Death of a Country Fried Redneck

by Lee Hollis

  “When I got to town and saw Hayley in your room, I just got crazy jealous and I asked around to find someone who might be open to doing some extra work that might not be one hundred percent legal. All fingers pointed to Jesse, who apparently has quite the reputation in town. So I tracked him down and offered him a nice sum to just give Hayley a little push, and show her that dating you might not be in her best interest. I promise he was just supposed to talk to you. Not physically attack you! I guess he had a different agenda on his mind because of his upcoming court case.”

  “Stacy Jo, you are unbelievable,” Wade said quietly.

  “I tried to call it off. After Hayley and I got arrested and spent that time in jail together, I actually grew to like her. And when we got out, I called the number Jesse had given me, to cancel, but his cell had been turned off. I guess he didn’t pay his bill. I couldn’t reach him and I didn’t know where to find him. His mother certainly wasn’t going to help me. And then it was too late and I heard what happened backstage at your concert last night.”

  Wade shook his head as he took it all in.

  Stacy Jo folded her arms across her chest to hug herself—as much as she could, given her cleavage—and sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Hayley. Truly, I am.”

  “And what about Mickey?” Hayley asked, flashing Stacy Jo an accusing glance. “Did you hire Jesse to scare him, too?”

  “No!” Stacy Jo wailed. “I had nothing to do with that! I swear!”

  “You just swore you had nothing to do with what happened to Hayley. How are we supposed to believe you?”

  Stacy Jo sank to her knees, her shoulders shaking, her choked sobs drawing attention from the hotel staff working in the lobby.

  Wade casually walked over and knelt down beside her. “You’ve made a fool of me and a bigger fool of yourself and I think it’d be best for everyone if you went upstairs, packed up your bags, and got the hell out of Dodge. Am I making myself clear, Stacy Jo?”

  Stacy Jo nodded.

  But she didn’t move.

  Wade cleared his throat.

  She looked up at him, black mascara running down her face.

  Wade, his eyes flaring, took her by the elbow and hauled her to her feet. “Now, Stacy Jo.”

  He gave her a slight nudge that sent her scampering toward the elevator.

  And then he turned to Hayley and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

  Hayley smiled.

  She felt bad for Stacy Jo.

  Instinctively, she knew Stacy Jo wasn’t involved in the Mickey Pritchett murder. But she sure wasn’t going to miss her.

  And deep down she felt a thrill over the fact that Wade Springer had once again come so gallantly to her defense.

  What a man.

  Island Food & Spirits by Hayley Powell

  Y’all won’t believe what happened to me the other night! Oh, listen to me. I’m even starting to sound a little southern, after all the visitors we’ve had in town lately.

  Anyway, I had just picked up my daughter at the high school after a late basketball tryout, and we were heading home. Of course, my daughter had the radio blasting through the car speakers, and was screaming over the sound of the music, telling me all about how the tryouts went. She was very confident she would get a spot on the team.

  As usual, Eagle Lake Road was pitch-black, and since it was a foggy night, I couldn’t see five feet in front of me. Anyone who knows me is well aware that I hate driving in fog or in snow!

  We were descending McFarland Hill when suddenly the thick fog parted as if on cue and standing right in the middle of the road not more than fifty feet away was the biggest, meanest-looking buck I’ve ever seen! His cold black eyes stared right at me through my car windshield. That’s when I realized I’d seen this giant buck before! It was Bucky, the now six-point buck, who had chased Leroy and me through the woods not too long ago.

  This might sound crazy, but I swear he gave me a look like he was out for revenge! If you recall, he had an unfortunate accident the last time he chased us.

  My daughter took a much needed breath from talking and noticed I wasn’t paying attention to her. She glanced in front of us and let out a bloodcurdling, terrified scream, because we were heading straight toward that massive buck! My daughter’s screaming shook me out of my thoughts and I slammed on the brakes as hard as I could. (I knew the old brakes weren’t as good as they used to be, so I prayed for the best.) Trying not to lose control of my trusty old Subaru wagon, I veered the wheel to the left and then swung back to the right. None of my defensive driving seemed to work. We were still careening straight toward poor Bucky! He just stood there, not moving a muscle, just glaring at me with his dark beady eyes as if he was daring me to hit him!

  There wasn’t much we could do except brace ourselves for the impact. I gave one final stomp on the brakes and closed my eyes, waiting for the sickening crunch of the impact. My last thought was, how was I ever going to pay for the damage to my car? Sorry, Bucky.

  As we sat there in silence, I quickly realized the car was stopped and there was no crash. I slowly opened my eyes and, there illuminated by the headlights of my Subaru, was Bucky, still looking right at me. The staring contest went on for another few seconds, and then Bucky dropped out of view. Gone in an instant. He just fell over and hit the ground with a loud thud.

  I don’t know what it is about a deer being hit by a car on the island. You can be driving along and not see another car for miles. But once you hit a deer, the next thing you know, suddenly there is a line of cars and trucks on the scene, and a bunch of men ready to take the animal off your hands! And that’s exactly what happened! Four men pulled over and offered to take home that giant buck if I didn’t want him.

  I told them that whomever was on the scene first could have him, and after some arguing and grumbling, the men decided Old Joe McKinley, one of our retired fishermen in town, was there first. So Old Joe happily carted Bucky off toward his army green pickup truck. The other onlookers were visibly disappointed, but they knew it wouldn’t be a long wait for another car versus deer incident on the island.

  Oh, and, just so you know, the men looked over poor Bucky, and came to the conclusion that I never even hit him! It looked to them like he just died of fright! The shock of my car speeding toward him was probably what killed him. As Old Joe said when he hauled his prize away, “When it’s your time, it’s your time!”

  With all that excitement over Bucky the six point buck, I found myself craving a mincemeat pie, so for today’s recipe, mincemeat it is! But, after a very stressful evening, I decided to take the edge off before I got to cooking. And we all know there is nothing that cures stress better than some warm relaxing cocktails on a cool evening. So I think a hot buttered rum is exactly what the doctor ordered. Although, at this point, I’m afraid it’s not going to help poor Bucky.

  Hot Buttered Rum

  Serves 10 or more. (You might want to invite a friend over, depending on how thirsty you are.)

  1 stick unsalted butter, room temperature

  2 cups brown sugar

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon grated fresh nutmeg

  Pinch of ground cloves

  Pinch of salt

  1 bottle dark rum

  Boiling water

  In a bowl, cream together butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and salt. Place into the refrigerator until almost firm. Spoon 2 tablespoons of the butter mixture into a mug. Pour 3 ounces of rum into the mug and top with boiling water. Stir well and serve. If serving guests, just add more mugs and repeat.

  Mincemeat Pie

  2 pie crusts, for bottom and top (use your favorite recipe; I like to use the refrigerated Pillsbury pie crusts from the grocery store, which come two in a pack)

  ¼ pound ground mincemeat

  2 cups apple juice

  1 cup dark seedless raisins

  ½ cup dried cherries (sweet or sour)

  1½ cups peeled and chopped apples

&n
bsp; ¼ pound ground venison

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  1 teaspoon ground cloves

  1 teaspoon ground ginger

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon ground nutmeg

  ¼ teaspoon allspice

  In a 2-quart saucepan, combine apple juice, raisins, and cherries. Cover and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce heat to low and simmer for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

  Add apples, venison, mincemeat, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, salt, nutmeg, and allspice. Simmer for 2 hours. Check occasionally; add water to keep mincemeat from sticking to bottom of pan. Remove from heat and cool to room temperature.

  Place bottom crust in 1 inch pie pan. Add mincemeat mixture and place second crust on top. Crimp the edges and remove excess crust. Make 5 or 6 slits with a knife on the top crust for steam to escape. Place in preheated 350 degree oven and bake 50 to 55 minutes, until crust is lightly browned and filling is bubbling.

  Chapter 30

  Hayley finished her column around 7:30 P.M. and e-mailed it to the office. She poured herself a glass of red wine and relaxed on the sofa with Leroy, who snuggled in her lap. She closed her eyes, trying to forget all the drama of the last week. Sunday night would be Wade’s last concert and then the crew would pack up and move on Monday morning.

  Whether Mickey Pritchett’s murder was solved or not.

  She sipped some wine.

  She felt a crick in her neck.

  Undoubtedly from Jesse DeSoto trying to squeeze the air out of it.

  She rubbed the sore spot.

  Let out a deep breath.

  She had read that breathing exercises and meditation were healthy for you, but who had the time with a full-time job and looking after two demanding teenagers?

  Not to mention chasing after clues in a murder investigation.

  It was unusually quiet in the house.

  Especially for a Saturday night.

  A text from Gemma explained her absence.

  Out with Reid.

  No surprise there.

  Dustin was home and in his room, but there was no blaring noise from the television nor the annoying sounds of sonic rings, or creepy piano music, or fireball explosions from his wide array of video games.

  There was no noise at all.

  And that was a bit worrisome.

  Hayley gently moved Leroy’s head off her lap and lowered it onto a throw pillow. She stood up, set her glass of wine down, and headed up the stairs.

  She saw a light coming from under Dustin’s bedroom door.

  She knew there was zero chance he was doing homework on a Saturday night. Hayley cautiously approached the door and pushed it open, the hinges squeaking. Dustin was on his bed texting on a cell phone. His eyes bulged open at the sight of his mother and he instinctively stuffed the phone underneath his pillow.

  “If you ever want to raise a red flag, that’s definitely the way to do it,” Hayley said, arching an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” Dustin said, shrugging.

  “Who are you texting?”

  “Nobody. Just a friend.”

  “Which is it? Nobody, or a friend?”

  Dustin was sweating.

  And it was forty degrees outside.

  Gemma was much more adept at covering her tracks when she was up to no good.

  Hayley entered the room and thrust out her hand. “Give me the phone.”

  “Mom! Come on. I’m just chatting with Spanky.”

  “Spanky McFarland?”

  “Yeah, it’s no big deal.”

  “Then why did you hide the phone underneath your pillow when I came into your room?”

  “Spanky was just telling me some private stuff and I promised not to tell anyone.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Hayley wanted to know.

  “Nothing!”

  Hayley marched over to the bed and rummaged underneath the pillow.

  Dustin sat up in his bed. “Mom! No! Spanky’s going to think I ratted him out.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything. It’s not your fault I just happened to find your phone and read your conversation while cleaning this pigsty of a room.”

  Hayley scrolled up the long series of word bubbles on Dustin’s screen until she saw a mention of a gun.

  “A gun?” Hayley asked, eyeing Dustin curiously. “A real one?”

  “It’s not his!” Dustin said, huffing and puffing to show his annoyance.

  “Where did he get it?”

  “He and his brother found it while kayaking over to Bar Island. It was just lying there on the beach covered in seaweed.”

  Hayley shoved the phone at Dustin. “Ask him if it’s a forty-five handgun.”

  Dustin sighed. “Okay. Okay.”

  He used his thumbs to text Spanky.

  Hayley marveled at how fast kids could type on their phones.

  It took her two minutes just to text the word hello.

  Dustin waited.

  Then there was a ping indicating Spanky’s response.

  “Yeah, it’s a forty-five.”

  It had to be the murder weapon that killed Mickey Pritchett.

  The killer probably tossed it in the ocean after shooting Mickey and setting fire to the tour bus. The gun could have conceivably washed up with the tide on Bar Island, a small privately owned island located directly across the bay from the town pier. One could actually walk over to it during low tide.

  She had to call Sergio.

  This could break the case wide open.

  Hayley did an about-face to the door and was scurrying out when Dustin pleaded, “Mom, you can’t say anything! I gave Spanky my word!”

  She stopped and turned back around. “I have to tell Uncle Sergio. This could be a crucial piece of evidence in his murder case.”

  “Spanky said not to tell you especially, since you have a habit of sticking your nose in everybody’s business,” Dustin said.

  Okay.

  Spanky was right.

  The little brat.

  But Hayley knew she couldn’t keep a lid on something like this. Sergio had to know.

  “Maybe there’s a way I can let Uncle Sergio know without him realizing it’s coming from me,” Hayley said.

  “You mean an anonymous tip?” Dustin asked.

  “Yes.”

  Dustin rolled his eyes. “He’s going to know it’s you.”

  “Not if I’m playing a character. I did a couple of plays in high school. I know how to act.”

  “You played a Shark in West Side Story. With no lines. Remember? You made us watch the video.”

  “He won’t know it’s me.”

  Hayley marched out of Dustin’s room and back down the stairs.

  She picked up the phone in the kitchen, took a long, deep breath, and called Sergio at home.

  She expected Randy to pick up and was surprised when she heard Sergio’s thick Brazilian accent instead.

  “Yes. This is Sergio.”

  Hayley had not taken much time to perfect her character, but she attempted a Swedish accent only because she had given some college-age Swedish tourists on mountain bikes directions to Cadillac Mountain recently and they were fresh in her mind.

  “I have some information regarding the Mickey Pritchett murder,” Hayley said, her Swedish accent coming across more like Russian.

  Where was that glass of wine?

  “I am sorry. I do not understand you,” Sergio said, puzzled.

  “I know where you can find the gun that killed Mickey Pritchett,” Hayley said, now doing a dead-on Count Chocula impression.

  “Hayley, is that you?” Sergio asked.

  Dustin was right.

  Smart kid.

  Damn.

  “Why do you sound so funny?” Sergio asked.

  “Look who’s talking,” was all Hayley could think of to say.

  “Did you say somebody killed Ricky Martin?”

  “Mickey Pritchett! I know where you can find the gun!”
>
  There was a long pause.

  Sergio was probably grabbing a piece of paper and a pen. “Okay, talk.”

  Hayley told him everything. And she asked Sergio not to reveal the source of his information when he showed up at Spanky McFarland’s front door. But she knew the kid would probably put two and two together and blame Dustin. It was a risk she had to take. There was a killer on the loose and she was determined to keep her own family safe.

  Sergio promised to call her back once he picked up the gun from Spanky and ran a search on the registration.

  After apologizing to Dustin for forcing him to breach his friend’s trust, Hayley waited by the phone in her bedroom for Sergio to call back.

  Time ticked by.

  She watched a mindless action movie starring Jason Statham on cable. She had a crush on the rugged English bloke with the shaved head and the sexy bad attitude.

  She checked the clock.

  8:30 P.M.

  Still no call.

  Leroy found her and jumped up on the bed with her and she pulled her white down comforter up to her chest and hugged a pillow and closed her eyes. She had drifted off to sleep when the ringing of the phone suddenly snapped her awake.

  The clock read 9:38 P.M.

  She scooped up the receiver. “Sergio?”

  “Yes,” he said in a monotone voice.

  “So who is the gun registered to?”

  “Ned Weston.”

  The name barely registered at first, it was so unexpected.

  Ned Weston.

  The father of Carrie Weston.

  Gemma’s best friend.

  Hayley immediately updated Sergio on Carrie’s run-in with Mickey Pritchett. Ned had probably found out about it and decided to take action on behalf of his daughter, to protect her from Mickey’s slimy advances.

  “I’m heading over there in a few minutes,” Sergio said. “I’ll call you in the morning with an update.”

  Hayley was in a daze.

  She crawled out of bed and went into the hallway.

  Dustin was still up and watching the end of the same Jason Statham movie on his TV. Gemma’s room was dark.