Trixie didn’t want to visit with anyone so she beat a path across the street. She expected to find Cathy in the kitchen wringing her hands in worry. But the whole house was empty. No Marty, Cathy, Darla Jean, or even Agnes. There was a note on the refrigerator that said Cathy and Marty had made a run to Walmart and to call them if she got home before they did.
“Hello,” Marty answered on the first ring.
“Tell Cathy thanks.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know how she did it, but the zoning law is good for the whole block, and Violet didn’t want to talk about it. I just hope she didn’t sell her soul for us.”
* * *
Agnes didn’t give a damn if the whole town of Cadillac was zoned commercial. She intended to leave her house feet first in a body bag. She’d be stone cold dead, but she did want Cathy to get a fair price for the place so she kept a watch on the cars down the street at the Community Center.
She would have gone to the meeting herself, crawled up on the stump, and went to preaching about bringing business into town if the fools would stop their politics and do things right, but if she had, Violet Prescott would have dug her heels in tighter. Damned old stubborn bitch thought she was taking Cathy away from her to make her pay for marrying Bert. Well, there hadn’t been a wedding yet and Agnes would fight it right up until Cathy walked down the aisle.
Just how much money would she have to lay out to have someone kidnap Cathy and hold her captive until she came to her senses? Maybe Trixie knew someone who’d do the deed. No, never! Agnes wouldn’t ask Trixie to help her with jack shit. She’d get it all wrong, but maybe if Trixie kidnapped Ethan and terrorized him, he’d be too traumatized to get married or take office. Violet would have a heart attack and die. And Trixie would go to jail. Solve lots of problems that way.
Agnes didn’t like Trixie. Never had. Never would. The woman was an idiot and Agnes had no time for fools. Andy Johnson had been a womanizer from the time he was old enough to chase a skirt and any woman who married him was a complete moron. To stay married to him meant she was a fool. Not catching him in his philandering just meant she had her head up her ass in all that craft shit and that made her an idiot.
Add to it that Trixie had lied about the man in her room that night and it really made Agnes angry. Agnes was old but she had perfectly good eyesight. Never bought a damn pair of glasses in her entire life and she saw what she saw. There was a man in that room and if he wasn’t molesting Trixie then by damn she was allowing him to pin her down on that bed. If the latter was the case, then Trixie had no business living in the house with Cathy and Marty.
She waited until she saw Trixie jog kitty-corner across the street before she put on her house shoes, tucked the key to the back door of the café in the pocket of her chenille robe, and started across the street.
Bless Claudia’s heart for giving her a key to the house before she died. Marty might have wanted it back when they put in the café, but Cathy would never let her ask. For that alone, Cathy deserved to inherit everything Agnes owned. Besides, if she did go through with the wedding, later she might need the money to buy a divorce.
The door wasn’t locked so Agnes let herself in to find Trixie pouring a shot of whiskey in a water glass.
“What are you doing here?” Trixie asked.
“I got more right to be in this house than you. What happened at that meeting?”
“If you want to know then attend.” Trixie downed the shot and poured another one.
Agnes frowned at the smell but Andy would drive any woman to drink. Maybe he had an agreement with the liquor store out at the edge of town. He’d use his charms to get a woman into bed, leave her, and she’d turn into a drunk. The liquor store was probably paying him a nice little check each week on their profits.
“Anna Ruth there?” Agnes asked.
“Oh, yeah. Wearing her spike heels and all dressed up fit to kill.”
Agnes chuckled.
Trixie frowned. “What’s so funny?
“Bet you she’s throwing back a few too. I heard about her and Andy at the Sunday school meeting last night… we was discussing Bible school, whether to have it or not this year. I think it’s a big waste of time. Kids used to think it was a treat to get to go to Bible school and they’d endure the learnin’ about Jesus part if they could have refreshments and do craft projects. Nowadays they’ve got video games and music in their ears and—” She stopped. “Where in the hell was I? You made me lose my train of thought. It’s probably that nasty smell of liquor.”
“Sunday school meeting. Andy and…” Trixie started.
“That’s right. That new woman they hired to be the part-time dispatcher down at the police station. Andy is sleeping with her.”
The blank expression on Trixie’s face was priceless.
Agnes went on, “He’s always had a thing for the women. You just had your head too deep in all that shit you do with paper and ceramics to see it, girl. Wake up and smell the bacon frying. He’s a sumbitch. He’s been screwing around on you ever since y’all got married.”
“They agreed to let the new business come in and they’ve zoned the whole block commercial,” Trixie said in a hollow voice.
Agnes did not feel sorry for her. She should have put her paper dolls and ceramic roosters away years ago and figured out that she’d married a cheatin’ man that wouldn’t ever be faithful to her.
* * *
Jack removed the front grille of the Caddy and set the mangled chrome mess to one side. It would be two weeks before the new one arrived and he’d had a devil of a time finding a salvage yard with one. He could have bought one from the restorer’s catalog, but Marty wanted to keep everything authentic. His head was under the hood again. He had one hand slipped down beside the radiator and the other working at removing it so he could see if it could be repaired or if they’d need to order another one. He heard the fizz of a beer can opening and eased up.
“I promised sandwiches and beer,” Trixie said.
She handed him the beer and collapsed on a chair, her head in her hands, sobs wracking her body.
“Did Marty die?” Jack asked.
“No, and not Cathy either.”
“Agnes?”
“I’m crying, not laughing.”
“One more. Darla Jean?”
“Nooo,” she said. “I need a friend and they’re all gone or busy. I can’t bother Darla Jean when she’s working on tomorrow’s sermon, and besides,” she hiccupped, “she’d tell me to forgive and forget and I want to kill him, not forgive his sorry ass.”
Jack sat down in the other chair and threw his arm around Trixie’s shoulders. “I’m your friend, Trixie. I’ve always been your friend.”
She leaned over and cried on his shoulder until she didn’t have any more tears. “I’m sorry. Agnes just told me that Andy is cheating with the dispatcher down at the station.”
“I can’t talk about Andy, Trixie. He’s my boss,” Jack said.
“You are my friend, not his, tonight. And I’ve been your friend longer than he’s been your boss anyway.”
“I’m your friend but I can’t talk about my boss. It’s not right.”
He wanted to tell her. God only knew how much he wanted to name names, places, and times that he was positive about, but he couldn’t. It went against everything he’d been taught about respecting the chain of command and protecting your officers.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Everyone in town knew about his flings, didn’t they?”
Jack patted her on the shoulder. “It’s over, Trixie. Don’t worry about it.”
“Why didn’t someone tell me? Did you all think I knew?”
He hugged her tightly.
“Agnes wasn’t just trying to rile me up, was she?”
“Agnes doesn’t like you, but
she’s not trying to rile you up,” he said.
There. He’d given her an answer, but he hadn’t said a word about his captain.
She reached over to the workbench beside her, peeled off two paper towels, blew her nose, and tossed the soiled towel into the trash can. “Thank you. You are a good friend. My fifteen minutes of whining is up. Show me how I can help.”
Trixie wiggled out of his embrace and flipped the tab off a beer can. She took several long gulps and nodded toward a plate of roast beef sandwiches.
“You eat and then we’ll work,” she said.
Jack smiled. At least she hadn’t asked him about the voting shit. There would be nothing left of Clawdy’s but ashes and jars of picante—that damn stuff was hotter than flames—if Trixie found out that Marty had voted for Anna Ruth. For the life of him, Jack couldn’t figure out why in the hell she’d done such a thing anyway. Marty had wanted to put out a hit on both Andy and Anna Ruth when Trixie caught them in bed together. And then she’d gone and voted for Anna Ruth to be a member of the club. That was the ten-thousand-dollar question that didn’t seem to have an answer.
Chapter 8
Derek came into class all dressed up that Wednesday night. The Stetson was strong enough that she knew he’d shaven not long before, and a couple of water droplets still glistened on his black hair. He sat down at his desk, picked up the booklet, and began to work after he flashed her a brilliant smile. Evidently, the cowboy had a date as soon as class was over.
Marty opened a brand new page on her laptop and got ready to write. Maybe the next crew that came through her class would have a fireman or a weight lifter in it, but right now she worked with the muse she had and that was Derek. She put her hands on the keyboard and started typing, the words flowing from brain to keys as she imagined what her female character would like to do to that cowboy and have him do to her.
When the class ended, she gathered up her things and was locking her door when her cell phone rang. She groaned when she saw Agnes’s number. If someone was attacking Trixie, Agnes had a damn gun; she could take care of it and hopefully she hit her target this time and didn’t shoot a hole in the ceiling.
“Hello,” she said cautiously.
“There are no leftovers from today’s lunch? I thought you had pecan tarts on Wednesdays. There’s always a few left and I wanted them to serve at my Sunday school class meeting tomorrow. Where are they?”
“We sold out,” Marty said.
“Where are you? It’s time you were home. If you were here, you could make a dozen for me tonight,” Agnes told her.
“But I’m not home, and I’m not going to make pecan tarts at this time of night. Grab a package of Oreos from the pantry and serve them at your meeting,” Marty said.
* * *
Cathy had donned her overalls that Wednesday, glad that Ethan, Violet, and Clayton were at a Kiwanis or maybe it was a Masons group meeting so he could speechify about his campaign. She needed to unwind, to stop worrying about that damned prenup.
The weatherman said there was a cold snap coming the next week with frost, so it would be the last of the yard work for a few months. She would always maintain the beautiful lawns at Clawdy’s, but she looked forward to landscaping her own yard when she and Ethan got married. And she wasn’t visualizing the Prescott place, either!
She dumped the bag full of clippings into her compost pile at the back of the garage and stirred them down into the mulch with a garden rake. She gathered up her small tools to dig about in the small garden with the pepper plants on the east side of the house. They’d almost quit producing, but she’d kept a jar full of seeds to plant the next year and maybe by then she’d figure out what kind of fertilizer her mother used.
Cathy really was ready for a long soaking bath when she put away her tools and went into the house. She wanted to read, but unlike a paper book, an e-reader could not go to the bathtub. Dropping a book into the water would ruin it. An e-reader slipping out of Cathy’s hands would be equivalent to losing a whole library of hot erotic books.
It was either take a long bath without a book, since she seldom bought anything other than ebooks anymore, or a quick shower and curl up and read until bedtime. The shower won. Afterward, she donned her favorite old worn cotton-knit nightshirt and locked her door.
She piled the pillows up against the headboard of her bed, picked up her e-reader, and started reading where she’d left off. She’d barely gotten a page done when her phone rang.
“Hello,” she answered.
“This is Agnes. I’m downstairs and I called Marty, but she won’t come home and make me a dozen pecan tarts for tomorrow’s committee meeting.”
“Aunt Agnes, there are a couple of bags of Oreos in the storage room. Help yourself to however many you need. I’m reading,” Cathy said.
“Well, hell! You ain’t goin’ to make me any either, are you? You’ll be sorry when I leave my house to the church. I swear to God, I never thought I’d see the day when you’d act like your sister.”
“Call Trixie. Maybe she will make them,” Cathy said.
“I’d rather eat dog biscuits as ask her for shit. She’s up there cutting out paper dolls or painting some gawd-awful ceramic owl or something. Read your damned old book, and I’ll take what I can find,” Agnes said.
“Good night, Aunt Agnes. Lock the kitchen door on your way out.”
“The hell I will. You want it locked, you come do it. It was open when I got here, and I’m not locking it.”
“Now Aunt Agnes, don’t be angry.”
“I ain’t angry. I’m pissed because I wanted pecan tarts and there ain’t a one down here. Next week you tell Marty to make an extra dozen in case I need them.”
Cathy started to say something else, but the phone went dead.
One more page and the phone rang again.
“Aunt Agnes, I’m not making tarts,” she said without looking at the ID.
“I’m not Agnes.” Ethan laughed.
He had a nice deep laugh that went with his voice. That, with his brilliant smile, would go a long way in his campaign. But neither made Cathy’s heart race like reading about good old hot sex.
“Hello, darlin’. Did the meeting go well?” she asked.
“Hasn’t started yet. I had five minutes, and Clayton wants to know what you and your lawyer decided about the prenup. I really want this thing out of the way so we don’t have to think about it anymore and can concentrate on the wedding. Did you see the newspaper?”
“No, not yet. Do we look good?”
“Yes, we do. Now about the prenup. Can I expect you to bring it all signed on Saturday night? Mother has invited Clayton to supper and we can take care of it before we eat. After that maybe I’ll whip you at Scrabble and we’ll all have a good time.”
Her idea of a good time involved time spent with him alone, not sitting at the table with Violet finding fault with everything she said, did, or wore. And surely not freezing to death under Clayton’s ice-cold glares.
“Well?” Ethan asked.
“Tell you what, darlin’. There are a couple of issues I’d like to visit with you in private about. So how about you meet me at the Dairy Queen tomorrow night. We’ll have a cup of coffee on neutral grounds and make a few adjustments, then Saturday night it will all be done,” she answered.
“I suppose that’s doable,” he said. “Until tomorrow night then. Sleep tight.”
Oh, yeah, like that was going to happen after finishing the book she was reading.
Two more paragraphs and the back door slammed. She must have made a believer out of Agnes.
Then Marty’s high heels rat-a-tatting on the steps stopped at her door and she heard sobs. She bailed out of bed and heard what sounded like a dying cat on the landing crying, “Caaathhhy! Open your door. I need a friend.”
Marty would never sound like th
at. Neither would Trixie, and Agnes cussed when she was upset; she did not cry. She opened the door carefully and Anna Ruth fell into her arms, sobbing and flailing around like she was going to faint dead away.
* * *
Trixie looked at the scrapbook. Should she use the heart punch or the scalloped scissors for the wiggly piece on the side of the picture? A heart appliqué was on the hip pockets of her jeans so it made better sense to use the heart punch.
Cathy’s phone had rung and she could hear her talking but couldn’t make out the words since both of their bedroom doors were shut. Then Marty came home.
No, those weren’t Marty’s footsteps. She’d worn flats to her class that night. Black ones with cute little stones glued to the front. Trixie had commented on them. What she heard was the definite rat-a-tat-tat of high heels.
She had the paper lined up just right and was about to push when she heard the pitiful wailing in the hallway. She put all her might behind the punch so the edges would be crisp and pinched a blood blister on her forefinger.
“Son of a bitch! Whoever the hell you are, you’d best be dead when I open this door.” She stuck her finger in her mouth, and when that didn’t help, she slung it around, stopping long enough to look at the blood blister on the way across the floor.
Nothing helped the throbbing, and the sobbing got louder and louder. She slung open the door to find Cathy in the hallway, holding Anna Ruth up as she carried on like a wounded banshee.
It was a beautiful sight!
Anna Ruth caught sight of Trixie and pointed. “I thought you were screwing him on Wednesday nights.”
Lying was a mortal sin, so Trixie shrugged as if she didn’t have any idea what Anna Ruth was talking about.
Anna Ruth wailed even louder. “I blamed the wrong woman. It’s been that tart with the bubble butt down at the station all along. I’m so stupid. Aunt Annabel said if I could steal him away from his wife, then someone could steal him away from me. And the sad part is I just did it to prove that I could love a man other than… oh, no!” She slapped a hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes.
The Sisters Café Page 12
