Love Mercy (30 page)

Hud contemplated her question, then said, “I think it’s more catty-corner. But it’s not a bad place to be. Maybe it’s better than happy. More like being satisfied. And
that
is much easier to maintain than out-and-out happiness.”

She laughed again. The bartender came over with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and Mel nodded at her to fill her shot glass.

“Double it,” she said, knowing this was foolish. She shouldn’t be drinking this much when she needed to stay alert. But something inside her felt like it was crumbling away, and these drinks seemed to patch it all back together. Or at least make her not care if she crumbled. She finished the drink with two swallows, feeling Hud’s eyes watching her.

Then a tiny, sensible part of her that the alcohol hadn’t reached kicked in. She needed to get home, eat something, get sober. By not staying in control, she was leaving herself wide-open and giving Patrick the advantage.

“I have to go,” she said, abruptly standing up. The bar wavered in front of her eyes, and she suddenly felt like puking.

“Whoa,” Hud said, standing up and grabbing her shoulder. “When was the last time you ate?”

She stared at him, his features soft and blurry.

“I have to go,” she repeated, digging through her pockets and finding a twenty and four ones. She dropped them on the bar. Was that enough? Oh, well, they knew her here. She could come back and settle up later. “Bye, now, Mr. Hud.”

She took a step and stumbled over her feet. He was quick and caught her.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” the blonde bartender called. “Should I call you a cab?”

“I’ll help her get home,” Hud said.

Mel jerked her arm out of his grasp. “I’m fine.”

The bartender walked over, an empty glass in her hand. “This dude bothering you, hon? Want me to call someone?”

Mel stared at her for a moment, trying to piece the words together. “Oh, him? No, he’s okay. He’s a cop. Show her your badge, Hudson.”

Hud pulled out his wallet and showed the bartender his sheriff’s badge. She studied it a moment. “I’m new to this area. How do I know that’s not fake?”

A large man with a bushy mustache walked over. “What’s goin’ on, Wanda?”

“You know this guy?” She nodded her head at Hud. “Says he’s a cop.”

The guy nodded. “Yeah, that’s Hud. He lives here in Morro Bay. Comes in here all the time. He really is a cop. He’s good people.”

“Okay,” Wanda said, her face still doubtful. “Just didn’t want to let her go off with some weirdo psycho nut job.”

Mel heard someone giggle. It took a few seconds to realize it was her. Oh, man, she was drunk. “Thanks,” she heard herself say. “I do kind of draw the line at weirdo nut job psychos.”

The woman gave her a sympathetic look. “You want some coffee before you leave?”

Mel considered her offer. “No, but thank you very much for your hospi . . . hospi . . . hospi . . .” Mel couldn’t get the rest of the word out.

“Help.”

“No worries. It’s my job.”

Once they were outside, Mel looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way to start walking. Had she walked? No, wait, she drove here. That much she remembered. Where was her truck? Maybe she shouldn’t have made that last drink a double.

“Did you drive here?” Hud asked.

She thought for a moment, then shook her head no, then yes. She didn’t want to admit she’d forgotten where she parked.

“Your truck’s over there.” He pointed across the street. “Let me drive you home. I walked here.”

“How’d . . . ?”

“Saw it at Benni’s ranch.” She handed him her keys and carefully climbed into the passenger seat. Though a part of her wanted to protest his blatant taking over, insist she could make it home on her own, she also felt relieved that someone was taking control. The man back in the bar said this Hud was good people. Whatever that meant. Hud could be a serial killer for all she knew. She settled back into the seat. Right now, she couldn’t care less.

When they pulled up in front of her house, she began to grow anxious. She pressed her elbow to her side, feeling for her gun in her jacket pocket.

“It’s still there,” Hud said, amicably. “Though I probably should have taken it from you.”

“Try.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” He cut the truck’s engine. The houses on both sides of hers were dark.

“I’ll walk you in,” he said, opening his door.

“No, thanks,” she said, climbing out of the truck and walking slowly toward her front door. She stubbed her toe on the small front step of her porch. She cursed and lifted her other foot high to avoid repeating her move. Her foot came down hard, causing her to bite her tongue. She cursed again and started patting her coat pockets for her house keys.

“I have them right—” Hud’s voice was right behind her.

“Leave . . . me . . . alone.” Without turning around, she swatted at him like she was being attacked by horseflies.

Hud reached around and unlocked the front door. “Would you like me to make some coffee?”

“No.”

He stood in the open doorway, her car and house keys in his hand. In the dim illumination of the entryway’s night-light, in her half-drunken state, he sort of reminded her of Sean. A strangled noise came from the back of her throat.

“Hey,” he said. “Someone left you a note.” He bent down to pick up the half-folded page lying facedown on the hardwood floor. It had obviously been thrust through the mail slot. He unfolded it and started reading.

“Do you mind?” she said, grabbing the sheet of paper.

“What does that mean?” he asked. “I want the money. Are you in trouble, Mel? Do you owe someone money? Is there anything I can do to help?”

His face looked so kind, the expression so much like one Cy would have had. It wasn’t fair that he died. Cy would have helped her. Cy would have known what to do. He would have . . .

“Mel . . .” Hud started, reaching out to her.

She pushed his hand away and stumbled into the living room, clutching the paper. “You can’t help me. No one can.”

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to her chair. “Let me fix you something to eat.”

Too tired and sad to protest, she sat down hard in her plaid easy chair. In a few moments, she blacked out, only to be wakened by Hud what seemed like hours later.

“What time is it?” She jumped up when he touched her forearm.

“Time to eat something,” he said. He handed her a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Your cupboards are pretty bare, Ms. LeBlanc.”

“I eat out.” She looked down at the plate, her eyes trying to focus on the sandwich.

“Eat a few bites,” he said, sitting down on the sofa opposite her. “Won’t really sober you up, but at least your stomach won’t be screaming in protest.”

She took a bite, then set the plate aside. “Thanks, but I’m fine. You can go now.”

“Who do you owe money to?”

She looked away. “I don’t owe anyone money.”

“The note.”

“That’s my business.”

“Mel, whatever it is, I assure you I’ve been there before. You look like you—”

“Shut up,” she said, clutching her stomach, willing herself not to puke all over his boots. “You don’t have any right to tell me what I look like, what I need or what you
think
I need.”

He sat down on the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. “I want to help.”

She sat forward in her chair, her stomach careening in protest. “Leave.”

“No.”

She stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious? Did he really think that if he sat here long enough she’d pour out her whole life story to him? She’d never be that drunk. Never.

“Mel,” Hud said. “I knew Cy a long time. He was a true friend to a good many people, including me. He’d want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

She stood up and pointed a shaky finger at him. “Don’t you dare tell me what Cy would want. You don’t know. No one does. He’s dead. So no one could say what he wants. Not you. Not me. No one. He’s dead. He’s
dead
.”

Then, to her utter humiliation, she burst into tears.

TWENTY-TWO

I
’m sorry,” Hud said. He appeared to be floating underwater.

“Go away,” she said, resisting the urge to wipe the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Acknowledging them seemed weak.

“I can help,” he said, not moving from the sofa.

“Why?” she burst out. “Why would you want to help someone you don’t even know?” She sat back down hard, jarring her back teeth. “People don’t do things for no reason. Why would you want to help me?”

“I know what it’s like to be desperate.”

She gave a cynical laugh, not believing him. “My dad’s a magician. He could make you disappear. But he’s better at making himself disappear.” She pressed her lips together, horrified at her words. What possessed her to say that?

“Trust me, my father has your father beat in being the biggest jackass in the country,” Hud said. “Not that it’s a contest or anything. And it sounds like your dad is still alive, so he would have the edge. My dear daddy passed on to that great golf course down below many years ago.”

“I don’t owe anyone money,” she said, sorry she’d brought up fathers. “It’s just some guy who thinks . . .” She stopped, not wanting to reveal more. “I can handle him. It’s just a misunderstanding.”

He sat forward on the sofa. In the amber light of her single living room lamp, she caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a younger man, before time and sun had textured his face. He was still a handsome man.

“Look,” he said. “Sometimes a person who barely knows you can see a situation more clearly. Like telling your problems to someone on a plane, someone you’ll never see again. They don’t actually help you solve anything, they’re just a sounding board.”

“But you’re not an anonymous person on a plane.”

“True, but you and I are not actually friends. My opinion would be purely objective. I’m assuming it has something to do with your life back in Las Vegas. Something or someone that has come up from there.” He waited a moment. “You know, we’re both Cajuns, so we’re kind of like family.”

She stared at him. “How do you know I’m Cajun? I could be Canadian. I could be from France.”

“I just know. We can’t hide from each other. My mama’s side is Cajun, by the way. My daddy’s side is moral misfits.”

She closed her eyes, remembering her grand-mère Suzette. “Say something in Cajun.”

“I want to help. We’re
pareil comme deux gouttes d’eau.”

The silky, familiar sound of the Cajun French made her think of her grandmother. And her father. Where was Varise LeBlanc? Would she ever see him again? Did she want to?

She opened her eyes. “What did you say?”

“We’re alike as two peas in a pod.” He smiled at her. “My grand-papa Iry used to call me T-Hud.” His eyes turned down when his smile faded. “Man, I miss him.”

Maybe it was the liquor still coursing through her veins like liquid truth serum or maybe it was Cy’s spirit telling her to trust this guy. Or maybe she just didn’t care about what he thought. Maybe if he saw who she really was, maybe he’d figure she was too much trouble and leave. Without looking at him once, she haltingly started to talk, telling him about Sean, about finding the money, about the investigation, what her fellow officers believed about her. She didn’t mention her father. Or her mother. Or the reason she came to Morro Bay. She told him about Patrick and his accusations. All of the information came out disjointed and out of order, mimicking her life.

“Cy gave me a job,” she said, winding down, wishing now she’d kept her mouth shut. “He never knew any of this.” Not until the end, anyway. But she wouldn’t tell Hud that. “Love doesn’t know. I don’t want her to know.”

“She wouldn’t feel any different about you. She’s not a judgmental person. And she’s your friend.”

She looked at him grimly. “If you tell her, I’ll—” She almost said kill you. But she knew that was just a phony threat. “I’ll leave Morro Bay.”

“I won’t tell her. I can talk to this Patrick. Man-to-man.”

She glared at him.

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands. “That was a stupid, sexist remark. I meant I . . . shoot howdy, I don’t know what I mean.”

For a moment she was silent, then she gave a small laugh. “That’s the most honest thing you’ve said in three hours.”

“Tell me how I can help.”

She sighed. “You can’t. This is between me and Patrick. I can handle it. I don’t need some man rushing in on a white stallion.”

“Chestnut.”

“What?” He was making no sense.

“My horse, Brandy. She’s a chestnut quarter horse. And she’s a mare.”

She stood up, one hand still on the chair arm. “Look, I appreciate you listening to my tale of woe. But I’ll deal with Patrick. Thanks for the ride home.”

He stood up. “Okay, I can take a hint.” He pulled a card out of his back pocket and laid it on the coffee table. “In case you misplaced my other one. Home phone and cell phone is on the back. Call any time.”

“Thanks.” She would toss this one out too, after he left. “Have a merry Christmas.”

He walked toward the front door, turning to face her before he opened it. “You too, Melina. Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m
not
,” she said, suddenly angry.

“Call me if you need me.” He left, closing the door softly behind him.

“Never gonna happen, buddy,” she said to the wooden door. She went over and locked it, turning the dead bolt with more force than necessary.

TWENTY-THREE

I
t was a little past noon, and Love had already put in a four-hour shift at the café. One of their new waitresses, a Cal Poly girl, had just up and quit without so much as a how-do-you-do. Oh, well, one less salary to pay, she thought, trying to look on the bright side.