Hot Enough to Kill

by Paula Boyd

  Lucille got a Cheshire cat grin and fairly licked her lips. "I suppose I should have mentioned it before, but yes, there was talk of another woman."

  Ridiculous or not, my heart twisted up in my chest, then took a plunge into my stomach. I hadn't even been here, but it hurt to think that Jerry would have fallen for someone else when he had to have known I was available--sort of. Seven hundred miles isn't exactly around the corner, but it isn't unavailable either.

  I glanced at Mother to see just how deep her self-satisfaction went. She wasn't smug, but she was snickering. Whatever the case, I didn't think it was the least bit funny. I tucked my hurt feelings and temper away as best I could and mustered up my most businesslike voice. "So who was the woman?"

  "Some girl out of Redwater. I don't know her name. I don't like listening to gossip, you know." Another sly grin. "But I heard she was kind of kinky."

  Kinky? What did my mother know about that? And where did kinky fall on the latest yardstick of morality in Kickapoo? Did that mean the woman wore leather and carried a whip or that she drove the car when they went out? Don't laugh. In Kickapoo, real men do not let women drive them around.

  I know this personally because before my dad died, he was, for all intents and purposes, blind as a bat--and would have been declared legally so if they had caught him--yet he continued to drive everywhere. No way was he going to be seen riding shotgun for a woman, particularly his wife. In keeping with his very macho image, he also continued to ride his Harley, without a helmet, by God. How he died in the house of natural causes rather than under a semi on the highway is still a mystery.

  So, you see, kinky is a matter of perspective--and geographic location--which is why I decided to ignore the issue completely. "So how long did the relationship with the other woman last?" I asked, belatedly wondering why that particular question jumped into my head. Then again, a three-month relationship was different than a three-year one, although I wasn't feeling particularly enthusiastic about either option.

  Lucille patted her hair. "Oh, they're still living together, as far as I know."

  After my stomach did another free fall, I looked my mother straight in the eye and glared. "This is not funny, Mother. What exactly are you talking about?"

  "Oh, all right," she said, sighing dramatically. "I understand they only live together when she doesn't have the children."

  Her children, his children, what? There was something not quite right here. "So Jerry only lives with a woman when her kids aren't there, or is it his kids you mean?"

  Lucille snickered in a "you poor dumb thing" sort of way. "It's not Jerry Don we're talking about here. Amy Parker's the one with the girlfriend."

  I know my eyebrows raised because I felt them. "Oh."

  Not a brilliant response, but the best I could manage, considering. This was definitely a new twist in the story that opened up a whole new can of questions. Amy was a lesbian? I'll admit to a twinge of relief at the prospect, as ridiculous as that may sound. My selfishness was short-lived, however, as the implications of the situation became painfully clear for Jerry. It would have been horrible enough for Amy to have left him for another man, but for another woman? That had to hurt. Bad. I wondered for a moment why Jerry hadn't told me about it, but what was he going to say: "By the way, did you know my wife prefers to sleep with women?" Not exactly first date conversation material, not that it was a date, of course. Meeting Amy, it was believable, I supposed, but only to a point. "From what I saw at the hospital, I would have sworn that Amy really loved Jerry."

  "I'd heard that too," Lucille said, a little too flippantly. "Maybe she does, or maybe it's like a brother-sister thing, or maybe she doesn't at all. In any case, you can't blame him for being upset when he found his wife and her lover in bed together, doing whatever those kind do."

  Those kind...kinky.... Oh, great, I knew exactly where this was headed and I didn't want to go there. I'll admit that I enjoyed a rather idyllic childhood here in Kickapoo; small school, small classes, lots of opportunities to be a big shot, and very few worries. And for the most part, I was oblivious to the underlying attitude of the times, which was that anyone other than white heterosexual Protestants (Baptists being best) were regarded with suspicion, fear and outright loathing. In fact, I was probably around eight when it occurred to me that the only person with a skin color other than white I'd ever seen was a friend of my dad's. I also remember overhearing my mom and dad worry about him being okay after he left our house. I didn't understand it, just knew it scared me too. Later, I realized he'd literally been taking his life in his own hands by coming over to visit us--not kidding.

  I'd like to believe that things are different today. And to be fair, on my last visit to Kickapoo, I heard a kid at the Dairy Queen gleefully chattering about the "two black guys" on the high school football team who were, and I quote, "gonna kick everybody's butt all the way to state." Funny how an upswing in the Class AAA football rankings helps smooth out those pesky pigmentation issues. Helps a little anyway.

  Armed with that little prehistoric perspective on tolerance, how well do you figure a gay person would fare in this lovely, open-minded haven, especially one that wasn't a star football player?

  "Okay, Mother dear," I said, trying not to sound as weary as I felt. "How much of this stuff about Amy is hearsay and how much is truth?"

  "Oh, I only gave you the facts, Jolene, but there are plenty of stories. Agnes told Merline about seeing those two out at McDonald's together. They didn't sit on the same side of the booth or anything, but Agnes said she could still tell."

  No, I was not about to ask "tell what?" because frankly, the more I learned, the muddier the picture got. And while none of this appeared to have anything to do with the mayor's murder, it very well could have played into Jerry's shooting--or not. Nevertheless, I couldn't ignore this part of the equation. I scribbled a few notes then scratched out my doodle of the golden arches when I realized the only fact worth noting was that Amy had a girlfriend. "So what kind of a person is Amy's friend?"

  "Oh, she's really butch," Lucille said authoritatively. "Real masculine looking."

  I did not laugh, but I did rub my hand across my mouth to prevent it. My mother, the expert on lesbians. "What I meant was, is she a nice person?"

  Lucille patted her hair. "Oh, well, I don't really know about that. Merline pointed her out to me once. Real short dark hair, thin build, but kind of muscular."

  Again, I did not groan nor did I bother explaining that short hair and a nice physique did not mean anything whatsoever, except that the person obviously did not sit around eating chicken fried steaks with gravy and watching "Wheel of Fortune" every night as did a large percentage of the local populace.

  "She works over at that new lumberyard out off the old Jacksboro Highway," Lucille volunteered. "Maybe you ought to have a talk with her."

  I tapped my pen on the pad. "Why would I want to talk with her?"

  "Maybe she shot Jerry."

  I thought about that for a minute, and I had to admit it was a possibility, but not a good one. Why bother with Jerry since she already had what she wanted, namely a divorced and available Amy? There were a number of other details that didn't make sense. "If she was going to shoot Jerry there are a whole lot more convenient places to do it than in your breakfast nook."

  Lucille huffed, although I could see her following along with my thinking. "Then, I guess we're just back to me. Somebody hates me enough to want to kill me." She took in a ragged breath that was tinged with both anger and fear. "I know you find that very easy to believe."

  I didn't argue with her, just sat there, trying to figure out what to do next. I couldn't see a good starting place. Either there were two separate events to unravel, or they were somehow related, which made it more complex since we didn't know if the shooter was actually after Jerry or Mother. It seemed highly likely, but not certain, that whoever shot the mayor was probably also responsible for trying to kill Jerry or Mother. I could link
a motive for shooting Mother with the mayor easily and romantically, but not confidently. I could find a fair motive for a couple of people to shoot Jerry, but they didn't have anything to do with the mayor. None of the motives I could come up with were very strong, and there was nothing that pointed to some kind of big conspiracy. But maybe, I just wasn't seeing the bigger picture--maybe I didn't want to.

  Denial danced a jig through my brain chanting: When in doubt, block it out. Seemed reasonable. But as much as I didn't want to face the ugly reality of the situation, the plywood on the window, my mother's arm in a sling and my dear friend in ICU demanded otherwise. "I think I'll run back into town to see how Jerry's doing, then swing out to Bowman City and chat with Sheriff Leroy, or some higher evolved species occupying the office tonight, and see what's going on."

  "I doubt he'll tell you anything."

  I doubted it too, even planned on it. While denial had been trying to avoid reality, another little voice had been screaming, "Do something, even if it's wrong." That particular voice calls to me a lot. However, giving myself permission to do something wrong is not always a great plan since I can usually be highly successful in the endeavor. Thus my decision to also go to the Redwater Falls Times newsroom and find the newest greenest kid in the place--one who hadn't been socialized into complacency yet--and lay out all the tantalizing facets of the shootings in Kickapoo to whet his appetite for a juicy "make a name for yourself" story.

  It was yet another long shot, but I didn't see how it could hurt.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning I forced myself out of bed at the obscene hour of seven a.m., threw on my standard uniform of shorts and a T-shirt, and set about my mission of snagging the newspaper before my mother did. Stumbling into the kitchen for my daily infusion of liquid tar, I saw that I was too late. Way too late.

  Lucille Jackson sat at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of her, bifocals perched on the end of her nose and steam coming from her ears. Apparently, intern Kimberlee Fletcher had written an article on the unseemly activities in Kickapoo.

  Without a word, I grabbed a can of Dr Pepper from the fridge and sat down at the table. Stupidly, I said, "Anything interesting in the paper this morning?"

  "You should know." Lucille shoved the newspaper at me. "Every other sentence in this trashy little piece ends with 'Jolene Jackson said.'"

  Uh oh. A sick feeling settled over me, and it was like I was being called into the office again for writing my "Fire the Pervert" editorial in the school paper. "It really says that? 'Jolene Jackson said?'"

  "You have no idea the can of worms you've opened up, Jolene. And why on earth they printed this mess is beyond me."

  "Slow news day?" I said, trying to be halfway amusing, lighten the mood, that sort of thing. It didn't work--for either of us.

  Lucille stood and glared. "You've made this mess, Jolene, now you're going to be the one fixing it, not that you can un-sully my reputation."

  I watched her stomp out, but got the feeling she wasn't all that mad. If she had been, she'd have already dragged me out of bed accompanied by the phrase "Jolene Janette Jackson, look what you've done." So, I figured it couldn't be too bad.

  I was wrong.

  The more I read, the sicker I got. If Kimberlee Fletcher had been to even one journalism class, it was not readily apparent from the words printed on the page. It goes without saying that she didn't know the first thing about investigative reporting either, like the fact that you don't just print everything some moron off the street tells you. The moron in this case, of course, being me.

  The highly informative and speculative article detailed every little trivial thing I had told Kimberlee, including the fact that my mother, an eccentric, flamboyant type (yes, she used those words), had been dating a married man who was now dead via unnatural causes, specifically the mayor whose obituary she dutifully noted appeared on page 23. Kimberlee Fletcher was right on top of this story.

  And furthermore, the "highly esteemed sheriff of the county, Jerry Don Parker, former high school sweetheart of the very same Jolene Jackson, was critically wounded during an early morning visit to the elder Jackson's home." The little snot had made it sound like we were both sleeping with him.

  After I quit hyperventilating, I read on. Kimberlee had told every little bit of hearsay and speculation about all the goings-on at city hall. She even hinted that the mayor's wife had been having an affair also, but nobody knew for sure who with, and what did anybody really know about the mayor pro tem and what is a pro tem anyway? All in all, it reflected rather tackily on the populace of Kickapoo, not to mention the sleazy informant.

  And I had to agree with my mother. How on earth did this piece of yellow journalism get published? This wasn't typical of news stories, even in this paper. The National Enquirer would have passed on this one.

  Then it hit me. When I'd been doing my internship, I'd had to beg and fight to get assigned to anything other than a feature story on a homecoming queen. And in those stories you didn't have to check out anything, just write what you were told and, true or not, everybody was happy.

  I flipped through the rest of the paper looking for little Miss Kimberlee Fletcher's byline. It didn't take long to find it, right beneath the headline that read: Greenbelt Bowl Queen Nominees Announced. A dozen or so photos of smiling high school girls lined the sides of the article. Pretty much the same headline and format as when my picture graced the page twenty-odd years ago. And then, at the bottom, I did see my high school picture with the words: "Former Bowl Queen Involved in Recent Shooting."

  "Mother!"

  Now, I was the one with steam coming out my ears. "Did you see this?" I said, pointing at the article as she walked into the room. "Did you see this!"

  She put on her glasses and peered over my shoulder. "Why no, I didn't. I always did like that picture of you. It's one of my favorites. I paid a fortune for that dress but it surely did look good on you. Look how that lace vees down over your bosoms. You surely did have a nice figure back then, not that it's horrible now. You've gained a few pounds, of course, but, I bet you could still fit into that gown. Why don't you give it a try? It's in the closet, you know."

  Yes, I knew. I also knew I couldn't fit into the thing if my life depended on it. I'd been sixteen years old then, for godsakes. And now every person in the county and the next would be commenting on how I'd aged, how I used to be such a smart and sweet girl, and on and on, ad nauseam. It was all stuff I didn't care about under normal circumstances. Here, however, that kind of thing just plain makes me nuts, because in the hierarchy of needs, gossiping and judging comes right after food and shelter--most of the time.

  And what would the killer think about all the printed inane conjecture, speculation and outright lies? Oh, I'd already thought about that, don't think I hadn't. In fact, it had sort of been the point. My plan had been to stir up enough interest so the idiot reporter would investigate, which would put pressure on the killer and make him back off a little. It had seemed like a sound theory at the time, but all it had probably accomplished was getting my own name added to the killer's hit list on general principles--namely stupidity and a big mouth.

  "Okay, Mother, I admit it. I screwed up." I folded up the newspaper and shoved it aside. "So what do we do now?"

  "It seems to me, Jolene, that your newspaper article puts all the cards on the table, so to speak."

  "It's not my article, Mother."

  "Well, same as," she said, with a flick of her nails. "The point is whoever is taking pot shots at everybody isn't going to stop because of it, that's for sure. I suppose one choice is to just sit back and let the sheriff's department handle it."

  Handle what? They hadn't handled anything at all that I could see, and with Jerry barely alive, I had no hopes that his troops would pull themselves up by their bootstraps and become efficient criminal-catching machines here in the next ten minutes. "You're right about the article, but I have no faith whatsoever in the curren
t leadership of the sheriff's department."

  Lucille wandered over to the cabinet and got a glass, then filled it from the jug of water in the fridge. When she finished, she set the glass aside and turned toward me, rather haughtily. "Well, Jolene, it seems to me that all Leroy's said to the newspaper was 'No Comment.'"

  She was implying that Leroy had more sense than I did, and I didn't appreciate it, although I couldn't argue with her point. I had made a really dumb mistake and I was rightfully obligated to fix it. I stood. "I'll take a quick shower and head up to the hospital. Jerry was awake for a few minutes yesterday, so I'm hoping he'll be awake when I'm there today."

  "No visits with the reporter?"

  "Oh, yes, I'll be visiting with little Miss Fletcher and her boss as well. I think they both need a lesson on responsible journalism."

  "Well, you go on and have a good time, dear. Merline's coming over and we're going to the Dairy Queen."

  I stood, frowning as I thought about her plans. "I don't think so, Mother. Somebody might be trying to kill you. We agreed you would stay home until this was over, with the nice deputy outside to see to your safety."

  Lucille waved her good hand in dismissal. "Well, I've thought about that, and nobody's expecting me to be out so they can't very well be waiting in the bushes with a gun. Somebody would have seen them by now."

  I started to point out that nobody had seen the shooter before either, but instead I used a different tack. "What about that article in the paper?"

  "Well, really, Jolene, I hate to say it, but you'll be the one taking the heat over that."

  Or a bullet. I didn't say a word, just smiled--sort of.

  "Besides, I'll not have anyone disrupting my lifestyle for any reason. If I want to go have a hamburger and a glass of iced tea with my friends, I'll certainly do so. Like Merline said, I'm kind of a celebrity now anyway."

  Oh, so that was it. A celebrity. "So you're not mad at me anymore?" I asked, willing to take my "get out of jail free" cards where I could get them.