by Joe DeRouen
Poss joined the group. He tangled his hand in the woman’s wild magenta hair. He pulled, jerking her head back to meet his tawny eyes. “What’s going on, Brittany?” He growled like a wild animal.
She rubbed against him like he was a scratching post, and she was in heat. “Nothing, Poss.”
Marisa cocked her head when a familiar squeaking caught her attention. It sounded like metallic wheels rolling across a wooden floor. She frowned. Her earlier dinner with Alex seemed long ago. Her stomach growled. People were shifting out of its path as it moved closer to them. “What’s that sound? A dessert cart?”
The people nearest them melted away, revealing a shiny wooden coffin on a rolling cart.
Brittany smiled, her heavily-painted mouth a cruel curve. “Didn’t you know? Scrapper’s here to party with us.”
Chapter Four
“The clubhouse seems nearly deserted,” Marisa commented. “Even Jason left, after pretending to be with us just to get the infatuated Brittany off his back.”
“I think he’d love to make that fantasy a reality, at least with you.” When Marisa narrowed her eyes in anger, Alex hurried on. “I heard some people talking about a demolition derby. Many of them had placed bets on it, and were wondering how the sleet will affect the cars. A big crowd headed out to watch the show.” Alex upended his Mason jar, and drained it.
As Marisa stared at him, her irritation melted. Beads of moisture glistened on his lips. She really wanted to get him alone, and kiss the cool liquid off his mouth.
Alex caught her glance. “What?” He raised his brows.
I wonder if he’ll raise his brows when he— Marisa cleared her throat. “Thanks. I needed to force my thoughts onto another track. A dirty one with noise, engines roaring, and victory at the end is apropos.”
Alex’s eyes widened. He smiled, the movement of his lips slow and insinuating.
Marisa realized she’d spoken her thoughts. She stammered, “I was talking about the demotion derby.”
He leaned in close, his breath warm on her cheek. “Were you, Marisa? Were you talking about cars ramming into each other?” He touched a wavy lock of her hair. He brought it to his lips, and then to his nose. “Mmmm, you always smell like peaches and cream. How do you taste?”
Marisa’s breath caught in her chest. Her lips parted.
“Coming through!” Poss pushed his way past her, holding one end of a large, rectangular folding table. “In Scrapper’s honor, we’re going to play poker. Hey, you guys, push Scrapper over here! Someone will have to play his hands for him.”
“Marisa, let’s head back to the city. We’ll go to my apartment. I’ll start a fire in the fireplace.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You can finish reading the article to me on the bioethics of automatic cars. We can debate the issue from the utilitarianism and deontology perspectives. Which side will you take?”
“In the Star Trek movie, Mr. Spock espoused the greatest good for the greatest number,” Marisa breathed.
“Deontology states that some actions are always wrong, regardless of the circumstances or the culture.” Alex gently touched her cheek. “For example, murder is always wrong.”
“Murder!” Marisa clutched at Alex. “Scrapper was killed in his garage. What if Tommy is right? The killer could be here now, pretending to mourn his victim.” She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Let’s stay for the card games. We might be able to spot the murderer.”
Alex raised his hands. “Marisa, no! It’s too dangerous. The murderer thinks he’s gotten away with it. If he thinks you know too much, then you’ll be the next victim. Leave it to the police.”
“They’ve got the table set up,” Marisa said, peering over Alex’s shoulder, “but they’re not starting yet. They’re getting the chips ready.” She met his outraged gaze. “My gun is in my car. I’ll get it and put it in my purse. Give me your keys.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he muttered, handing her his keys.
She slipped them in her jeans’ pocket. She pulled the purple hood of her sweater over her head, and turned toward the door.
The sturdy, timbered door swung open. Amid a swirl of white snow, a body staggered through the doorway. It hesitated, swayed, and then crashed to the floor. Magenta hair, thickly coated with snow, covered most of the bloodless, icy face.
“It’s Brittany! Is she dead?” Marisa jerked against Alex’s restraining hand on her arm.
“I couldn’t make it to the outhouse in the freak blizzard.” Brittany’s snow-covered arm twitched, a long board clutched in her white hand. The chain attached to one end of the board clanked with the movements. “When I turned around, I ran into someone. He tore the key holder out of my hand, and whacked me with it. I must have passed out, because when I woke up, the board was in my hand, and my head was aching like crazy.”
The bartender rushed forward. “Give me the outhouse key before you lose it,” he growled. “I’m responsible for it.”
“To hell with the key! Let’s get her up off the floor.” Poss ran to her side, and bent over her.
Marisa moved to help Poss, shrugging out of her sweater. “Let’s get that wet top off her, and my sweater on her.” She caught an avid stare. The creepy little Tommy would love to undress his brother’s girlfriend. She shuddered.
Grinning like a maniacal death’s head, Tommy took a step forward. “You’d best take her in the back room. I don’t think she’s wearing any underwear.”
Poss clenched his big hands into fists. “What do you know about Brittany’s underwear, you little perv?”
Marisa grabbed his fists. “Stop it.” She looked around. “Where’s the bartender? Brittany needs hot coffee now!”
“I’m right here. I keep extra clothes in the back. Sometimes, club meetings last all night, and I catnap in the back.” His face grim under his bandana, he held out a bundle of wet clothing. “Someone wore them, even my shoes. They must have put them on, attacked Brittany, left her for dead, circled around to the back door, changed clothes, and put the wet ones back.”
Marisa turned in a slow circle, searching the faces. “Alex! Do you realize what that means?”
He moved forward to take her hands. “It means the attacker is dry, even his shoes. There’s no way for us to know who attacked Brittany.”
Chapter Five
In the corner with Marisa, Alex ticked off points on his fingers. “One, Scrapper was murdered. Two, his killer is here. Three, he tried to kill Brittany. Four, we’re trapped by a freak, October blizzard in a cabin in the wilderness. The snow is already over two feet deep. Not even Poss’ tow truck will make it out of here. Five, no cell reception means no contact with the outside world. There’s no way out.”
“Tow truck. No cell reception. I have an idea.” Marisa dragged Alex to the rectangular table.
The cards and the chips were pushed to one side. Scrapper’s coffin was positioned at the head of the table. At the opposite end, Brittany was sipping hot coffee, and holding ice wrapped in a dingy bar towel to the side of her head. Other people were seated in between, their faces grave. Animated discussions alternated between the attack and the freak snowstorm.
The coffeepot in his hand, Poss looked up as Marisa and Alex approached.
“Poss, don’t you have a radio in your tow truck? You can use it to call for help.”
“Marisa, I do have a radio—”
Everyone at the table cheered. Chairs scraped as people rose.
“—but it’s just to keep in contact with Tommy.”
People groaned and dropped back into the folding chairs.
“The base station is back at the store. No other receiver is within hailing distance.” His broad shoulders drooping, Poss filled Brittany’s cup with steaming liquid.
The bartender moved around the table with a tray, distributing empty cups. Poss followed in his wake, filling the cups.
Marisa wrapped her icy fingers around her hot cup. “I’m out of ideas.” She shiver
ed.
Alex quickly stripped off his green sweater. His t-shirt was snowy white. The snug cotton outlined his muscles and his trim waist as he helped Marisa into the sweater.
A woman across the table from Brittany dropped her coffee cup with a clatter. Everyone stopped talking. Their eyes wide, they turned to her. “I know who killed Scrapper, and I know who tried to kill Brittany,” she announced.
The people at the table could have been wax figures, commissioned to represent A Party with a Murderer, the more chilling for its depiction of everyday people. The only sound was the crackling fire in the wide fireplace, and the muted tinkle of icy snow against the windows.
“You don’t know anything, Dovie,” scoffed Poss. “You got your own son killed. It’s your deep-down guilt that’s making you speak now. Ain’t to do with Scrapper.”
Marisa turned to Dovie. “What did he mean, you got your own son killed?”
She shook her head of short dark hair. Her face was scored with deep wrinkles, as if time and grief had taken turns carving their marks. As dark as her hair, her eyes were wide, the pupils invisible against the bitter chocolate background. “I loved the wrong man.” She was sullen. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“You couldn’t bear to be alone, Mom.” Brittany threw the icepack on the table in front of her. “When John Tucker came prowling through the club, looking for a bitch for his bike, you threw yourself at him. When you found out he had done hard time for killing his wife, you said it was her own fault. According to you, she drove him to it with her nagging. You dragged him, along with his juvenile delinquent son, into our home, with me and Kevin. When your boyfriend started looking at me funny, you looked the other way. When he tried to get me alone, you talked Scrapper into taking me into his home.”
“Scrapper gave you a better home than I ever could—”
“Shut up. I’ve been itching to say this for the past three years. When John and his son, Jackie, tortured Kevin whenever anything didn’t go their way, you blamed your own son. When Kevin was found dead in a ditch, beaten to death with a Louisville slugger baseball bat, you blamed his classmates. But the perpetrators were closer to home, weren’t they, my dear mother?” Brittany slapped the table, causing everyone to jump.
“I had Battered Woman’s Syndrome. John hit me, beating my will to resist out of me. I couldn’t save Kevin. That’s what the psychiatrist said, when the prosecutor wanted to charge me as an accessory. I didn’t have the—tools—to save anyone.” Tears fell down the ravaged cheeks. She reached across the table for her daughter’s hand.
Before her mother could touch her, Brittany jerked away.
“I remember reading about the case.” Marisa pulled her phone from her pocket. “I forgot, no signal.” She put the phone away. “John Tucker confessed to the killing. Even though he’d already told his sister that he and Jackie together killed Kevin, he pleaded guilty, stating he’d acted alone. He said his son was innocent. At the time, I wondered if it was his only selfless act in a long life of violence.”
“If I remember correctly, it didn’t last,” Alex contributed. “After his conviction, Tucker said he’d lied. He said his son landed the killing blow.”
“It was too late. Because of reasonable doubt, Jackie got off scot-free,” Brittany growled.
Marisa sighed. “I thought the boy had gotten the once-in-a-lifetime chance to start over...”
“… but he got into trouble soon after his release,” Alex finished. “His girlfriend broke up with him after his arrest. As soon as he was free, he stalked her. He’s back in jail.”
“It’s not enough,” Brittany cried. “Kevin died. I lost my home—”
“—and gained another one!” Dovie leaned on the table. “You had Scrapper. He was so kind to animals. He used to stop whenever he saw a wounded animal on these back country roads. He kept a large black box strapped to the back of his motorcycle, just for that purpose. Don’t you remember the county sheriff thought Scrapper was using it to transport drugs? Prescription pills had flooded the county. The sheriff and his deputies stopped Scrapper, lights flashing and sirens screaming, near the Conkler brothers’ store.”
Marisa glanced at Alex. “Prescription drugs,” she whispered. “It’s a big problem in rural Kentucky communities like this one. Do you think—”
“Are you whispering about me?” Dovie shrieked. She stood, and bent over the table until her face was less than an inch from Marisa’s shocked one.
“Of course not.” She met the mad eyes with all the calm she could muster. “I’m wondering what happened when the sheriff stopped Scrapper.”
In a lightning change, Dovie laughed. The wild sound echoed through the club. “I wish I could have seen the look on his face when he opened that box. Scrapper had picked up a wounded raccoon. That poor creature went crazy when the sheriff opened the box, and tore up his face with his sharp little claws. The stupid lawman had to get rabies shots in his stomach.”
“Did you give me to Scrapper because I was a wounded animal? Because he’d put me in the black box, all torn and bloody, and then take out the healed Brittany, ready to release in the world?”
Dovie looked surprised. “Brittany, he’d never put you in a box. That’s silly. I gave you to him because you’d be safe. He loved you like a daughter. He even made you the beneficiary on his life insurance, didn’t he? You said you’d use the hundred grand to start fresh. Wasn’t that why you were sucking up to that handsome college professor?”
“Mom, hush!” Shaking her head, Brittany frantically rolled her eyes toward Poss.
“It was smart of you to recognize the professor under the chains and long hair.” She looked around, her eyes bright and happy. “He must have left before Scrapper sent the snow to trap us here until we unmasked his murderer.”
Poss rose, his movements as slow, like an elderly man riddled with arthritis. “You’re leaving me, Britt?”
Brittany laughed, an eerie echo of her mother’s mad cackle. “I’m moving to the city. I’m going to buy a big, fancy house. I’m going to drive an expensive sports car. I’m going to go to the university, so I can party, and meet people. I’m going to get a great job, Poss, and forget all about this place and—” she glared around the room “—everyone in it, including you and your creepy brother.”
Marisa looked at Alex. She was fairly certain his thoughts mirrored hers. A hundred grand might get you through a couple of years at the university, tops. No big fancy house. No expensive sports car.
Dovie bopped herself on the forehead. “Creepy brother.” She turned to Tommy. “That’s what I started to say before Brittany sent me down the rabbit hole. Tommy killed Scrapper, because he found out about the drug running.”
Tommy squawked. “What are you talking about, you crazy old biddy?”
Dovie straightened in her chair, lifting her chin with quiet dignity. “I’m only ten years older than you, Tommy Conkler.” She sank back into her seat. “After your mother died, your father turned his attention to a widow woman from church. You took advantage of his distraction. You built on your family tradition. Instead of running moonshine, you ran pills. You know all the back ways through the hills and hollers, and you have a nice boat tied up on the river. You could transport the dope at night, with no one the wiser. Oh, except your father.”
His face contorted in anger, Tommy stood. “I don’t have to take this.”
“Yes, you do. You’re trapped here, just like the rest of us,” Marisa reminded him.
“Your father figured out what you were doing,” Dovie continued, as if no one had spoken. “He knew you couldn’t afford a Corvette. That was stupid of you to buy it, since the store was barely scraping by. You didn’t see me in the store the day he confronted you about it. The high shelves hid me. He told you it had to stop, or he’d turn you into the sheriff.”
“Tommy,” Poss said, reeling from the second blow. “What did you do?”
“She’s lying, Poss! There wasn’t anyone in the store�
�”
“—when you confessed?” Marisa finished. Alex sank into his chair next to her.
“Next thing I knew, your father fell into the river, and he drowned. You and Poss inherited the property. And you kept running drugs.” Dovie smiled.
Tommy ran to the door. Moving like a lion after a gazelle, Poss bounded across the room, beating his brother to the heavy door. “No, Tommy.”
The bartender joined Poss. “We can lock him in the storeroom until help gets through the snow.”
Tommy struggled as the men dragged him across the floor.
Alex sighed. “It’s over. Tommy killed Scrapper to keep him silent about the drug business.”
“No,” Marisa said. Her gaze was fixed on Dovie. The other woman was relaxed, with a small smile playing around her cracked lips.
“What? We have the killer, Marisa.”
“Alex, this is Dovie’s attempt to throw suspicion on Tommy.”
Across the room, Tommy threw his head up. “Marisa, you believe I’m innocent.” He shook his head. “I was mean to your brother. You could let me fry.”
“If young Tommy were standing here right now, then I’d be tempted as young Marisa to kick his ass. But we’re not children. We grew up, all of us. Those kids don’t exist.”
Tommy sagged between his brother and the bartender. “Thank you for believing in my innocence. You saved me. I am sorry about what I did to your brother.”
“You’re not innocent, and I’m not saving you. You got away with what you did to my brother. You bullied him mercilessly, without any consequences—”
“But there was a cost, Marisa,” Tommy interrupted. “I thought about what I did. It was an irritant from time to time, like I had poison ivy. Just when I think it was finally healed, it flared up, itching and burning. I couldn’t scratch it or soothe it. I finally decided to find Mosely. I wanted to apologize. But by that time, he was dead.”
Her eyes filling with tears, Marisa shook her head.