“And wear Lederhosen,” Mavis said, poking an elbow in Roberta’s ribs.
“Ooh, men in Lederhosen.” Roberta fanned herself with the menu. “I can’t wait.”
If Warren had anything to say about it, Roberta wouldn’t be here in two weeks, or even tomorrow. He had to get rid of her, especially now, when he had this little problem with Cookie. But all that came out of his mouth was a wheeze.
Roberta leaned towards Mavis and whispered loud enough for him to hear over the buzzing in his ears. “Who’s that?”
“It’s our mayor, Wylie Meade.”
Roberta covered her mouth with her hand and snorted. “Wylie? Is that appropriate for a politician or what?”
Mavis rapped her elbow in Roberta’s ribs once more. “Balls, I better get over there or he’ll be putting those posters in the windows all crooked. Wylie always get things crooked, no pun intended.” Then she hustled down the aisle to the mayor, his hand extended with a sheaf of flyers.
Wylie gave Mavis a toothy politician grin. “It’s going to be a magnificent extravaganza. We’ve got Cookie Beaumont heading up the decorating committee. She did a bang-up job last year.”
Mavis’s lip seemed to curl. Warren almost passed out at the mention of his beloved’s name. Twin images of Roberta danced before his eyes. He forced her into focus. Her face had paled, then her pencil snapped. The sound echoed as if a bullet ricocheted inside his head.
“Roberta, please,” Warren labored, as he managed finally to form words.
“I have to help my other customers, Warren. Are you all right now?” Her eyes glittered like hard green stones.
He wasn’t, not at all. “I need to talk to you about...you know.”
“You know?” She wore a singularly innocent expression, masking all emotion. This was not good.
“About...” He looked around. He’d lost the restaurant patrons’ point of interest; Mavis and Wylie had stolen it. He tugged on Roberta’s arm. His bowels crimped in terror. “About Cookie.”
Fatal Attraction’s Glenn Close must have looked like that just before she dropped the rabbit in boiling water. “I don’t think we need to discuss that issue, Warren. I’m over it.”
“Yes, but, I have to tell you...” Unseen hands squeezed his throat, stopping his next words.
“Warren—my customers.” She rolled the broken pieces of pencil between her fingers.
Live by the sword, die by the sword. He rushed into it. “She hasn’t told...anyone...about her impending divorce...or anything else yet.”
Roberta gathered a large breath, her breasts expanding against her sweater. “And why should I be interested in that?”
“I’d just rather you didn’t...mention her to anyone.” Sweat broke out on his upper lip, his forehead. His gut rumbled. Anxiety was an evil, insidious thing. So was waiting for her answer. Maybe he should have stayed on the Prozac until after this whole mess had been settled.
But Roberta did the most amazing thing. She zipped her lips, then broke into a brilliant smile. “Uh-huh, sure, Warren. Just between us.”
It should have been reassuring. It chilled him to the marrow of his bones.
His troubles weren’t nearly over. He was very much afraid they’d only just begun.
* * * * *
Nick had just about decided a running toilet was preferable to listening to the drivel coming out of Eugenia Meade’s mouth. Separated from her by an aisle of plumbing fixtures and Rubbermaid products, her semi-screech carried to the far corners of Sylvestor’s Hardware Emporium. The woman had a pitch that could shatter glass. No wonder Mayor Meade had ordered a pullout sofa for his office at City Hall.
“Patsy did her best to warn her, but she’s taken Agnes Porter’s place right across from That Man.”
When he’d first moved back to Cottonmouth, Nick had checked his birth certificate just to see if his real name was “That Man.” He selected a ball cock and waited for more dirt on his new neighbor across the street.
“Janey Dillings and Patsy say she’s just an utterly adorable little thing, sweet as the dickens. Everyone’s wondering why on earth any sane man would leave her.”
Christ. How was he supposed to have fantasies about an utterly adorable little thing?
“She’s working for Mavis down at The Cooked Goose. I heard her husband came in. He’s her ex-husband, actually. Well, not quite, seems they haven’t gotten the divorce yet.”
Eugenia Meade had better take a breath soon, or she’d faint from oxygen deprivation. A conversation with Eugenia didn’t require verbal participation from her companions. Vague “Mmmhumms” were all that was necessary or even allowed, and those were so she’d know her audience hadn’t expired.
“Isn’t it odd she’s come to Cottonmouth, too? Well, not odd. I think it’s for revenge. Not that most men don’t deserve it.”
Guess he’d made a sound decision when he’d tried to scare the woman off. Being part of a vengeful almost-divorcee’s scheme wasn’t on his list of ten favorite things. Still, there was no reason he couldn’t let her sneak into a fantasy or two.
“I think she was some sort of accounting-type person down in the Silicon Valley.” Eugenia’s tone indicated that anything south of Cottonmouth was akin to the Devil’s lair. “And her husband is that new man who just set out his shingle in Bert’s old office space. He’s an accountant, too, a rather insipid little man in my opinion. I’m sure he’s trying to run poor Mr. Crouch out of business, at least that’s what Jimbo says.”
Jimbo. Shit. The whole incident with Jimbo—and Jimbo’s wife—had been another of Nick’s regrettable errors in judgment.
“And you know the reputation accountants have these days,” Eugenia went on. “Why, it’s almost as bad as being a lawyer.”
Finally, she stopped long enough to suck in a lungful of air. Nick imagined her companion contemplating the cosmos...or how to get away from Eugenia Meade. But to give Eugenia her due, she was the town’s best gossip. Hell, he’d learned many an interesting tidbit about himself while lurking in store aisles right next to her moveable pulpit.
“Why she didn’t listen to Patsy’s words of wisdom, I’ll never know. It won’t be long before we find her body in That Man’s front yard. Mark my words, he’s going to move beyond cats, dogs, and raccoons before long. In fact, he probably already has. You know, they say most serial killers start doing humans when they’re in their teens.” Eugenia gasped. “And you do remember that poor Mary Alice Turner?”
In The Word According to Eugenia Meade, his sins were many. But Mary Alice wasn’t one of them. She was the only thing in his past he didn’t regret. But he’d never atone for coming home after his parents died. And for that, he did deserve Eugenia’s wrath.
“I’ve tried to get Wylie to talk to the sheriff about keeping a closer eye on him. But you know Wylie, he never listens to a word I say.”
Not true. Wylie had definitely been listening when he’d refused to hang Nick’s donated paintings in the hallowed halls of the newly renovated city building, known around town as the Taj Ma’Wylie. Of course, all Wylie had really done was whitewash the building and replace the scrubby lawn with drought-resistant plants. As far as Nick knew, the walls were still bare.
“Then again, if something happens to Bobbie Jones, it could be the husband. I wonder if Brax has thought of that.”
Nick squeezed the rubber end of the ball cock. His old buddy, Sheriff Tyler Braxton. They hadn’t spoken much since high school. Since Mary Alice had to leave town. Except when Brax threatened to arrest him over that misunderstanding with Jimbo.
“I wonder if he used to beat her,” Eugenia mused. “You have to admire a woman who doesn’t air her dirty laundry in public.”
Right, just like Eugenia never aired her dirty laundry.
Then, with an audible wheeze, she continued. “What if she whacks the husband?” Eugenia’s banshee wail resonated with what sounded like glee. “I mean, there’s got to be something wrong when a woman is that del
ighted with the divorce settlement. And why is she here anyway, if she’s so ecstatic?”
And why had she been in Nick’s backyard?
Unconsciously, he’d walked to the end of the plumbing aisle. Eugenia’s pontificating littered the air in the Rubbermaid aisle.
“Mark my words, we’re going to have a murder in this town one way or another.”
His naturally evil nature rising again, Nick couldn’t resist.
“Excuse me, ladies, I’m looking for those containers, you know, the kind Jeffrey Dahmer had in his refrigerator for storing...” He paused, smiled, and pursed his lips around the word, “Parts. It has to be something really strong. Something acid won’t eat through.”
Eugenia dropped her basket, the contents rolling out across the floor. Her companion, Marjorie Holmes—as his high school drama teacher, she sure as hell had never been that silent—stared at him through her tortoise-shell glasses.
“Oh, sorry, maybe I should ask Sylvestor. But since I heard you over here...” He trailed off.
Eugenia collapsed to her knees, her mouth open, pudgy fingers grappling with the plastic goods strewn about her on the linoleum. Ms. Holmes continued to stare, as if keeping him within her sight would prevent him from slicing her head off with a scythe like the Grim Reaper.
“Let me help you clean that up.” He took two steps before Eugenia threw up her hands in the sign of the cross.
“No, no, I can get it.” She tugged on Marjorie’s sagging nylons and hissed, “Help me down here.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” He started to back away, wondering how the thin, frail-looking Marjorie was going to get Eugenia’s plentiful body up off that floor.
“Oh yes”—Eugenia sucked in a breath—“I’m sure.”
His fun over, he decided to leave before the lady hyperventilated. He smiled, gave them both a wave, and headed to the checkout counter. Yep, he was a bastard. But sometimes it felt good.
The women’s harsh whispers followed him.
“Did you see those eyes?”
“Inhuman. Maybe he’s a vampire. He just might suck the lifeblood from this town if we’re not careful.” He hadn’t known Ms. Holmes believed in vampires. But then again, she had staged Bram Stoker’s Dracula—twice.
“I’ll have nightmares, mark my words.”
He plunked down his purchases on the counter. “Afternoon, Mr. Sylvestor.”
Sylvestor ignored the greeting. Nick counted out the dollars and change. The old man’s crab-like fingers, shaking with Parkinson’s, grabbed and recounted. It would be easier to do his shopping at the minimall’s Home Depot. But Sylvestor needed Nick’s business. At least Harry Bushman’s parents had retired to Florida before Cottonmouth’s economy had gone down the toilet. Mr. Sylvestor, on the other hand, was stuck. Shit.
Call it a sense of loyalty to his hometown, call it atonement, whatever, with Jimbo’s new minimall doing all the sucking of Cottonmouth’s lifeblood, Nick would keep his commerce inside the city limits. The ball cock would suffice for today.
* * * * *
I just want to die.
Her muscles had tightened into painful, immovable masses. It would take a team of masseurs to untangle all the knots. Her whole body seemed encased in concrete. Her hands had gone numb.
Like those lonely nights she’d lain next to Warren, silently begging, please, please touch me, until the cadence of his breath roughened into sleep. But she’d never lost hope. Not until the day he told her he wasn’t coming back. How could Warren do that?
Because he was...an asshole. There, she’d said it. Or at least thought it. Her stomach knots lessened a smidgen. The man was an asshole, and he didn’t deserve her pain or grief.
Yet it hurt just the same. She missed the good years she and Warren had. He had wanted her in the beginning. She was sure of it. He’d surprised her with weekend getaways. Once he’d even closed the garage door and made love to her on the hood of his car. And boy, that man could make her laugh, or make her cry as they watched a sentimental movie together. When had they stopped doing those things? Had he faked it all, the laughter, the fun, the desire? Depression hadn’t been part of the lexicon then. Or had she not seen it?
All her triumphs of the day—her new job, the male population’s adulation of her Bobbie-self, and the generous tips—were stolen by Warren.
The spineless jerk had left her for a woman who hadn’t even ditched her own husband yet. What’s up with that? Who did Cookie think she was? To steal Roberta’s husband without taking a loss of her own? That sucked.
It wasn’t fair.
She’d finally have to admit it, even if only to herself and within the four walls of Mrs. Porter’s house, the Cookie Monster frightened her. She’d changed her life, changed her name, moved to Cottonmouth, all for nothing.
As she lay on the bed, concentrating on each breath and trying to ignore the butterflies wreaking havoc with her stomach, an ingenious insight flashed across her mind. Seeing Warren, she’d reverted to Roberta. Roberta was afraid of the Cookie Monster.
But Bobbie wouldn’t let this minor setback get in her way. Bobbie had slammed Warren mercilessly. Bobbie had lied about the BMW and the Austin—she’d eventually tell him the truth—and given him an anxiety attack. People had noticed Bobbie and liked her. She wasn’t going to let Cookie and Warren take that away from her.
For their entire married life, she’d let Warren make all the choices. What job she took, what promotion, when they made love—which meant never—whether they had children. God, she’d given up children for him. He’d kept putting it off, saying they should wait. She’d meekly agreed, then finally stopped asking. And now it was too late. She’d given up the chance to have children because he hadn’t wanted them. She’d let him make that decision, too. She’d let him make all the decisions, whether she agreed in her heart of hearts or not.
Now he’d made the final choice to divorce her.
And that was the last decision she’d ever allow him to make for her. If she just laid here on this bed feeling sorry for herself, or worse yet, if she’d stayed in San Francisco and kept the job Warren thought was best for her, lived the life he thought she should, she’d be Robert Jones Spivey for the rest of her life. She’d be Spineless Spivey.
She’d rather die at the hands of the serial killer.
The moment screamed for action. Something momentous, something Roberta would never do.
Five minutes later, teeth brushed and lips freshened with her new bubblegum gloss, Bobbie knocked on Nick’s door.
It took him forever to answer. And when he did, he glowered down at her with a formidable look exactly like a...well, like a serial killer.
A lock of hair fell across his forehead. Colored smudges marred his white T-shirt. Faded black jeans hugged his thighs and outlined...other things. Very big things.
She finally found her voice. “Hi. I was wondering if you have cable TV.”
Moving just his eyes, he looked from right to left, then back at her. “Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve been twitching Mrs. Porter’s rabbit ears on that old black-and-white.” She hadn’t even tried, but he didn’t need to know that. “And I just can’t get Buffy. I was wondering if I could watch it on your TV.”
He did that left-right thing with his eyes again, as if he thought someone else might be hiding in his front porch shadows. “Buffy?”
“Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’ve never seen it, and I promised myself that I’d watch all the old reruns.” Warren had always said it was an idiotic show and a waste of time. Well, he was a History Channel addict; she could become a Buffy addict.
Nick pushed back that stray lock of hair. “You know, watching a show about a vampire slayer is a bad idea. Especially since just today, someone called me a vampire.”
With his dark hair and equally dark eyes, he looked a bit vampire-like. He was also playing her game. The wonder of it made her reckless. “She doesn’t slay good vampires, only bad ones.” She’d figured t
hat much out. “And you’re a good one, right?”
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I thought they were all bad.”
“Well, that depends on your point of view.”
He stared at her for a long, considering moment, his pupils contracting, while she mentally prepared the perfect answer when he asked what her point of view was.
Instead, he squashed all her fun. “Lady, I don’t know what you want, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know. I’ve got work to do, and I don’t have time for divorced women on the prowl, looking for a substitute or someone to make their ex jealous.”
She gulped a breath. “I told you, I’m not divorced, at least not yet. And I’m not on the prowl.”
Okay, maybe she was. But only for someone who would make Warren see what he’d thrown away. There was the getting-laid thing, too. But he didn’t have to make it sound so...black widowish.
She continued. “And if you want to start getting nasty, what about you being a serial killer?”
He ran a hand down his chest, the material outlining a hint of male nipple. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
She dragged her gaze from the potent sight. Hands on her hips, she glared up at him. “Neither should you.”
He cracked a smile. Her heart tripped. He had a devilish smile. “Touché.”
Silence stretched between them. It gave her too much time to think about that chest without a shirt on. Bobbie eased the tip of her tongue along dry lips. “So, what did they say about me?”
He fixated on her mouth. “Who?”
“Whoever was gossiping about me.” Duh.
His voice mimicked a female pitch. “She’s as sweet as the dickens. How her husband could have left her, we’ll never know.”
She covered her mouth to keep from laughing at his antics, while she blushed to the roots of her red-dyed hair at the same time. “They did not say that.”
He crossed his fingers and held them up. “Scout’s honor.”
“I don’t think that’s the correct hand signal.”
“Works for me. So tell me, what do you do that’s so sweet?” He eyed her up and down, as if she were ice cream melting too quickly in the sun.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 5
