“The pastor’s had a lot to deal with these past few years.”
“We better bring in a fruit basket to let him know we’re keeping him in our prayers.”
“Excellent idea.”
The two tittered some more about what exactly to include in the basket, leaving with a box of peach puffs (your standard glazed cream puffs with peach flavoring) and two large teas.
“Can you believe that?” I said once the two women were gone.
Ronnie waited on the next customer while I went to get a dozen ladyfingers and, you guessed it, sweet tea as the drink. Seriously, can you say obsession?
He handed the man his change then gave me a strange look. “Delilah,” he said flatly. “Do you realize who you’re talking to?”
“Yeah…so what?”
Ronnie sighed. “I’m an adolescent, gay, black male living in the South. It doesn’t get much more controversial than that.”
I handed the man his cookies with a nod. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying.” Turning, I smiled up at my co-worker. “But I bet you never stole a car.”
Ronnie, however, wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were fixed on something near the front of the shop, his face the picture of surprise as the bell over the door chimed.
“You never know. Maybe Wilder didn’t either.” He lifted the apron over his head, still not looking at me. “I’m taking my break. Have fun.”
“What do you…?” My voice trailed off as I looked over my shoulder and spied our latest customer.
He was standing just inside the door, hair damp, clothes rumpled, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching. What was he doing here? Was he lost? Why would—? My thoughts stuttered to a halt as Bruce Diamond spotted me and, with a determined expression, began to approach the counter.
I looked wildly to where Ronnie had seated himself, abandoning me, the little deserter. He’d grabbed a cookie and picked a table not far from the register—too far for me to reach over and smack him but close enough to eavesdrop. He met my glare with a grin, raised his eyebrows, and I knew what I’d seen in his expression wasn’t surprise. It was anticipation. Ronnie Scarlett, ex-friend and colleague, was waiting to see the fireworks explode between me and a certain someone who’d just carried a football—a football for crying out loud—into our bakery.
Well, I wasn’t about to give either of them any satisfaction.
As Bruce stopped next to me, I deliberately ignored him, concentrating instead on the customers, bagging up orders and sending them on their way. After a few minutes, I thought I was in the clear. Bruce hadn’t said anything yet, just stood there, looking sort of pitiful actually, as he shifted his football from one hand to the other.
Maybe he’d just leave.
“Hey Doherty, can I talk to you for a sec?”
No such luck.
“I’m a little busy right now.” I gave the next girl her pastry, and she passed me a five. Without looking his way, I counted her change, handed it over.
Unfortunately, Bruce wasn’t giving up. “Yeah, I know.” The girl smiled at him from beneath her lashes. He flashed his million-dollar grin, leaving her momentarily dazed, and then looked at me. “But I wanted to say something to you.”
I walked away and came back with a mixed box of oversized cookies. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice or something?”
“Day before a game, Coach lets us out early, gives us time to focus, get in the right frame of mind. Besides, most of us have P.E. last period anyway.” He twirled then tucked the football under his arm. “So, like I said, I wanted to talk to you. About what happened today in Roundtree’s class.”
There was a lull in the line after I brought the next man his tea, which was good and bad. Good because covering the counter at this time was usually a two-person job—I sent a dirty look over to Ronnie, who pretended to be examining the napkin dispenser. Bad because it left me with the school’s number one tight end who’d suddenly turned into a Chatty Cathy.
“Grant doesn’t mean half the stuff he says. Sometimes he just acts before he thinks.” Bruce shrugged. “He’s not a bad guy usually. It’s just—”
“He hates my guts and lives to watch me suffer,” I finished.
“Now, I don’t know about all that. Hate’s a pretty strong word.” The football player grinned, shaking his head like I was just the cutest little thing, his charm totally wasted on me. “Anyway, I’m sorry for what he said, and I just wanted to come by and see if you were okay.”
My eyes narrowed. “You’re sorry?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Why?”
The grin slipped. “What do you mean?”
“Why are you sorry?” I asked. I couldn’t believe I was actually having this conversation. “Why’d you come all the way out here? To apologize for something Grant McCreary said? That was nothing. He can be a lot worse, you know.”
“He’s my best friend, Doherty. Believe me, I know.” Bruce took a deep breath then plowed ahead. “The thing is I’m not really apologizing for him. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and I’ve decided that since it’s senior year, I’d better set things right, mend any fences that need mending.” He fixed his dark blue eyes on me, the eyes every girl waited, hoped, prayed would fall on them. “And I know you and I have never gotten along real well. But I wanted you to know something. I don’t care about all that crap they say about your mama. You’re not like that. Not that there’d be anything wrong with it if you were, but you’re not. And I...well, I respect you, Doherty.”
I stared back at him dumbfounded, completely at a loss.
“Well,” he said, palming his football again, smiling a full smile, “I feel a lot better. Guess I’ll see you at school.”
Then he strode across the shop and out the door.
Ronnie was suddenly at my side. “So,” he said. “That was unexpected.”
I turned to face him, dazed.
“Bruce Diamond respects me.”
“Yeah, I heard.” Ronnie moved me to the side so he could field the next order.
“He drove here just to tell me...”
“Yeah girl, I know. I was sitting there listening the whole time.”
I shook my head to clear it, tried to find some reasonable conclusion for what’d just gone down, but it was no good. Bruce Diamond, the guy most likely to screw every chick in a ten-mile radius, the poster boy for players (and I’m not talking football here), had just thrown me for a loop. He left feeling good about our talk. I felt like I’d been knocked over the head with a frying pan and was experiencing the first stages of concussion.
“Hold down the fort,” I said, grabbing the memory book Mrs. Thimble had given me and walking to the door. I’d only looked through it about a hundred times since yesterday.
“You coming back?” Ronnie asked.
I nodded without turning, waved a hand over my shoulder.
“She okay?”—this came from Aunt B—”She looks a little out of it.”
“She’s fine,” Ronnie said. “Just shocked out of her socks. You won’t believe what just—”
I walked into a blast of hot air, the door closing behind me. The heat helped clear my head. A warm breeze seemed to carry me in the right direction, guiding me to my destination and pushing me inside.
Unlike the bakery, there was no bell to signal my arrival—it’s not like you could hear one over the music coming through the overhead speakers—but somehow the owner knew I was there. Honestly, I came here often enough that Doc probably sensed when I’d show up.
“Is that my Delilah?” he said, coming out from the back to greet me, wearing an old band t-shirt faded from too many times through the wash, his long blond hair tied back in a low ponytail. “What happened this time? Screaming baby? Raving customer? Is the old lady treating you right, ‘cause if she’s not I’ll...”
“None of the above,” I said, though I knew he’d never hurt Aunt B. No matter what he said, Doc would never lay a hand on a woman in anger. It just wasn’t his
nature.
“Well?” Behind those trendy glasses, there was honest concern in his eyes. “It’s not even five yet. You never come to get your fix this early unless something dreadful happens. What was it this time?”
“Tight end,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. Dr. Levi Rhodes, PhD, had been an English professor before he’d decided to live out his dream of running a music store. But judging by his expression, he didn’t have a clue about football.
“You mind if I just sit here awhile? I need some time to get my head together.”
“No problem. I have to go sort through some new merchandise, but I’ll be in the back if you need anything.”
He smiled at me. I smiled back. Being a user himself, he understood my music addiction better than just about anyone. That’s why we got along so well.
I settled onto my stool, ready to feed the beast inside me, itching to lose myself, to enter the sweet haze of oblivion...but when I looked over to where I usually kept my cd, it wasn’t there.
Looking around, the familiar album cover with the three colorful spaceships ready to annihilate earth drew my eye like a kid to a well-loved toy. But why was it all the way up there? I stood, extended my arms toward the high top shelf, but couldn’t reach. Forget drugs, there was no better anti-depressant then rock n’ roll. The only trip I was on was to Boston, and the only name I wanted to hear right then was Marianne.
I reached, jumped...and came up short. There weren’t any stepladders around, and the stool I’d been sitting on was nailed to the floor. I frowned. Again, the world at large shows its disrespect for the height impaired.
It was silly, but after having to listen to Bruce’s declaration, I really needed my music.
I envisioned my fingers touching the plastic, wrapping around the cd, pulling it down. Once again, I extended my arm, stretched up, but before I could reach my goal—or dislocate my shoulder—another hand plucked the case from its high perch and brought it down for me.
“Thank y—”
I’d turned to thank Doc for his help, but the hair I saw was dark brown not blond, the eyes that met mine not the ones I expected, neither brown nor hidden behind a pair of edgy specs.
And I was fairly certain I’d never seen Doc wear leather.
CHAPTER 8
“I see you’ve met my new employee.” Doc reappeared, his timing impeccable. It gave me a chance to recover. “Ethan, this is my dear friend Delilah. Her aunt owns the bakery next door. Delilah, this is Ethan, my godson. He’s new in town.”
The news shouldn’t have shocked me, but it did. I mean, why else would anyone hire a suspected murderer and thief?
I nodded. “Wilder.”
“Doherty.” He passed me the cd. “Nice selection.”
“Thanks, I thought so.”
Catching sight of the memory book, he raised a brow.
I grimaced, trying (and failing) to tuck it casually behind my back.
“Ethan, would you mind shelving these for me?” Doc passed Wilder a box of what looked to be semi-new releases. “I want to see if I can find those markdown labels.”
Doc walked away, disappearing through a door marked Employees Only, while Wilder went to restock the shelves. First Bruce, now this—I guess it was just one of those days. I sank back onto my stool. Looking at the memory book was out, but my brain still felt mushy around the edges. There was only one thing to do.
Lifting the large headphones over my ears, I ran the cd barcode under the electronic reader and pushed play. At first, I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Wilder. I told myself this was to make sure he wasn’t nicking any cash from the cash drawer, but really I couldn’t help myself. My eyes were just drawn to him.
Fifteen minutes later, I left feeling refreshed, lighter. Great music had that effect on me. The first thing I noticed as I stepped outside was Wilder’s bike, parked a few lanes back, clearly visible from the bakery’s window. I couldn’t understand how I’d missed it before. But at the time, my head had been spinning from all of Bruce Diamond’s “respect,” so that could’ve explained it.
George stopped by the bakery a little after six, and Ronnie spilled the beans about Bruce, dictating our conversation with alarming accuracy. The two of them laughed about it until George fell out of her chair—which, of course, I laughed about in retribution, before telling her about Wilder. I’d considered not saying a thing, but I couldn’t not tell her. George lived for this stuff.
“So,” she said, flipping through the memory book, “he’s over there now?”
“Far as I know.” I pointed as George stopped on the Wilder family photo. This was the last memory book before Anne’s death, and picture after picture told the story. Wilder couldn’t have loved his sister more. “See what I’m saying? Look how happy they were. Why would Wilder kill her if they were so close?”
“Who knows?” George shrugged. “Could’ve been anything.”
“Yeah,” Ronnie said, “maybe the happy family routine was all a front.”
George flipped a few pages then scoffed. “Aww, look, Mercy Hope’s got its own Virginity Club. And it’s called…S.C.A.L.P.? How messed up is that?”
I silently agreed. Naming your purity group after a barbaric killing custom was pretty jacked, even for our small town.
“Yeah, Southern Christian Athletes Living Pure—but guys, look,” I repeated, trying to get them back on track. Anne looked happy in the S.C.A.L.P. photo, too, arms wrapped around some jock in a BHS letterman. “Happy girls just don’t go and off themselves. They just don’t.”
“Agreed,” George said.
“True…now tell me again.” Ronnie crossed his arms. “Why exactly didn’t you tell me Ethan was working over at Doc’s when you got back? That’s major news, Delilah.”
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
“George didn’t either.”
“Yeah, but I’m her best friend,” George said, taking a sip of her tea, “special privileges.”
“Hold up,” Ronnie said, head getting into the action, all sass but sort of like a bobblehead just the same. “Are you saying we aren’t friends? Delilah’s my girl.”
“Best,” George repeated. “Best friend, Scarlett. There can only be one of those. And I’m it.”
I sighed, knowing I’d lost them.
“You can have more than one best friend.” Ronnie turned to me. “Can you un-delude her please? Do it quick before I have to pull her hair.”
“What, are we making up words now?” George said sarcastic as anything. “And if your hand gets anywhere near my hair, I’ll hit you over the head with my shoe.”
“That ugly thing gets near my head, I’ll rip it apart.”
“You rip up my shoe, I’ll rip up your face.”
“Oh no, she didn’t.”
“Oh yes,” George said, “she did.”
Before they could move on to Yo’ Mama insults, I said, “Children, please. There will be no hair pulling or face ripping. I love you both equally. Now, can we stop it with all the violence?”
And they did stop, instantly, which surprised me because usually they’d go at it like this for a while. I nearly gave myself a pat on the back before I noticed that everyone, not just George and Ronnie, but every person in the store, had grown strangely quiet. I caught a small movement by the door and turned in time to see Ethan Wilder move toward the display case. Besides the ice machine clicking on, his footsteps were the only sound in the place.
My two friends were frozen in their seats, Ronnie’s cup stalled halfway to his lips, George’s hand hovering above her cookie. Aunt B was similarly immobile, though her eyes were bright like she’d just glimpsed a celebrity walk through the door. Being the only one currently capable of movement, I supposed it was up to me.
Walking behind the counter, I waited for Wilder to make his choice. He took his time, staring into the glass, reading the labels, doubling back to the triple chocolate brownies, our best-seller, before finally stepping up to the register.
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“Medium coffee, black.”
“Would you like anything to go with that?”
He shook his head, handed me some cash, took his coffee and sat at the same two-seater Garrison had occupied earlier.
That was when Willie stumbled in with his gun.
He was unshaven and bleary-eyed. Besides the gun, the only things he wore were a yellowed-out wife-beater, grimy jeans, and the stink of cigarettes and stale beer.
Nobody said anything for a beat and then Aunt B sighed heavily. “Get on out of here, Willie. I’m in no mood for your shenanigans.”
Willie, who’d knocked over a chair on his clumsy circuit to the register, leaned back, put both hands to his heart. “Now B, why’d you say something like that? I’s one of your best customers. How you gonna throw me out?”
Aunt B stood, hands on hips, pointing to the door. “Like this,” she said. “Get your sorry butt out of my bakery, Willie Stubbs. Right now.”
Willie let loose a giggle, the crazy kind only drunks were capable of. “Right now,” he said, imitating Aunt B’s stern tone.
“Don’t make me call the cops,” she said. “I’ll do it. You know I will.”
“You know I will.” Willie giggled again, and Aunt B pulled out her phone, making good on her threat.
Seeing this, the drunk switched from carefree to angry in two seconds flat.
“Now B,” he said, hand drifting to the butt of his gun, which up until this point had remained securely, if somewhat stupidly, shoved into the front of his jeans. “There ain’t no need for all that.”
“I don’t like having drunks in my store,” she said, dialing. “It’s bad for business.”
Willie slipped the gun slowly out of his pants and down to his side, nervously bouncing it off his thigh. “Put down the phone.”
Aunt B ignored him, began talking to someone through the receiver.
The tapping got worse. “Put it down, B.”
Frowning at his tone, I walked around the counter, stopped a few feet to his right. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“I said, put the phone down, bitch!”
Well that was completely uncalled for.
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 7
