Hot Enough to Kill (4 page)
Clerk Jimmie Sue (I read her name tag) was quickly thinking I had lost my mind. To confirm the fact, I stuck out my hand and invited her to shake. Women in Texas don't shake hands as a general rule, unless they're passing out Mary Kay cosmetic samples.
Jimmie Sue gamely put her pudgy fingers in mine and tried to smile even though her cheeks were redder than the basket of ripe beefsteak tomatoes sitting behind the counter.
"I'm Jo Jackson, Lucille's daughter," I said, which widened her dark eyes in shock.
Jimmie Sue's hand slipped away. "Oh, my, I'm so sorry. What happened, why, it was just awful," she said, hanging onto the last word for a good six seconds so it came out sounding something like aaawwwwffuuulll. "Mrs. Jackson was mighty upset, no question. She doing okay now?"
My mother, okay? This girl was obviously new in town. To my knowledge, Lucille Jackson hadn't admitted to being okay but three times in her entire life, and all of those were times she really wasn't. "She's doing fine," I said, a real honey-sweet tone to my voice. "The whole thing's been upsetting, of course, but she'll pull through."
"Well, that's good to hear," Jimmie Sue said, putting the lid on a big Styrofoam cup of fresh iced tea. "Corrine was just fixing to call down and check on her."
I didn't know who Corrine was, but I smiled anyway. And just for the record, "fixing to" is a completely proper phrase in Texas, essential even, particularly when used to string out getting to the actual point of the matter. I nodded to Jimmie Sue. "Lucille's just fine, and I'm sure she'll be up to visiting tomorrow."
Before I had to make up an answer for why Lucille wasn't up to it today, I took my tea and strolled toward to the biggest table of men. I am somewhat of an incongruity around here, you see. I give the illusion of being a cute little sweet thing, just like womenfolk are meant to be, but that only goes so far. Then the mouth opens and confuses the image. It is not something I have completely outgrown.
You could almost hear the eyebrows popping upward as I stepped up behind one of the men sitting around the table and rested a hand on the back of his chair. You see, segregation of the sexes is alive and well at the Kickapoo DQ, and public co-mingling is generally frowned upon. With a quick glance around the table, I recognized a few of my Dad's old friends. This was probably as good a place as any to get the real scoop--if they'd talk to me, me being both an outsider and a female. This was, after all, blatant co-mingling. I am just a scandal waiting to happen.
"So, gentlemen," I said, purring with what I hoped was just the right mix of authority and female manipulation, "what on earth happened down here last night?"
"How's the weather up in Colorado?" said a man I vaguely recalled as working at the Gulf filling station back when there was one. "Heard it was awful hot up there in Denver, almost as hot as it has been around here."
Yeah, right, and that's snow out there sizzling on the asphalt. I kept my unseemly comments to myself and smiled beguilingly at them. Rather than point out that the man had blatantly ignored my question, I played weather girl. "I live up in the mountains so it's not too terribly hot. It was actually forty-eight degrees when I left my house last night." I paused for a moment to let them wonder whether I was lying about the temperature--I wasn't.
"When Mother called me about the shooting, I just threw some things in the car and headed down here as fast as I could. She sounded awfully upset. Then when the sheriff called me this morning on my cell phone, well, I guess y'all know all about that," I said sweetly. I was warmed up and talking Texan with the best of them now, although the mewing vixen thing was wearing a bit thin. "I just can't believe what happened," I said, all breathy and gooey. "I just can't imagine who'd want to kill dear Mr. Bennett, can you?"
Instantly, the men who'd been drawn in by my sultry voice and innocent eyes became immensely interested in their coffee cups. What had gone wrong? I'd had them going. I knew I had. My ego was just starting to turn black and blue from the figurative beating when I felt a not-so-symbolic whack on my shoulder.
I turned to see a little gray-haired woman with steely eyes and a black dress ready to whack me again with her hand. Yet another of the twenty-two percent, I presumed. I might have to revise my popularity figures.
"I know who you are, girlie," the old woman said, a shrill quiver in her voice. "You better be watching what trouble you're a stirring up in this town. We're a God-fearing bunch and it was the devil's own hand that pulled the trigger on that gun. It's hussies like you and that slut mother of yours that invites the devil in. Brother Bennett was an elder in the church and pillar of this community. His death will not go for naught."
The woman was shaking, and frankly, so was I. I've never been attacked by a wiry, granny-type with fireballs in her eyes. I glanced around the table and was not surprised to see everyone staring. No one has ever accused me of knowing the best thing to say or do at any given time, but most folks know I'll do something. Actually, they expect it. I did not want to disappoint my fans.
I turned fully toward her and looked her straight in the eye, which I could do because she was about my same height of five-feet, four inches. She looked about as friendly as a caged cougar, but then I'm no shrinking violet myself. "I'll have you know, madam," I said in my no-nonsense voice, "it's hussies like us that give biddies like you something to gossip about."
The groaning at the table told me no one was impressed with my performance. Well, fine, I could do better. I scooted closer until my nose was almost touching hers. "Are you ill or something?"
She stepped back, confusion hopping around with the balls of fire shooting from her eyes. "I'm fine. You're the one who's sick. You and that tramp mother of yours."
Tramp, slut, hussies.... The words threw up big red flags. Could this be my mother's nemesis, the little church lady who wanted the mayor for herself, and harassed my mother like a jealous teenager? Surely there couldn't be two of these types running loose in this little place. "Oh, my," I said, drawling sweetly. "You must be Old Bony Butt."
Snickers and chuckles rippled through the DQ like a finely swirled Pecan Cluster Blizzard. Apparently my mother's pet name for the witch was common knowledge. I felt a little burst of pride at my mother's dealings with this lunatic, and I couldn't help but smile.
As Bony Butt sputtered in outrage, I put on a nice fake smile and once again reverted to my youthful training. "Perhaps we should step aside and speak in private, Miz Fossy, or do you prefer Ethel?" She scowled, but backed away from the table and toward a relatively open corner of the room.
She started working her jaw like she was chewing up her words, ready to spew them forth. I beat her to the punch. "Look, lady," I said, glad to speak my own language again. "My mother has a record of every single hang-up call you've made to her house. There's this clever little box you hook up to the phone that shows the name and telephone number of the caller. Just flashes the information about the call right up on the little screen then keeps a record of it as well. Absolutely amazing." I was lying through my teeth about this, considering my mother still has rotary dial telephones and will never ever have Caller ID, although she thinks it sounds kind of nice.
"Oh, and let's not forget about the pious hate mail you sent. Don't you watch TV, Ethel? Cut and paste newsprint letters would have been better than longhand. And let's talk about gloves, Ethel. Hides the fingerprints."
You could almost see her twisting up tighter and tighter, and I kept my eyes glued to her, waiting for her to snap. "You know, Ethel, if you're going to be any good at this harassment stuff, you need to take a class or something."
Bony Butt twitched this way and that, looking on the verge of bursting a blood vessel. "You don't scare me," she said, her eyes narrowing to vicious little slits. "I'm a God-fearing servant of the Lord and He will protect me from the likes of you and that lust-crazed mother of yours. Repent or feel the fires of Hell on your heathen flesh."
Wow, this lady would be a hoot to hang around with. I started to tell her I was quite proud to be a heathen if that was the exact opposite of what she was, but decided a pop quiz might be more fun. "So where were you when Mayor Bennett was killed?"
Her mouth dropped open for a second then started working up and down like a dying fish. "That is none of your business, and what makes you think you can ask me anything?"
I shrugged. "I guess I just figured if you were willing to harass my mother for seeing Mister Bennett that you might be willing to go a little further to split them up." I surprised myself by sort of insinuating this woman might have killed the mayor, but with that card played, I couldn't quit. "Mother thought you wanted him for yourself."
She stood there for a second, just glaring at me, then seemed to drift a little. "I knew nothing good would come of it, him sniffing around her," she said, almost calmly. "I warned him time and again how he was making a mistake with that woman. I begged him to repent. We'd prayed about it, and with my help he found the strength to stop seeing her. He was a fine, fine man, but he was weak, so weak."
I waited a few beats to see if she had anything else to say, but the glazed look was fading quickly, and with it, my window of opportunity, if you could call it that. I debated asking her another question, but since one didn't present itself, I said, "Miz Fossy, I would really appreciate it if you left my mother alone. She's done nothing to harm you, and now with Mister Bennett gone, there's really nothing to be mad at her about. Judge not--"
"Don't you dare quote the Bible to me!"
Yes, that was definitely a bad decision on my part--very bad. Try to speak a foreign language to fit in with the natives and that's what happens. "Listen, there's really no need for--"
"I know my Bible frontwards and backwards and I understand the teachings well. I do the Lord's work and I'll not be dragged down by heathens such as
you!
There's only two kinds of people in this world, those that walk with the Lord and those that walk with Satan." She glared at me, apparently waiting for either a Christian testimonial or an admission that I worshipped the devil. She was getting neither.
Her view of the world was kind of interesting though, all black and white, with no gray areas at all. Dealing in pre-determined absolutes certainly would cut down on the decision-making process. Good or bad, cut and dried, which is why I wound up in the "bad" category, I supposed--guilt by association. I smiled at the thought. Oh, that evil mother of mine. Another warm fuzzy of pride puffed up my chest. I started to give her yet another explicit directive to stay away from my mother, but her face was red, her eyes bugged, her veins pulsing, and I was seriously worried about her having an honest-to-goodness stroke.
"Okay, Miz Fossy, just take a deep breath and try to calm down. No need in getting yourself so upset."
Her hands shook as she clasped them together and held them up before her. I greatly feared she was going to fall to her knees and start praying for my soul, so I made a show of digging in my jean pockets, fully knowing there was nothing there but a couple of bucks, car keys and lint. "I just know I've got some of those worts in here somewhere."
She paused out of curiosity, and I hoped that meant she was going to remain standing. "Now, I'm not trying to butt my nose in where it doesn't belong, Ethel, but you look pretty stressed out and there's some stuff that could help you a lot. Ever heard of St. John's wort?" I didn't wait for her to answer. "Absolutely amazing. Really helps take the edge off those emotional surges."
Ethel was still looking a little confused, so I added, "Comes in capsules. Regular doses could make you a whole new woman."
"Why, you...you...dope pusher!" she shrieked as she spun on her heel and scurried away.
As the door closed behind her, I turned toward the crowd, figuring I'd better explain that I wasn't trying to get Ethel Fossy hooked on drugs. "I only suggested she try some St. John's wort for her nervous condition."
I waited for a nod of recognition that even one person had a clue what I was talking about. It did not come. "St. John's wort. W-o-r-t, not wart. It's an herbal mood enhancer that's been popular in Europe for years. Just catching on over here." They all still looked bewildered. "You buy it at Wal-Mart. Like Prozac without a prescription. Works wonders."
As they stewed on my latest revelation, I grabbed my carefully packed chicken baskets and large iced teas. I made a beeline for the front door and hurried outside before anybody asked me if I had any of the wonder pills. I did--a big industrial-sized bottle. It was part of my Kickapoo emergency kit, but I wasn't sharing. I had my own nervous condition to worry about, and the churning in my stomach told me I was going to need every single capsule I could get my hands on.
I hurried to my car, wondering exactly what I had accomplished other than procuring a decent supper. I wanted to ask questions, but then again I didn't. At some point I either had to pony up and get busying finding out what was going on, or just leave the state. Oddly, leaving wasn't looking so appealing at the moment. Getting some answers was.
It was right here," I said, holding back the clothes in the closet so Sheriff Jerry Don Parker could see the oblong indention in the carpet where the butt of the shotgun had been. "Now it's not."
Jerry bent his tall, lean frame over into the closet for a closer look, but didn't touch anything. He straightened and swept a lock of black hair off his forehead. "How often do you open this closet?"
"Not very, and I never touched that gun," Mother said, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. One glitter-covered gold slipper swung back and forth like a sparkly metronome, and a frosted purple nail twirled her hair, giving the accurate impression that she had better things to do than sit in the bedroom and speculate about a silly old shotgun. "I have no idea how long it's been gone. At least two weeks though."