Interstate 75. At times like this, I sure could use a cold beer on such a hot day.

  For the last leg of my journey, I pop in the new CD I bought before I left and try to read the language guide while I steer with my knees. I should be able to rip right through How to Speak Southern in two shakes. It’s already coming back to me.

  “Hey, y’all,” the lady on the tape says. I like to call her Daisy Duke.

  “Hey, y’all,” I say back to her. I smirk. Not bad.

  “Hello, everyone,” the tape interprets. Duh. I’ve seen enough episodes of Nashville to figure that one out on my own.

  “Hey, y’all,” I say as twangy as I can make it. “It’s like riding a bike. I can do this.”

  “I’m fixin’ to go to the store,” Daisy Duke says.

  “Fixin’, fixin’...” I glance down at the manual, looking for a clue to what fixin’ means, when I swerve and almost hit a semitruck in the next lane. He blares his horn.

  “Hey, y’all,” I yell at him. “I’m learnin’ here.”

  “I will be leaving for the store soon.”

  “Huh? Oh yeah.”

  “I’ll have a Coke,” Daisy Duke tells me.

  “I got this one. Pretty straightforward. I’d like a Coke.”

  “I would like any cold beverage,” Daisy’s monotone voice says.

  I crinkle my sunburned nose. “That’s stupid.”

  As the hours creep by, I pass homes with yards doubling for automobile graveyards and one church after another taunting me. I fumble with the cooler I’ve cleverly placed in the floorboard of the passenger seat, underneath a Bible and a Duck Dynasty T-shirt I bought at the last gas station. Driving with one hand, I unzip the cooler with the other to reveal a lovely six-pack of my favorite summertime beverage—Sam Adams beer. Got to pay homage to my town, Boston.

  I pop the top, but before I can take the first foamy sip, images of me at five, snuggling with my grandmother, filter through my mind. I almost hear her say, “Sober up, Andie.” The last thing I need is to get a DUI on the way to fulfill her wishes. Ugh. I pull over to the side of the road, pour out the contents, and wedge the open container back into the cooler.

  “Granny, are you happy now?”

  As soon as I’m back on the road, a big, monster-sized sign welcomes me to Smithville, Georgia, the Colony City. Home of Claire Stevenson, Miss Gum Spirits, and Turpentine. I cringe. Somebody wants to be known for that? At least the terms of my agreement don’t include beauty pageants, thank God. Although I didn’t read the fine print of the legal agreement regarding “fitting in.” Even small-town South Georgia doesn’t want to witness that.

  Right when I cross the city limits, a bug splats on my car window, then another, and another. Then one lands right on my sunglasses. I squeal and flip them into the back seat. It’s obvious I’ve reached downtown because there’s a beehive of activity. The drivers of all five cars on the road wave to me. Then everyone on the sidewalk waves to me. I pass by the First Baptist Bank and Trust... I mean Church. The marquee in front of the church reads “Thou shalt not speed.” Clever.

  Not able to drive one more mile before my bladder bursts, I turn into the first gas station I find. I park under a shade tree so I don’t burn my ass on the leather seats when I get back in, a lesson I learned two
states ago.

  I open the door to the gas station, and a frog croaks, making me jump about three feet into the air.

  “Howdy,” a man in greasy overalls says to me from behind the counter.

  “Hello. Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure thang, ma’am.” He reaches under the counter and pulls out a baseball bat with a leather strap threaded through a hole in the small end. There’s a key dangling off the leather strap. He swings the bat in my direction, and I duck. He chuckles then spits tobacco into a McDonald’s cup on the counter. I throw up in my mouth.

  “Wow. You don’t want anyone to leave with the key, do you?” I take the bat from him, doing my best not to touch his grimy hands.

  “I’ve durn near lost a dozen of ‘em to kids. Crazy rug rats. It’s always on a scavenger hunt list.”

  I scan the convenience store, but all I see are cans of oil, every tobacco product on the market, and so many bags of chips that I’m getting cholesterol gawking at them. The lottery scratch-off selection is impressive, but I don’t see a bathroom.

  The man points toward the door. “Bathroom is outside. Hang a left, and the first door on your left. Can’t miss it.”

  I need to pee fast and get the heck out of here while I still have all my teeth. “Thanks. I’ll be right back with your bat-key thingy.”

  Two teenagers enter while I leave for the bathroom. Ha. I have the bat key. You can’t have it! I stop to stare at this big-ass, jacked-up truck that is parked way too close to my new, shiny baby. I better pee fast before they ding my car door. With one hand, I hold my nose closed, and with the other, I fumble with the bat-key. The typical pungent odor hits me, and I feel as if a muggy funk hovers over me. I tiptoe to the toilet and squat-pee. A loud bang and tires screeching outside cause me to jump and pee on my leg.

  “Dang it.”

  When I finish my business, I drag the bat-key back to the gas station dude. He already has his hand out, waiting for it.

  “Thanks. What was that noise?” I might cry if someone ran into my brand-new car.

  “Beats me,” he says, putting the bat-key back under the counter. “Somebody shootin’ something or... someone.”

  “Comforting.” I cannot get away from this Gomer Pyle look-alike fast enough.

  “Have a nice day,” he says.

  “You too,” I say over my shoulder as I head out of the store. The big-ass truck is gone, but there is red icky stuff splattered all over my car. I let out a bloodcurdling scream before I can stop myself. I rush back into the gas station.

  “Someone’s been shot,” I yell to Gomer Pyle.

  “Huh?”

  I rush behind the counter. He’s got to have a phone, even if it’s only a party line.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing, Missy?” He picks up the bat and cocks it back.

  “If you’re not going to call the police, then I will.”

  “Sugar, you don’t have to call the po-lice. The fuzz is right there.” He points the bat toward the magazine rack.

  And holy moly, damn. Standing before me, with his head buried in a Muscle and Fitness magazine, is the hottest specimen of a man I have ever seen. In fact, he should be on the cover of that mag. Rock-hard muscles poke out of the sleeves of his police shirt and stress every seam. His dark, super-short military hairdo looks as though it would feel real nice curled around my fingers if he let it grow out a half inch. He peeks over the magazine, and his face lights up. Bam, those soft-green eyes compliment his tan skin, and he has a dimple too. Have mercy. I am in heaven. They sure know how to grow them down here.

  “Oh, thank God. I’d never get this kind of service in Boston.” I’m impressed with this town’s emergency response time. It is very, very satisfactory.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” His words slide off his tongue, slow and sweet, like George Clooney with a twang.

  Yes. Yes, he can.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gunnar

  She snatches the magazine from my hands before I can decide if I want to incorporate reverse lunges into my leg routine. With both hands, she clamps on to my bicep and tugs me toward the door. My cop instincts kick in, and I lean back, one hand hovering near my revolver in case she’s a nut job. Already, she’s pushing mighty close to that title. She doesn’t even come up to my shoulder, but with the clamp she has on my arm, I’m going to lose circulation if I don’t investigate whatever’s got her dander up.

  “That,” she says through heaving breaths.

  All I see is Johnny Mason pumping gas into his mother’s 1960 Thunderbird. I wave to him. He waves back. There’s a white convertible parked under a Chinaberry tree. I point at the cool vehicle. “That?”

  “Yes.” Her head nods so fast she could be mistaken for a life-size bobblehead.

  “That?” I ask again, walking out into the parking lot with Charlie on my heels. All I see out of the ordinary is a sweet convertible parked under a Chinaberry tree.

  “Yes, that!” She puts her hands on her forehead and leans over. I step back because it appears as though she could blow chunks any second. “Oh God. That’s blood on my car! It’s new, and I heard a shot, and now there’s...”

  I like the way she says car. It comes out sounding like “kah.” She’s definitely not from around here. I take out my notebook and pen and jot down what she says. “Did you see someone get shot?”

  She points at the car, then the bathroom, then the store, then back at her car as though she’s replaying the whole scene in her head, but nothing is coming out of her mouth. Yep. Nut job. Her light-blond hair falls out of a clip, swooshing past her face with every nervous movement. I peer over at Charlie, who is still holding the bat-key. He grins, and we both burst out laughing. Charlie has to sit down on the curb to keep from falling over.

  The blonde puts her hands on her hips and taps a toe. Her calf muscle flexes with every motion. Uh-oh. I know that stance.

  “I do not think this is funny.”

  Charlie crawls over to the car and falls over the hood with tears in his eyes. I clear my throat to tamp down the laughter.

  She pushes him away from the car. “Don’t do that. You’ll contaminate the evidence. Someone could be dying or already dead. Don’t you care?”

  Charlie’s grin is so big, I see the missing teeth on the right side of his mouth. His she’s not from around here grin causes my laughter to bubble up my throat again.

  He hangs his head low. “Sweetheart, don’t they have red berry bird crap where you come from?” Charlie asks.

  I fist-bump Charlie and laugh again. Inside the woman’s car, next to a small insulated cooler is a How to Speak Southern book lying in the passenger seat. Cute.

  She jumps in her car and shoves the book in her glove compartment then throws her purse over the cooler. This isn’t my first rodeo, lady. Her face is as red as the Chinaberry bird shit. Since she doesn’t have the faintest alcohol smell on her breath, I’m not going to bust her about that open beer can, although I should.

  “I’m so glad you are having fun at my expense.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Only small-town humor, I guess.”

  “What was the bang?”

  Charlie chuckles. “Must have been the Jacksons’ car acting up again. I need to tell them to let me take a gander at it.”

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out.

  Travis and his wife, Corrine, drive by. I wave. They wave. Three chickens saunter across the road as if they own it. I look back at this cute out-of-towner that has breezed into Smithville. She stares at the chickens and mouths, “What the heck.” She has to be Miss Mary Grace’s granddaughter. Officer Tinsley’s description of her was spot-on. Thank goodness she doesn’t favor her granny. But I see glimpses of Mary Grace: her petite frame, pretty blue eyes, that feisty attitude. Yep, they’re related, all right.

  “Not laughing with you,” she replies, cranking her car.

  I lean in the open window. Damn, she smells sweet, like vanilla and sunshine. I forg
ot what I was going to say.

  Oh yeah, now I remember. “So, you here to clean up your grandmother’s business?”

  Her jaw drops, and she squints her eyes. “You... Tinsley told me about you.”

  I point my finger at her. “I think you’ve got it all wrong. He told me about you.” I stand with my arms crossed over my chest, legs spread wide apart. I still can’t believe I agreed to check in on her, but it’s hard for me to say “no.” And when a fellow officer of the law asks for a favor, I feel inclined to oblige. Tinsley wants to make sure she has the best chance of inheriting the money. In his words, she needs a fresh start, so I guess I have no choice, especially since she’s too cute for words.

  Her eyes flick away from mine to scan down my body, taking her time the lower her eyes get. When she’s had an eyeful, she works her way back up to my face.

  “Ma’am, would you like to file a complaint?” It’s nice to know I still have it even though I’m not going there this time.

  She bites her lip and gives me a slow-motion head wag. “Not at all.” She sticks out a hand, and I shake it. “Sorry. My manners have left the building. I’m Andie. You must be George.”

  “Huh?”

  She gasps, and the Chinaberry red flush creeps up her neck again. “I cannot believe I said that out loud.”

  She’s going to be a pill to deal with while she’s here. But at least the scenery will be nice. Those short legs with muscles popping out at every step might be the death of me. Her face doesn’t break any mirrors, either.

  “It’s Officer Wills.” I point at Charlie. “That’s Charlie.”

  He spits tobacco on the small patch of grass next to the curb. “Welcome to Smithville.”

  She waves to Charlie and opens her car door. “Nice to meet you guys. I’ll be on my way now.”

  When she settles into the driver’s seat, I close the door behind her. This is going to be fun.

  Stop it. You are on a sabbatical from females, remember?

  “Follow me, and I’ll take you to her shop.” I lean in close to her and whisper, “And you might want to get rid of the evidence.”