Welcome to Last Chance

by Hope Ramsay

  “Honey, when you sang ‘Amazing Grace,’ it carried me away. Your voice has a haunted quality to it. A sweetness that’s all backwoods and mountain hollows and illegal moonshine.”

  “A mountain voice?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The kind of bluegrass voice that would have gotten you right into the Grand Ole Opry a generation ago, before pop invaded the country charts.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said you had talent, and I mean it. And that talent isn’t related to your bra size or the firmness of your backside. You have to respect that talent. It takes hard work to break into country music. Years of it, and even then, it’s about the longest shot there is in the world. And even when you have the golden ring in your fingers, it can still slip away.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a dreamer.”

  “Okay, darlin’, you can dream all you want. But if you want to do something about it, then you better know every blessed word to ‘I Will Always Love You,’ as well as the words to the second verse of ‘Amazing Grace.’ If you want to make it in Nashville, you need to respect your voice and learn what material is right for you. ‘I Will Always Love You’ is a standard. It’s been recorded by Whitney Houston, Dolly Parton, and LeAnn Rimes. You’re not a country musician if you don’t know that song by heart.”

  “Yeah, and I suppose you’re just the man who’s going to teach me the words, huh?” There was a deep cynicism in her tone that surprised him.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I’m done with Nashville.”

  She angled her head toward him. “Why?”

  Clay shrugged. He was not about to share his tale of woe about Tumbleweed with this girl. “It’s a rough business. And I have obligations here.”

  She blinked a couple of times, studying him in the dark for the longest time. “I accept your apology,” she said after a long moment.

  “You do, really?” He was surprised.

  “Yes. I’m thinking maybe you’re the first person I’ve ever met who has told me the truth. I mean everyone else just tells me they have a friend in Nashville, and if I’m willing to… well… you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He balled up his fists at the idea of the guys who had led her on and taken advantage, including himself.

  Clay leaned forward and put the flashlight on the step beside her. “Here, take this. I hate the idea of you sitting alone in the dark.”

  He backed away, feeling a deep-down longing and a foolish hope that she might invite him to sit with her on that step and let him teach her “I Will Always Love You.” Or better yet, let him touch her. He longed for her touch. He could still remember the way she had touched him last night.

  But she didn’t invite him to stay. She looked down at her feet.

  Well, he ought to have expected that, since he hadn’t told her what she wanted to hear. And besides, she wasn’t what he needed. What he needed was some professional help from Miriam Randall, matchmaker extraordinaire.

  CHAPTER 7

  All right, let’s try this one more time,” Agent Hannigan said as he shoved the eight-by-ten glossy photograph of the Cambodian Camel into Woody West’s face. “Where did you stash the necklace?”

  Woody stared down at the photo feeling hollow and scared. Freddie the Fence, Woody’s employer, was not going to be happy about this turn of events. Freddie was the largest handler of stolen property in the Southeast, and he didn’t tolerate screw-ups. Being hauled in and questioned by the FBI about stolen property classified as a screw-up of major proportions.

  “I told you,” Woody said, looking up at Hannigan. “I never seen that necklace before in my life.”

  “Who messed up your face?” the cop asked.

  Woody closed his puffy eyes. He was not about to explain that he had a thing for playing the ponies and had run up twenty Gs in gambling debts to Carlos the Colombian, a well-known Florida loan shark, who now wanted his money back with interest.

  Freddie the Fence would not be amused to learn that Woody was into the Colombian for all that money. And Freddie wouldn’t be happy to learn that the Colombian’s goons had caused Woody to lose Mary and the stolen property she was carrying. Woody was dead if he didn’t find Mary and that necklace, soon.

  “Look, you guys,” Woody said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You don’t have squat to hold me here—unless it’s a crime to have a broken nose.”

  “Woody, Woody, Woody,” Agent Wilkes said in a deep baritone. “C’mon, we know you’re a transporter for Freddie the Fence. You tell us where we can find the necklace, and we’ll cut you a break. Okay?”

  Woody looked across the interrogation room at Agent Wilkes. He was a big dude with blue-black skin and a smile as wide as Texas. He was playing good cop.

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Woody replied.

  Hannigan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of leopard-print fabric. “Okay, so why don’t you tell us about these?” He dropped the item onto the eight-by-ten photo of the Cambodian Camel.

  Woody stared down at a pair of Mary’s thong undies. They were pretty hot, for a nice girl like Mary. Woody was starting to think how maybe he should have tried harder to get into Mary’s panties. The leopard print was kind of a surprise.

  But the truth was, Woody hadn’t brought Mary along on this transport job for the fun of it. Freddie had told him to take Mary to Nashville as part of Woody’s cover. Freddie had handed Woody that necklace and told him to give it to Mary and tell her it was for luck. Woody had no idea that stupid thing was worth anything. It looked like a piece of crap from Kmart.

  Freddie had also given Woody a plain white envelope that he was supposed to deliver to someone in Nashville. Woody had naturally assumed that the stolen property was in the envelope, not hung around the neck of a hairdresser, who moonlighted as a waitress, with dreams of being a country singer.

  Did Mary know the necklace was priceless? That was an uncomfortable thought.

  Woody looked away from the underwear. “Pretty kinky,” he said to Hannigan. “I took you for a granny pants kind of guy.”

  “Quit stalling. You know darn well we found these in a suitcase in the back of your car.”

  Woody shrugged. “So it’s a crime to have a suitcase in my car? Since when is transporting ladies’ underwear across state lines a federal offense?”

  “Who is she, Woody?” Wilkes asked.

  “Who is who?”

  “Look, we know you walked into the Dew Drop Inn with a woman. Don’t be stupid. You’re in a lot of trouble. It would help if you could tell us where she went.”

  “I have no clue.” It was the first honest thing Woody had said since the FBI had stormed his hotel room that evening. Mary had ditched him at the Dew Drop Inn right after the Colombian’s thugs had shown up, broken his nose, and forced Mary to withdraw two thousand dollars from her checking account to cover the weekly interest on the twenty Gs Woody owed the Colombian.

  “Look, you guys, you don’t have anything on me. Why don’t you just let me go?” he said.

  Wilkes and Hannigan exchanged looks that Woody didn’t trust. “All right, Woody,” Wilkes said. “But if you think for one second you’re home free, you need to think again.”

  He knew that. Only Mary Smith and the Cambodian Camel could get him out of this fix. He had to deliver the goods to Nashville so Freddy the Fence would wire the thirty thousand into his checking account. He had to have that money before the Colombian did something permanently bad to his body—like sink it in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Woody looked down at the glossy photograph of the Cambodian Camel. “How much you say this thing is insured for?”

  “Several million.”

  “Holy crap. It looks like something you could buy at Value Mart.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s supposed to be a thousand years old.”

  Woody looked up at Hannigan. “Really?”

  “Yeah, Woody. And don’t act so dumb. The Camel was stolen from Oliver Cromwell Jones
’s collection of Asian artifacts a week ago.”

  “Asian? Do they have camels in Asia?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Woody.”

  “No, sir. I am truly sorry that I can’t help you out. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like the keys to my car so I can be on my way.”

  So I can find Mary Smith, get that necklace back, and pay the Colombian off before he breaks my head.

  For as long as Clay could remember, Miriam Randall had worn red Keds and rhinestone-studded eyeglasses that magnified her dark brown eyes and made her look like Mr. Magoo.

  Early Friday morning, she sat in a ladder-back rocking chair on the front porch of her Queen Anne Victorian, keeping her eyes on her nephew, Dash, who was keeping his eyes on Miriam’s husband, Harry, as the old codger fired up a chain saw and attacked a fallen branch in their front yard. Clay sat on the porch railing keeping his eye on all of them.

  “Dash, honey, you tell Harry to stop, now, before he cuts off something important,” Miriam directed.

  Dash leaned on his cane and gave his aunt one of those looks that said No way am I getting on the wrong side of Uncle Harry. At ninety, Harry Randall was the original grumpy old man.

  Miriam shook her head and turned back toward Clay. “I don’t suppose you could convince Harry to let you saw up that branch?”

  “Ma’am, I’ve already made the offer and had my head taken off for it—figuratively, that is,” Clay said.

  She nodded. “I suppose I should be happy he’s too stubborn to let anyone touch his yard. Maybe he’ll be too stubborn to die. What do you think?”

  Clay’s heart lurched sideways. Harry was older than dirt, and no one lives forever—not Harry Randall or Uncle Pete. “I hope so, Miz Miriam,” he said aloud.

  “Uh-huh, you hope, but you don’t have any hope. I can see that plain as day.” She pointed a crooked finger at him.

  She shifted her weight in the chair. “So what can I do for you, Clay? I got a feeling this isn’t a social call.” One white eyebrow rose as she gazed at him in anticipation. Miz Miriam might be in her eighties, but those eyes of hers looked not a day over thirteen and full of mischief.

  Clay breathed in the scent of the pine needles that the storm had ripped from their moorings. Then he took off his Stetson and looked down at it for a moment. “Ah, well, this is pretty awkward.”

  Miriam giggled like a little girl. “I declare, Clay Rhodes, are you here seeking professional assistance?”

  Clay clamped down on his back teeth. When put in those terms, it sounded pathetic. “You know, I think maybe I’ll just—” He started to get up.

  “Sit down, Clay. So you’re looking for a wife, huh?”

  He sat down. “I swear, Miz Miriam, if you tell my momma I will personally—”

  “Honey, unlike Lillian Bray, I am the soul of discretion.”

  He shook his head. “I am a fool, you know that?”

  “Aw, sugar, I’m not going to say a word to anyone.”

  “Then how are you going to come up with a list?”

  “A list?”

  He looked down at his hat and twirled it around in his hands. “You know, a list of eligible bachelorettes. I’m looking for a mature woman, say thirty-three or so, who wants to—”

  “Clay, it doesn’t work that way.” Miz Miriam leaned forward and snagged the hat right out of his hands. She tossed it on the empty rocking chair beside her.

  “What do you mean? I thought matchmakers introduced single people to one another.”

  Miriam shrugged. “Well, I reckon professional matchmakers do that sort of thing. Amateurs will do that as well, without much success. And then there are those newfangled Internet dating services. But I’m not a professional, an amateur, or a newfangled matchmaker.”

  He tried not to grin. “So how come everyone in the county says you’re the best matchmaker around?”

  She shrugged. “Word of mouth?”

  He laughed aloud. “No, Miz Miriam, I mean—”

  “I know exactly what you mean, son. I’m not senile.” She shook her finger at him. “The fact is, I have this reputation, and I don’t deserve it. I don’t do anything.”

  “You must do something. Momma says you’re never wrong.”

  She shrugged and leaned forward as if she were imparting some great big secret. “Well, see, it’s like this. Sometimes I’ll see a man and a woman, you know, and it will just come to me that they belong together. When that happens, I’ll let them know—directly or indirectly. Mostly indirectly, because in my experience most folks don’t recognize their soulmates when they meet up with ’em or are told about it. Mostly folks have to come to understand the truth on their own, I’ve found.”

  “Soulmate?” His voice hardened.

  “Clay, I don’t help people settle. I don’t even make matches—the Lord does that. What I do, is help people see the Lord’s plan for them.”

  “Christ,” he muttered.

  Miriam frowned up at him. “Clay Rhodes, you know better than to take the name of the Lord in vain. Your momma would be ashamed of you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He hopped down from the porch railing. “Well, I reckon I best be—”

  “Sit down. We are not finished.”

  “Miz Miriam. I’m pretty sure you haven’t seen my soulmate hanging around Allenberg County.”

  She shook her head. “No, son, I’m sorry. But I’ve been looking for a long, long time for her.”

  Clay almost choked as he leaned back on the railing again. “For goodness’ sake. You’ve been looking? For how long?”

  Miriam pulled herself up a little straighter in the chair. “Oh, since you were pretty young. I keep an eye out for all the young, single folks of Last Chance. I believe that if I can help the young ’uns find happiness, I just might be able to save this town.”

  He said nothing. The woman was senile, pure and simple.

  “It’s been my opinion for some time,” Miriam continued, “that your soulmate is not a native of Allenberg County.”

  “I see.” Clay stood up again. He really needed to escape. This had been a dumb idea.

  “Sit down and listen,” Miriam directed, but Clay remained on his feet, and Miz Miriam continued, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that the road to true love is a rocky one filled with heartache and broken dreams. But, son, we never know what God has planned for us. You need to tell yourself that every broken heart is like a sign leading you to the true love of your soul.”

  “Thanks, Miz Miriam, this has been enlightening in the extreme.” He collected his hat.

  “Clay, I know you don’t believe me, but you never know when the love of your soul might blow in on the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta. In fact, I’d say it’s a distinct possibility that the love of your soul will arrive on that bus.”

  Disquiet settled like a dead weight in his gut. Was the old lady sending up smoke signals, or was she just crazier than a loon? He had this awful feeling that it was the former.

  Since Lillian Bray, the chairwoman of the Christ Church Ladies Auxiliary, kept twenty-four-seven tabs on the comings and goings at the Peach Blossom Motor Court, Clay reckoned that just about every member of the Ladies Auxiliary knew he had spent Wednesday night down there with Jane. And since Momma had hired Jane, he figured they all knew she had come on the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta.

  Man oh man, those gals were like a bunch of spiders, spinning their web and catching unsuspecting single people. He was in some serious trouble if Momma and Miz Miriam both wanted to match him up with some stranger who showed up on the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta bearing two forms of ID and only five dollars in her purse.

  Well, if Jane Coblentz was the best Miriam Randall could do for him, then he might just have to rely on Ray Betts and his survey of the unmarried women of Last Chance.

  He cleared his throat and slapped his hat on his head. “Well, thank you for that, Miz Miriam. Y’all take care, now. I’ll stop by on my way home from work with a chain saw
and take care of that branch out back.”

  “That’s neighborly of you.” She smiled like a cherub and winked up at him. “The nine-thirty bus from Atlanta, Clay. You just keep your eye on that.”

  “What?”

  She winked behind her upturned glasses. “You heard me. You just watch the bus, and the Lord will take care of the rest.”

  • • •

  Early Friday morning, Ricki Burrows pushed her VISA card across the counter to the ticket agent at the Atlanta Greyhound terminal, hoping she hadn’t maxed it out.

  Her heart pounded as the agent ran the transaction. Thank goodness the charge went through, because she didn’t actually have enough cash for the fare. Unless she hocked some jewelry or her luggage.

  She tried to calculate the net worth of the jewelry and luggage, but the numbers got muddled in her head. Where was Ray Betts when you needed him?

  “That’s one ticket to Last Chance,” the agent said. “Bus leaves in fifteen minutes.”

  She walked through the bus station wondering just how she had ended up in this place.

  Easy answer: She was over thirty, and her boobs had started to sag. Randy had a thing for perky boobs. She should have known Randy would lose interest.

  But, really, while having saggy boobs was horrifying, it wasn’t nearly as devastating as discovering that your husband of fifteen years had not only left you for a girl of eighteen, but he’d taken all his assets with him—right out of the country.

  That was bad.

  But then discovering that the assets he had absconded with didn’t actually belong to him—well, that was worse.

  And having the IRS pretty much seize everything except for her luggage and a few pieces of not-very-expensive jewelry was just about the worst thing that could happen to a girl.

  All of which explained why she found herself standing here handing her Louis Vuitton luggage to a bus driver.

  Her return to Last Chance was going to be ignominious. Well, at least Momma and Daddy were gone. She wouldn’t have to crawl home in defeat. Not that she was actually crawling home, or anything.

  The only reason to return to Last Chance was to find Clay Rhodes, who was reportedly hiding out there.