by Lucy Score
“I think that attack made you doubt yourself. You went in there thinking you could handle it, and then you couldn’t contain the situation. You couldn’t fix it. And that broke a piece off you. It’s a piece that gets broken off everyone. But you’re using it to think you can’t do other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like deal with your disease. Like finish a triathlon. Like write your goddamn dissertation. You think if you just put everything off by getting more information, doing more research, that you’ll never have to actually see something through. And if you don’t finish something, you won’t be disappointed in yourself again.”
“You know what I think about that, Jonah Bodine?” My voice was entering the Billy Ray howling octave.
“I live for your opinion,” he said sarcastically as he pulled into our driveway.
“You are absolutely, without a doubt, one hundred percent right.” Just like that, the anger burned itself out, leaving behind a lighter, brighter me.
Jonah cracked a grin.
“Have you ever thought about getting into counseling?” I asked.
He laughed. “I’m a personal trainer. It’s the professional equivalent of a bartender.”
“I don’t mean to say this in an offensive way,” I pre-empted. “But you are way more than just a pretty face and a six-pack. You are an excellent listener and keenly insightful. And I think I like your brain even more than I like your very nice body. To be clear, I like your body very, very much.”
“Sounds like I’m going to be a very memorable summer fling. Do you think you’ll tell your grandkids about the hot, smart guy who talked sense into you?”
“Come sit with Grandma, little Shelby the Third, and let me tell you all about the boy I fell for for a summer,” I said, affecting an elderly tone.
Jonah reached out, squeezed my knee. “I care about you, Shelby. Your family cares about you. That’s not a bad thing.”
“I feel like if they’re worrying about me, then I’m not proving that I can take care of myself,” I confessed.
“Families worry. Regardless of how well you can take care of yourself. And sometimes we all need a little help.”
I unsnapped my seatbelt. “Speaking of families, your mom went on a date with Jimmy Bob Prosser. A proper one with dinner and candles last night. And she’s hoping that you’ll fall in love, get married, and give her some grandbabies.”
I left him sitting behind the wheel, speechless, and went inside to let Billy Ray out.
38
Jonah
“A re you sure you don’t want to join us?” Mom asked me under the protective arm of Jimmy Bob Prosser as they escorted me toward the fire escape.
They’d invited me over for dinner, which I’d declined since I wanted to make sure Shelby was eating something healthy tonight. So we’d decided on drinks on the rooftop deck of the hardware store. Jimmy Bob lived in the apartment above the store, the back of which opened onto the first-floor roof overlooking the rear parking lot.
It was a cool, functional spot, with some camp chairs and a folding table. I could tell by the way my mom scanned the deck while we talked that she was mentally redecorating the space.
“I’m sure,” I told her. “You two have fun with the banjo trio.”
“Jimmy Bob’s been taking banjo lessons from Mayor Hornsbladt,” my mother said proudly.
I made a mental note to remind her of that particular statement later. And add it to the list of things said only in Bootleg Springs.
“Really? That’s great, Jimmy Bob,” I said.
The big bear of a man blushed pink, his barn-broad shoulders hunching. “It’s just a fun hobby,” he said. “Drive safe now, you hear?”
“Will do, Jimmy Bob,” I said, stepping onto the fire escape.
My mom gave me a sunny smile, which I returned.
She’d been cagey about when she was returning to Jetty Beach. She’d had a month’s worth of vacation days saved up from all the years she’d never taken one. And since the diner where she worked back in Jetty Beach was closed for renovations, there seemed to be no rush to get back. Not when she was enjoying her own summer fling.
“Have a nice night, y’all,” I said. “Thanks for the beer.”
Shit. I’d said y’all. Bootleg Springs claimed another victim.
I got in my car and headed in the direction of home. My windows were down, letting the evening summer breeze into the car. Fireflies lit up and snuffed out, working out their own kind of Morse code on the humid night air. The crickets and tree frogs were competing for loudest celebration in the woods that flashed past my headlights.
I tapped my hands on the wheel in time to the Darius Rucker song I’d cranked and turned into the gravel drive of the Little Yellow House.
I felt good. Better than good. Especially when I thought of Shelby waiting for me at home.
Shelby.
Just thinking about her made me smile, I thought as the back of the house came into view. I knew it was a summer thing. A fling.
And maybe that was part of this feeling.
We were free to have fun, to just enjoy.
We’d developed our own routine. Waking early before any obligations, spending the first quiet moments of the day naked and playful. Learning each other’s bodies. Most mornings, we worked out together, and in the evenings, I cooked and Shelby cleaned while we filled each other in on our days. Billy Ray at our feet or in our laps. In a sense, we were playing house without the strain of commitments and responsibilities. Of expectations and futures.
I wouldn’t mind summer nights like this in my future, coming home to Shelby. More nights tangled up in the sheets, eating cold leftovers naked in bed while we laughed and talked.
I hoped that was the agenda for tonight.
I wouldn’t mind if it was on the agenda every night. The thought, fleeting though it was, caught my attention. Could we find a way to make our own endless summer? Was that even a possibility? Was it something that I really wanted?
There were cars here, I noted, pulling around the front of the house.
My plans for a quiet, naked night evaporated.
I got out from behind the wheel to Billy Ray’s excited yips. The front porch was dressed for fancy. Candles winked in the darkness, and a string of lights glowed on the railing, illuminating a linen-covered table set for two, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and… was that a string quartet?
Yep. It looked as though Shelby had raided the Bootleg Springs High School band. The kids were dressed in the teenage version of fancy in jeans and black t-shirts. The cellist had braces.
I took a tentative step forward, and the quartet began to play a quiet country—of course—ballad.
But what caught and held my attention was Shelby. She stood on the top step in a pink party dress with a low scoop neck and a full skirt. She was smiling ear to ear, hands clasped in front of her.
“What’s all this?” I asked, climbing the steps to her.
She leaned in and gave me a soft kiss. I tried to be mindful of our underage audience. But I still had a brain full of naked plans.
Her lips against mine, the soft brush of her body, the night air filled with nature’s song. It went straight to my head. I wouldn’t need the champagne. I was already buzzing.
“You’re not the only one who wants to be memorable,” she said, pulling back with a grin. The woman could light up a room or an entire front yard with that smile.
“Shelby, there isn’t a chance on this Earth that I won’t be remembering you when I’m eighty and leading a chair yoga class at the retirement home,” I teased.
“Just making sure,” she said.
Billy Ray scrambled against my leg, demanding his share of the attention. I leaned down to scoop him up but couldn’t resist giving Shelby another kiss. Pretty in pink. Her dark bangs framed those wide eyes that sparkled like all the joy in the world lived inside her.
She took my breath away.
“Com
e on, dinner’s ready,” she said, leading me to the table.
I gave the dog a snuggle and a kiss before setting him down in front of his food and water dishes. A family dinner, I realized.
“You cooked?” I asked, trying to hide the apprehension.
“I ordered out,” Shelby said smugly. She pointed to the heaping Cobb salads on the plates.
“Hi, guys,” I said, giving the quartet a little wave. Fingers on strings and bows wiggled back.
I sat and admired the view as Shelby adjusted her skirts across from me.
“You’re a hell of a girl, Shelby Thompson.”
“Thank you for noticing, Jonah Bodine.” She batted her lashes coyly, and I laughed.
We dined al fresco to live music. And I filled her in on the latest in my mother’s relationship.
“It sounds serious,” she mused, over her glass of champagne.
“It’s just a fling,” I predicted. “My mom isn’t going to uproot her entire life to take a chance on love in Bootleg Springs.”
“In that case, to summer flings,” she said, raising her glass to mine.
“To summer flings,” I echoed.
Later that night, I tipped the teenage musicians twenty bucks each and then guided Shelby upstairs. And when I settled over her, into her, with the flavor of champagne between us, I wondered again if there was more to this. To us. Than just one summer.
* * *
Q. In what ways do you interact with your neighbors outside of societal norms?
Walter Nagley: I play the violin on their front porches while they’re on a date. Thanks for the $20.
39
Shelby
“Next time you need a favor, can you please make it an easy one that actually pays off in the end?” Amanda huffed into my ear. It was a hot July morning. The park was still decked out from last week’s holiday festivities, the breathtaking engagement ring Jameson had slid on Leah Mae’s finger this weekend hadn’t lost its sparkle, and I was hustling my wayward puppy through a series of training exercises on our walk through town that he was all too happy to ignore.
“I promise you I’ll never ask for another favor again,” I said, untangling Billy Ray’s leash from my legs. Leash manners and walking etiquette were not his strong suit. He’d just gotten done wrapping me up with a cocker spaniel named Linda in the lakefront park when Amanda called.
“I’m afraid you might have wasted this one,” she said. I heard her bite into something crisp and crunchy. Lunchtime for most social workers happened on the fly.
“No cases?” I asked, disappointed but not surprised.
“There was one.”
I perked up and towed Billy Ray toward a park bench, wishing I had a notebook on me. Jonah and I were meeting up after his personal training session to swap dog parenting duties, so I hadn’t thought to bring anything with me besides a collapsible water dish for the puppy.
“You’re kidding me,” I said. I felt the interest hum to life inside me. New information. Something no one else had. It was a researcher’s fantasy.
“Unsubstantiated claim in Henrico County. It’s an old file, so it looks kind of like someone forgot to enter ninety percent of the information, including what the initial complaint was. Unfortunately, par for the course since the move was made to electronic records. And it was sealed.”
That explained why it had never made the news.
“Does it say who reported it?” I asked, drumming my fingers against my lips. The puppy sniffed after a butterfly and then lifted his leg on a pinecone.
“There’s a name but no title. I’ll send you the particulars. My contact copied me on it, so I’ll email you the file. Not much there. It was from back in ’98. Odds are it was an elementary teacher, maybe a school nurse or someone along those lines.”
“Thanks for the info, Amanda. I owe you big time.”
“I don’t know what you’re up to. But be careful,” she cautioned me.
I started dialing the second the call disconnected.
“Hello?”
“Hey, June. It’s Shelby.”
“I ascertained that fact from my caller ID,” she said.
“You tracked down the fake Callie, didn’t you?” I asked.
“Yes. Is that all? I’m occupied teaching Katherine to fetch.”
“How would you feel about taking a road trip with me today?”
“No, thank you. I prefer to stay here with my pig.”
“What if you could bring her along? I’ll bring Billy Ray.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re tracking down two people who might have information about Callie Kendall,” I told her.
“I assume you mean information besides the fact that she is deceased?” she asked.
“Yes,” I promised. “I think we could find something that might point suspicion away from Jonah Bodine Sr.”
June sighed. “Fine. But I’ll want lunch. A turkey sandwich. Turkey Tuesday.”
Callie Kendall was dead. But there were still questions. And if I could get a few of them answered for Jonah and the rest of the Bodines, we’d all sleep better.
* * *
After another phone call, a handful of texts, and a stop at the Pop In for gas and provisions, I swung by June’s house. June hefted the haltered Katherine up and into the back seat. Katherine oinked a greeting at Billy Ray, who bravely licked her face and then cowered in the corner.
June was wearing a ball cap featuring the logo of GT’s team rivals. Beneath the brim was a pair of movie star-huge sunglasses.
“Did GT see that hat?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s part of my disguise. I borrowed it from Opal Bodine. If we’re tracking down the Fake Callie Kendall, I’ve ripped hair from this woman’s head. It would be safer for all of us if she did not recognize me.”
“Smart,” I said, typing in the first address into the GPS program. “First stop: Abbie Gilbert.”
“What are we talking to her about? Is there a requirement for good cop, bad cop? I think I could perform an effective bad cop,” June said.
“We’re asking her why the Kendalls believed that she was their daughter.”
She pursed her lips under the glasses. “Do you believe they knew Abbie was not their daughter?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“Then why would they give her an apartment? Why would they publicly claim her as their daughter?” she asked.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” I pointed to the bag at her feet. “There’s a turkey sandwich in there for you.”
“Turkey Tuesday.”
* * *
Abbie had been booted from her upscale Philadelphia apartment financed by the Kendalls. She now lived in a squat, gray brick building on the outskirts of Baltimore. The neighborhood was made up entirely of rundown row homes and graffitied convenience stores. Fast food bags and the cardboard from six-packs littered the sidewalks and gutters.
It didn’t feel dangerous. Just well past its prime. Like its residents had given up on keeping up appearances.
I put the car in park and cranked up the air conditioning. “Do you want to wait here with the kids?” I asked June.
She looked torn, peering into the back seat where her beloved Katherine was enjoying a snack of lettuce and pellets.
“I should accompany you,” she decided reluctantly.
We locked the car and crossed the road to the apartment building. A. Gilbert was listed above Apartment B3. I pressed the buzzer and waited.
There were no security cameras here, and some of the mailboxes inside the foyer had their doors broken off. It did not give off a homey vibe.
I buzzed again. Waited.
“Perhaps she is at work?” June suggested.
I shook my head. “Cassidy says there’s no job on record for her.”
“My sister gave you this address?” June asked, surprised. Cassidy Tucker was straight as an arrow. A good guy to the bone. She took the law and its
rules very seriously.
“Of course not,” I scoffed. “I had Leah Mae use her super social media sleuthing powers to track her down.”
“I just asked Cassidy if she knew if Abbie was employed.”
“She must have been suspicious,” June insisted. On cue, her phone rang, and Cassidy’s name scrolled across the screen.
“Maybe don’t answer that until we’re on our way home,” I suggested.
“I believe that is the correct course of action.”
I stabbed the buzzer for B2 belonging to an M. McManus.
We waited another minute, the hot sun baking us on the sidewalk. “Maybe we should go back to the car. We have another stop to make. We could try Abbie again afterward.”
June gave the front door a hard tug, and we both watched bemused as the door opened.
“Some security system,” I muttered.
We took the stairs to the second floor. The paint on the walls and railing was peeling, and the carpet had bare spots, but overall it was clean. B2 was the second door on the left. I held my ear to the door and listened.
“What are you doing?” June asked at normal volume.
I eased back and shushed her. “I’m trying to see if she’s in there. She might not be answering the buzzer because she doesn’t want to talk.”
“This is taking too long. I would like to get back to my pig.” She reached around me and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Abbie Gilbert. I would like to speak with you.”
A dark head poked out of the door across the hall. “You’re going to have to yell a hell of a lot louder than that.”
June took a breath. “ABBIE GILBERT—”
I cut her off with a hand on her arm. “That’s not what you meant, is it?” I asked the woman.
Her jet-black hair was styled in a pristine bowl cut. She was wearing a purple and yellow housecoat and slippers that looked older than me.
“The poor girl,” the woman tut-tutted. “Couldn’t catch a break. Said her boyfriend broke up with her and she lost her job in Baltimore.”
June opened her mouth to argue, but I squeezed her arm.
“Do you know where we could find Abbie?” I asked.