Small Town Spin

by Walker, LynDee

  “Jesus, they might as well point,” I said.

  “Who?” Parker asked around half a biscuit.

  “The kids who are milling around talking about that girl.”

  “It’s high school. You expect something different?” He swallowed.

  “I guess I’ve tried to block it out.”

  I turned for the buffet, wanting to snag a piece of chicken and some banana pudding before Tony’s former teammates demolished everything.

  I picked up a plate and had just grabbed a chicken leg when an indignant cry came from my elbow. “You!”

  I flung the chicken in the air when I jumped, watching it fly end-over-end toward a group of large men in dark suits. It seemed to defy the laws of physics, taking forever to cross the room. Just when I cringed and started to cover my face as it flipped toward a huge expanse of bald head, one of the guys grinned, snatching it out of midair.

  He took a bite and waved at me.

  “Nice hands, Petey,” someone behind me called.

  Something to be said for tossing chicken in a room full of professional athletes, I guess.

  “Can’t let that secret recipe go to waste,” Petey replied, taking another bite.

  I spun toward whoever was so annoyed at my presence and found myself staring at a broad white hat. I looked under it and discovered Miss Dorothy from the roadhouse parking lot showdown. Oops.

  “Hello, Miss Dorothy.” I smiled my best I-have-no-idea-why-you’re-mad smile.

  She did not bite. “I cannot believe you wrote that…” She sputtered. “That…you defended that…” She pinched her lips together and balled up her fists, taking a deep breath. “How dare you call that house of smut anything but what it is,” she shouted.

  The chatter around us fell silent. I kept my eyes on Dorothy, but felt every other cornea in the place on me.

  “My job is to tell both sides of the story, which is exactly what I did,” I said calmly, keeping the smile in place. “If you disagree, you’re welcome to submit a letter to the editor. The email address is on our website.”

  “And we all know how handy Miss Dorothy is with the Internet, don’t we, boys?” The booming voice came from my left and I bit the inside of my cheek to hold in a giggle, turning toward Amos. He nodded in my direction.

  “Nice. I even reposted it on my Facebook. So my wife would see it.” He shot Dorothy a pointed look. “I suggest every man in the county do the same,” he bellowed.

  I smiled a thank you. “I appreciate that, but I don’t think this is the best place for this conversation.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t let you quote me, now.” He winked.

  “Well I’m sorry I did,” Dorothy stomped a foot. “You were right, Amos, you tried to tell me she’d make me look a fool, and I should have listened.”

  I glanced around for reinforcements, my eyes lighting on Tony, who looked on with as much interest as he could muster.

  A navy-pinstripe-suited arm appeared around Dorothy’s shoulders. “Is it at all possible, Miss Dorothy, that you made yourself look a fool?” the pastor asked. “We had this discussion a month ago, and I believe this is just about what I told you would happen. Well, minus the Richmond media attention.”

  I had to cough to cover that laugh, and wouldn’t have won any Oscars for the performance.

  Bob had texted me earlier to tell me the story was at seventeen hundred Facebook shares and climbing. And he’d had people tweeting it at intervals all day, so it was up to six thousand retweets by eleven a.m. The purple shade under Miss Dorothy’s makeup told me it wasn’t the right moment to mention that.

  Dorothy squared her shoulders and shot me a withering look. “You tricked me.”

  “I don’t think I misrepresented anything. I told you I was writing a news story, and I told you I was going to get the other side of it, and that’s exactly what I did,” I said gently. I didn’t want the whole town making fun of her. “Miss Dorothy, have you ever been inside the club?”

  “I would never.” Her mouth gaped open, unable to finish the sentence, the color draining from her face.

  “Is it murder if you give someone a stroke?” Parker whispered from behind me. I shot a heel back into his shin. “Ow,” he hissed.

  “I just think if you were to go inside the club, you might see it’s not what you think. I found the ladies to be very nice. You might find the same.”

  “And some damned fine barbecue,” someone hollered. A round of laughter and murmured agreement followed.

  “Abigail did make the best sauce in the county,” the pastor said, squeezing Dorothy’s shoulder.

  She shook her head. “I’d rather die.”

  “Better not say that around this bunch,” Parker whispered. I kicked him again, turning my head. “Stop trying to make me laugh,” I whispered sternly. “She really will have a stroke and it’ll be your fault.”

  Dorothy tossed the general population of Mathews a final glare and stalked out of the room. A handful of other women scurried after her, and everyone else turned back to their food and conversations, drama forgotten.

  I followed Parker to where Tony and Ashton sat, him alternately talking to people and trying to get her to eat, her staring at the wide expanse of white wall.

  Parker laid a protective hand on Ashton’s shoulder, but she didn’t move to acknowledge it. The service was done, Tony’s parents were watching the twins—those things had been her wind for days, and without them, her sails hung loose. She looked lost. And broken. It both wrung my heart and pissed me off, two emotions I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt simultaneously.

  My Blackberry beeped a reminder, and I fished the prescription bottle out of my bag and shook an antibiotic capsule out, excusing myself to grab a glass of tea and swallow the pill. Tucking the bottle back into my clutch, I scanned the crowd for Evelyn, but didn’t see her. Damn. She must have left while Dorothy was scolding me for telling the truth about Bobbi’s club.

  Stopping next to Parker, I spied Luke Bosley in the middle of a group of kids on the far wall.

  “Lucky break,” I murmured.

  “What?” Parker asked.

  I nodded toward Luke. “I need to borrow your baseball star power again, Parker.”

  “A football star isn’t helpful?” Tony looked up at us.

  “Not for this, I don’t think,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Excuse us for a second.”

  I grabbed Parker’s arm and hauled him away.

  “That’s him,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The boy. Mr. I-get-to-play-now.”

  He nodded understanding, turning on the megawatt grin that made women who didn’t know a slider from a swan dive read our sports page—and star-struck pitchers feel chatty.

  Parker didn’t even have to wave. He simply made eye contact. Luke pushed through a pair of girls who were giggling at his every word to pump Parker’s hand as though Texas crude might spurt from his fingertips.

  The girls frowned, and I rolled my eyes, hanging back a couple of steps so Parker could work his spell. In less than a minute, he had one arm around Luke’s shoulders, leading him to the side door and a quiet courtyard. I followed.

  “I was just a little kid when you played for the Cavs, Mr. Parker, but watching you pitch, and hearing my dad talk about your arm, was what made me want to be pitcher.”

  The way I’d heard it from the coach, a whole lot of nagging from his father was responsible for that, but okay.

  Parker smiled a thank you. “I hear you’re the one to watch for the Eagles now, Luke.”

  “You did?” Luke’s eyes showed white all around the hazel. “For real? From who?”

  “I have some friends out here.”

  Luke became very interested in his black loafers. “Mr. Okerson is your friend, huh? Your speech was nice.”

  “TJ was a good kid. I taught him to throw a ball when he was just a little guy.”

  “You said. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Parker.”

&nbs
p; “Call me Grant.”

  Luke’s head snapped up and he smiled. “No, sir. My momma will pitch a fit.”

  Parker chuckled. “Lose the ‘mister’ at least. I’m getting an old man complex.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought you might like some pointers, if you’re leading the team. The season is just starting. It’s a lot of pressure.”

  Luke nodded. “I can take it,” he said.

  His eyes flitted back to his shoes, then to a statue of an angel behind Parker. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. Why did TJ have to be so good, you know? When he got hurt, I thought my chance was coming, but then he got better. Why—” He dropped his head back, staring toward the heavens.

  I held my breath, and it looked like Parker was holding more than that. Something resembling rage simmered beneath his understanding nod.

  Was Luke about to confess? I’d seen stranger. And kids are often guilty of running off at the mouth. I stared, willing him to go on. He kept his eyes on the clouds. The door that led back into the church opened, and a stout woman in a navy suit that had last been fashionable in nineteen ninety-seven stepped outside.

  “Lucas Cameron, there you are.” She shook her head and tapped her watch. “It’s past time for your medicine. And you’ve been eating all this junk, too.”

  “Coming, Momma.” Luke said. His eyes shot from her to Parker to me, and he blinked like he hadn’t noticed me before and offered Parker a hand. “It was nice to meet you. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

  “My pleasure,” Parker said, doing an admirable job of holding his tone even. If I didn’t know him so well, I wouldn’t have been able to tell anything was bothering him. As it was, Luke was lucky to pull back unbroken fingers.

  Luke moved toward the door and Parker stopped him halfway. “Hey, kid?”

  “Yes, sir?” Luke turned back, squinting into the April sunshine and shading his eyes with one hand.

  “You go to the party? On Wednesday night?”

  “No, sir. I’m behind in history.” He tossed a glance at his mother, who nodded a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-this-kid and waved him inside.

  Parker turned to me when the door clicked shut. “Was it just me, or—?” He let the unspoken words hang in the air.

  I shook my head. “It was not just you. Hell, my heart is still racing. I thought you had him. Nice, asking him about the party off guard like that.”

  “You buy it?”

  “Nope. He answered too fast. My guess is mom told him he couldn’t go, and since she was standing right there, he blurted the no. But is there another reason he doesn’t want us to think he was there? Maybe. Sure seemed like he almost said something interesting before his mom came outside.”

  “That’s not enough though, is it?”

  “It’s a hell of a start. He just passed Evelyn on my suspect list.”

  13.

  Monday night moonshine

  The lavender sky deepened to indigo outside the church windows as we chatted and cleaned up. By the time we got to the car, I was glad I’d already filed my “have-to” court copy for the day.

  “I need to send Bob an update,” I said, tossing Parker my car keys. “Can you drive?”

  After climbing into my seat, I opened my email, hoping I had something from Kyle. Or Aaron. Anyone who could be any help with the moonshine angle.

  I’d gathered empty cups and picked-over plates for an hour, turning Luke’s dazed monologue over in my head. Was he feeling guilty about hurting TJ, or just glad his rival was out of the way? It was impossible to tell, backtracking through what he’d said. Evelyn had vanished during the great chicken brouhaha of Mathews County, and I figured she was glad Dorothy had made a scene because it got everyone’s attention and gave her a chance to slip out.

  Having spoken to both of the kids, I was no closer to knowing if one of them was actually the killer. If there was a killer. So my brain went back to trying to find cause of death. For the seventy billionth time in my career, I wished forensics labs weren’t so overworked. Having tox screen results would be ever so helpful.

  “How likely do you think it is that TJ got hold of a bad batch of moonshine?” I asked Parker, looking up from my email. I had fifty-seven messages, but none interesting enough to read right then.

  “He was training, but it was vacation.” He trailed off and appeared to consider that. “I don’t know. The pain meds make me think he wouldn’t have had too much of anything.”

  “Well, we’re assuming he took any of the pills. I mean, if he didn’t take them all, like the sheriff thinks, what if he didn’t take any of them?”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Into the bay? Down the toilet? On the Internet for sale?” I paused, considering that. “Do pharmacies track lot numbers on prescriptions?”

  Maybe I could figure out where the pills went, if they weren’t in TJ’s stomach. I opened my web browser and turned to my trusty friends at Google for the answer to that. They did not. Damn.

  Parker was quiet, lost in thought from the look on his face. We were halfway to Gloucester before either of us realized we’d missed the turn to the freeway.

  “Sorry,” Parker muttered a curse under his breath and jerked the car into the turn lane. I looked up from an email I was sending Bob—slowly, thanks to the spotty signal—and spied the sign for Bobbi Jo’s club less than a football field up on the right.

  “You want to go check out the roadhouse?” I asked, wanting to show him I’d been right about the place, and jonesing for a glass of Grandma Abigail’s sweet tea. Calories, schmalories. That stuff was worth every ap-chagi it took to work it off. Plus, maybe I could get someone to answer a few questions.

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “I don’t need domestic drama.”

  “You’re in my car, so they can’t trace your plate. Anyhow, you’re not married. And Mel would love this place. They have the best iced tea in Virginia, hand to God.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “I bet I’m the only guy with a date.”

  “I bet I’m the only customer with better shoes than the dancers.”

  The parking lot was fairly full, for a club on a Monday evening. I followed Parker inside to find it just as packed as I’d seen it on Saturday. Miss Cirque du Soleil was hanging upside down on the pole and Parker’s eyes widened. I scrutinized her attire, making sure my story hadn’t been skewed by the fact that I liked Bobbi.

  “See?” I spun to Parker with a triumphant grin. “Not only is she wearing a bikini top, it’s taped in place! Otherwise, her boobs would be falling out of it every three seconds with all that flipping. Does anything about that sound indecent to you?”

  “There’s not much indecent about her.” He tore his eyes from the stage and shook a dazed look off his face. “One word to Mel and I’ll never talk to you again, Lois.”

  “Whatever. Have your secret.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Nichelle!” Bobbi’s voice came from behind me and I turned, then stumbled back into Parker when she tackle-hugged me, crushing my ribs. She was strong for a teeny little thing.

  “Hey there,” I said when I could breathe.

  “Your story rocked,” she stepped back and grinned. “Look around. It’s Monday. Monday! There are guys I’ve never seen in here, both from the county and not. Some of them even said they’ll bring their wives for dinner. You are my very own personal Annie Sullivan.”

  “Not sure how much of a miracle worker I am, but I’m glad someone liked the story. Miss Dorothy nearly caused a food fight at a funeral today with her disapproval.”

  Bobbi waved Parker and I into a round booth on the far wall and called for a waitress. “Bring them whatever they want,” she said. “On me. Nichelle, honey, hold that thought. I have a couple things to do on the floor here, and I’ll be right back to join you.”

  I ordered a pitcher of tea and a C-cup, and Parker asked for a beer and a doubleD (a half rack of ribs, plus the chicken). That was some metabolism, all r
ight.

  The waitress sashayed off, but was flagged down by another table before she made it three feet.

  Parker watched the scene with feigned disinterest, but I choked back guffaws at the way his eyes trailed to the girls every thirty seconds, no matter how hard he tried not to watch them.

  “Even with someone like Mel at home?” I asked. “Men really are all hopeless.”

  “Nothing personal,” he said. “I think it might be biological. Survival of mankind, and all that.”

  I watched our server, who was on her third table since she’d taken our order and had a sea of them to cross between us and the bar. I stood.

  “Enjoy the show. I’m going to get a glass of tea before my throat completely dries out.”

  If he answered, I didn’t hear him.

  Four whistles and a pinched ass later, I leaned on the polished walnut bar and waved to the pretty redhead who was mixing drinks faster than I could type. She nodded a hello at me and held up one finger before she drained the contents of a shaker into a glass of ice and added it to a tray.

  A tall man in jeans and a red plaid button-down was next in line, and she leaned across the bar and asked for his order a second time when some of the guys started hooting. I looked to the stage and found a new dancer in a black bikini with silver sequins and a pair of precious open-toe silver stilettos with bows at the ankles. Maybe the dancers did have better shoes.

  I turned back to find the bartender pulling a mason jar full of clear liquid from under the counter. She poured three fingers of it into a highball glass, screwed the lid back on, and stashed it back out of sight. Captain flannel tipped his white straw cowboy hat, dropped a few bills into her tip jar, and took his drink back to a table full of guys.

  Hot damn. My eyes stayed fixed on the spot where the jar had been, Bobbi’s comment about buying everything she possibly could from local folks running through my head on fast forward.

  “Honey, what can I get you?” The bartender’s pitch was high and irritated, like she’d asked the question more than once.