Rogues & Rascals in Goose Pimple Junction (Goose Pimple Junction Mysteries Book 4) (32 page)

Pickle wore a white shirt with
“I’M A SPECIAL SOMEBODY”
across the front. From the store’s back door, he stepped into the alley behind A Blue Million Books, carrying a trash bag in each hand. He was trying to hurry, afraid it would start raining again. He heard a hissing noise and turned his head to see what it was as he slung one of the bags into a dumpster.

Just a few feet away, Jimmy Dean held a can of spray paint parallel to the coffee shop’s brick wall. Pickle glanced to the right and saw Jimmy Dean had already gotten to the bookstore’s wall. It was covered with graffiti. He quietly put the other bag down on the ground beside him and moved behind the dumpster. He slipped his cell phone from his pants pocket and took two quick pictures of Jimmy Dean administering his handiwork. Then he put the phone back in his pocket and lobbed the other bag in. Brushing off his hands, Pickle stepped out from behind the dumpster and stared at the vandal. Filthy words in white paint blared on the wall with paint drips running off a letter k.

“Close your mouth. You’re liable to catch flies.” Jimmy Dean walked menacingly toward Pickle, who stood his ground. Jimmy Dean’s stocky frame was clearly tougher than that of Pickle’s, which was skinny as a beanpole. “And you better keep it closed if you know what’s good for you. You remind me of a toothpick, and they’re real easy to snap in half.”

“You . . . you shouldn’t be doing that.” Pickle pointed to the wall.

“Blah, blah, blah. Don’t be a Girl Scout.” He narrowed his eyes and leveled a finger at Pickle. “And don’t go being a tattletale either.”

Pickle propped his hands on his waist. “You know what? I’ll be dipped in bacon fat before I lie for you.”

“You might regret that decision, dude. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to corner anything bigger than you?”

“Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to go around destroying other people’s property? What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

“Oh hell, you’re old before your time, bro. I’m just having a little fun in this two-bit town.”

“What you are is in serious need of an attitude adjustment.”

“Who died and left you the boss of me? Go on back to your boring little job and your boring little life. I got things to do anyway.” Jimmy Dean started down the alley, pulling a towel out of his back pocket and wiping the spray paint can with it as he walked toward the storefronts. Pickle followed him.

“You think all that money your daddy’s got gives you the right to destroy other people’s things? Well, it don’t.” They’d reached the edge of the buildings where the alley turned into the sidewalk in front of the stores on Main Street.

Jimmy Dean took one step onto the sidewalk and then abruptly turned around, holding the can with the towel and spraying paint onto Pickle’s hand just before he thrust the can into his stomach, causing Pickle to grab it out of reflex. “It’s your word against mine, punk.” He turned around and sauntered off, stopping a few feet down to speak to Officer Beanblossom and pointing in Pickle’s direction.

“Oh, crap,” is all Pickle had time to think or say before the officer approached him with a grim expression on his face.

“Let’s you and me take a little walk,” Hank said to Pickle. “Jimmy Dean—” The officer stopped and looked over both shoulders and then turned all the way around. Jimmy Dean had disappeared. Hank held Pickle’s arm and led him to the alley. “Let’s go see what’s back here.”

“Look, Officer Beanblossom,” Pickle began talking fast. “I don’t know what he said to you, but this isn’t how it seems. Honest.”

The officer didn’t say anything until he reached the alley. His face clouded when he saw the back of the buildings. He looked from the graffiti to Pickle’s hands and back again. “Why don’t you tell me just what exactly it is?”

Pickle’s words came out in a rush as he recounted what had just transpired between him and Jimmy Dean.

“Son, I get what you’re saying. I totally believe this wasn’t done by your hand but by Jimmy Dean’s. Trouble is, how are we going to prove that? And why in tarnation is it always you or your mother who sees him doing these things?”

It was then that Pickle remembered the pictures he’d snapped. His face registered the light bulb moment as he pulled the phone from his pocket. “Lookie here.” He held out the phone with the picture that showed Jimmy Dean caught in the act. He swiped left and showed him the second photo.

Hank clamped his hand on Pickle’s shoulder. “You’re not as dumb as you look, Pickle.”

Back at the police station, Hank and Pickle relayed the story to Johnny, who emailed the pictures on the phone to his own account.

“Pickle, that is some fine work you’ve done, son. Now we have hard evidence and not just one word against another. He won’t be able to wiggle out of this one.” Johnny pulled up the pictures on his computer, printed them, and handed them to Hank. “Go get him.”

Mama always said . . . It isn’t the jeans that make your butt look fat.

D
ee Dee hit the button on her umbrella; she heard the whoosh and felt the reverberation up her arm as it opened. It had rained steadily all day, and wouldn’t it just figure that it would rain harder now while she was on her way home from work. Walking to and from the office was the only exercise she got, and she usually didn’t mind it since her house and business were only four blocks apart, and it was a short five-minute walk. But she didn’t relish walking on this cold, dark, rainy, miserable night.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and glanced over her shoulder. The street was empty except for a man on the other side. At a little after six o’clock, it was already pitch-dark, and the overcast skies and rain made it feel downright black outside. Thunder rolled across the sky, and her eyes darted from left to right. She couldn’t explain it, but she had an uneasy feeling. Maybe it was just on account of the spat she’d had with Phil. He wasn’t happy about the turn of events regarding the divorce settlement, but she told him it would be handled and that he just needed to believe in her. Why was that so hard for him to do?

As she crossed the street to begin the next block, she noticed the man on the other side of the street was gone. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Then a sound behind her caused her to look over her shoulder. The man was now on her side of the street, about half a block behind.
How odd.

Even more odd was the man himself. She glanced back several times to see if she knew him. He practically blended with the night, but periodic streetlamps showed him walking under a black umbrella. In fact, he wore all black—a black suit, a long, black overcoat, and a black bowler hat. A bowler hat? Well, if he was from London, the rain should make him feel right at home. She picked up her pace and vowed not to look behind her again.

Dee Dee kept the promise to herself until she reached her house. As she turned into the driveway, she glanced to her right. The man was still strolling toward her. She shivered and hurried inside. After taking off her coat and rain boots, she turned on lights as she walked through the living room. When she got to the front window, she peered out the left edge and froze. The strange man was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house, his form illuminated by the streetlamp. He had the most erect posture she’d ever seen. It was like he was standing at attention all the time, even when walking. The sinister man was under an umbrella, with one hand in a pocket, legs locked about five inches apart. And he continued to stand there, ominously watching her house as if it were a piece of art and he were in a museum. She threw the curtain across the rod and overlapped the middle edges.

Feeling soaked to the bone, she padded down the hall to her bedroom and into her bathroom, where she turned on the shower, undressing while the water heated up. She put her pants over a towel rack to dry. She had to maintain what little wardrobe she had. Someone once said she resembled a female
Matlock
, and she supposed she did. Her appearance just didn’t matter much to her. She stopped short. Maybe that’s why Phil has never been interested romantically. They were as close as best friends, and she thought maybe once he was divorced, he would finally make a move, but it hadn’t happened.

She stepped into the shower and stood under the water, thinking about the strange man until she willed herself not to think about him.

Instead, she thought of the woman who called herself Y. What a stupid name. She supposed it was meant to be dramatic. A hit woman named Y. She harrumphed. Some hit woman. She’d failed three times. This was supposed to be taken care of last night, but the woman had not answered her texts or her calls to explain why Caledonia Culpepper was still alive. That woman just wouldn’t die. Maybe she’d have to take care of it herself like she’d done with the judge. She hadn’t felt anything when she killed him, and it had been surprisingly easy. She tilted her head and let the water roll down her back. She’d
had
to kill him. The judge was going to squeal like a stuck pig, and she just couldn’t have that. What a wimp.

She stayed in the shower, trying to get warm, and daydreaming about consoling Phil when he got the news about Caledonia’s death. She’d be there for him. It would draw them closer. Thirty minutes later, when she began to feel like a prune, she turned off the water and climbed out. After drying off, she put on her tattered pea green terry cloth bathrobe and ratty house shoes which she’d had for over twenty years. She didn’t care about fashion or old versus new clothing. Function and comfort were what she looked for.

Warily, she padded back into the living room and up to the side of the window again. She pulled the curtain back ever so slightly and peeked out. Relief flooded over her. The man was gone.