Still Life in Brunswick Stew (30 page)

I hung outside of Red’s and watched a server and cook steal out the side door to smoke. My stomach felt tight and queasy. I didn’t feel like having a beer or dealing with Red’s crowd. I also didn’t feel like returning to my empty house. Alone. I could go to the farm, but even Pearl had abandoned Grandpa to watch Sticks perform. Watching fishing shows on a Friday night with Grandpa seemed too depressing to consider. I decided to go inside Red’s.

And because the universe hated me, Shawna waited for me in the vestibule. I wouldn’t say she looked trashy, but someone must have helped pour her into her zebra print sundress. That dress was a marvel of modern engineering.

“Where’s Luke?” she demanded.

“The heck if I know.” And because I wasn’t feeling particularly friendly, I added a bit of helpful advice. “Did you know your boobs are supposed to go inside your dress? For future reference.”

I didn’t think Amazons like Shawna could get taller, but she stretched into a colossal tower of rage. Her fist swung and cracked my chin. I stumbled and fell into a rack of real estate ads. Above me, the Coors Lite sign blinked and cut off. Panting, Shawna rubbed her fist and stared at me. I tried to avert my gaze from her heaving chest, but the shock of getting cold-cocked had my eyes transfixed on the rise and fall of her double endowments. I was reminded of my Sidewinder nemesis and wondered if a difference in bra size could cause one to become a mortal enemy.

I shook my head out of my stupor, worked my jaw, and was hit with pain. “What the hell?” I cried. “I think you broke my jaw.”

“If I broke your jaw, you couldn’t talk,” Shawna said. “And believe me, I wish I had broken your jaw. I would love to keep you from talking. Permanently.”

“What is your problem? Since when do you punch me for making a remark about your clothes? Did you run out of comebacks?”

“You had that coming and you know why. And I’ve got more than that in me. I could beat the crap out of your puny self. Or worse. You remember that.”

“I swear I don’t know what I did. Is this about Luke?”

“Ha,” she said, swinging the door open. With nary a glance back, she traipsed into the parking lot. A minute later, I heard the growl of her Mustang.

“Ha?” I repeated, rubbing my chin.

I hauled out of the mess of housing brochures and stumbled through the door into the bar. A new patron occupied my stool. I pouted a minute, then pushed through the crowd until I reached the bar. Red raised his head from washing glasses. His mouth dropped open. I should have checked my hair and makeup in the ladies before a public appearance.

“Who did that?” he said. “Luke?”

“Did what?” I said and attempted a smile. Which hurt. “You got some ice?”

“Go to the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

I sighed, pushed through the knots of drinkers, and into the kitchen. Red and Casey shoved me into a chair and pointed fingers at my face. I glared and threatened to bite.

“Look at her,” he yelled to Casey. “That bastard. On my property!”

Heads popped up from behind the pass through at Red’s exclamation. The kitchen staff abandoned their cooking and chopping to add to the huddle. Which did me no favors.

“I appreciate the concern, but ice?” I said. “Please?”

“Unbelievable,” said Casey. She grabbed my chin, yanking my head up for examination. “It’s huge.”

“Let go,” I said and reached for the baggie of ice handed to me by Red. “Is it already turning? That was fast.”

“I never would have thought. When I saw your lip the other day,” said Red, shaking his head. “I don’t care if he is a cop.”

“What happened?” said Todd, striding toward us. Leah, Sid, and Lewellyn, the Sticks bassist, paced after him.

Casey spun around and held her hands out. “Calm yourselves. She’s fine. Just a little bruised.” She turned to me. “You should have told us. Is this why you haven’t been able to kiss Luke? And wanted to pretend to cook for him? Does he scare you?”

“Now hold on just a minute.” I hopped up from the chair. “Call off the lynch mob. It wasn’t Luke. I know we were fighting in the parking lot, but we were just arguing.”

“You haven’t been able to kiss Luke?” asked Todd.

“Focus, Todd,” said Casey. “Now Cherry, don’t try to deny it. Look what happened to Eloise. She hid the abuse and her boyfriend killed her.”

“I am not Eloise,” I said. “And it turns out Griffin didn’t kill her. Probably. Unless he somehow poisoned the stew.”

Casey shook her head and glanced at Red. He folded his brawny arms over his chest and pursed his lips. Then noticed the crowd in the kitchen. “Is anyone waiting on customers? Quit your gawking and get back to work.”

“It wasn’t Luke,” I said. “It was Shawna. She caught me in the breezeway and socked me.”

“Shawna? Are you sure?” said Red.

“Pretty sure. I had my eyes open until her fist met my jaw.”

“Why would Shawna hit you?”

“I have no idea. I might have said something about the way she fit into her dress, but it didn’t warrant a smackdown.”

“Man, Cherry. You scared the crap out of me. You’ve gotta give it a rest sometime,” said Red and slammed through the swinging doors into the bar.

“We’re on in five,” said Sid, annoyed I’d disrupted their Sticks huddle by getting slugged. “Let’s get going.”

“Honey, next time either keep your mouth shut or duck.” Leah patted my head. “Come on, Todd.”

Todd cast me an unreadable look—one I recognized from his serious poker games—and turned to traipse after his band members. I swung the ice to my chin and watched him swagger away. It should have been a comforting sight, but somehow Todd’s butt in tight, faux-leather pants didn’t have the magical effect it usually did.

The walk to 211 Loblolly did me good. I successfully dodged bingo ambushers with a wary vigilance that kept me from ruminating on all the men who currently held grudges against me. Particularly one Luke Harper, whose lips I missed.

However, Grandma Jo’s stories about men who try on shoes and take milk from cows without purchase lay heavy in my mind. How could we have a life together if Luke couldn’t utter a few words about me to his mother, for heaven’s sake? And let his stepfather think Shawna could have a chance of entwining her branch of the Branson tree around JB’s trunk? That thought made my blood percolate.

As I approached Great-Gam’s old cottage, I took heed to scout the area. The Datsun rested in the driveway, waiting for a new starter or a trade-in. I slipped past the sawhorse tables holding art supplies and thrift store junk. The glow from the kitchen fluorescents through the door’s window gave me pause. I ran through the list of folks with access to the house. Most of that list could be found at Red’s. Except Luke. And Cody.

I unlocked the back door and called out, expecting Cody to answer. Pausing in the doorway, I swept my gaze over the empty kitchen. I had no living room furniture to speak of other than the fainting couch. My bedroom TV was of the small and tube variety. If Cody would be anywhere in the house, it would be the kitchen, close to the beer cooler known as a refrigerator.

I retreated into the carport, spun toward the Datsun-turned-armory, and retrieved my Remington. Then proceeded to tiptoe through the house with a racked and loaded gun.

The front room and bathroom were also empty. I peeked in my unoccupied bedroom and relaxed my grip on the gun. A small twist of heartache stabbed my chest. I had half-hoped to find Luke sprawled on my bed asleep with the TV on, waiting for me. However, waking a cop while holding a shotgun was never a good idea, so probably best my wish didn’t come true. I propped the Remington over my shoulder and kicked off my flip-flops. My gaze left the bedroom and fell upon the guest room door.

I flipped the shotgun around and approached the closed door. Grasping the pump with my left hand, I reached for the doorknob with my right. The door swung open. I slid my finger to the trigger guard and sidled into the doorway. A quick scan of the dark room revealed a lump lying on the bed. Squinting, I stepped into the room for a better look at my sleeping Goldilocks.

“Crap,” I whispered and backed out of the doorway, shutting the door behind me.

Goldilocks was Hunter Adams.

With Hunter dead to the world (although considering the rash of poisonings, I should probably check my use of metaphors), I decided to let him sleep and deal with my angry boy stalker in the morning. I had had enough drama for the night and occupied my frustrations on a sketchpad with a box of pastels.

Early the next morning, I drank coffee and waited for Hunter to wake. It seemed the sleeping habits of teenagers were worse than adults with hangovers. Finally, I kicked open his door, carrying the Wingmaster over my shoulder for added affect.

“Hunter Adams,” I said. “This house is not a hotel. Get your butt out of my bed and yourself together. Meet me in the kitchen in five. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

I spun on my heel, slamming the door behind me. Seeing the kid shoot to the ceiling and fall on the floor almost made his unexpected visit worthwhile.

Ten minutes later, Hunter dragged his bedraggled form into my kitchen. He ran a hand through his hair and collapsed in a chair.

“What are you doing in my house?” I said. “And how did you get in? As a matter of fact, how do you know where I live?”