by Meg Benjamin
When she took a water break, he stepped beside her. “Nice song.”
She glanced up to see him smiling, which started another pool of warmth somewhere deep inside. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it. You’re not doing dinner tonight?”
“I gave it to Darcy, and she wanted me gone. I guess I was driving her nuts.” He grinned at her again. “I’d rather be here watching you anyway.”
“I’d rather have you here watching me too.”
Dewey cleared his throat at the side of the stage. “You ready to go back out there, sweetheart?”
She nodded. “Sure, let’s do it.”
The second set was a little slower than the first. The main act had arrived and the crowd was distracted watching them bring their equipment inside. MG did a couple of Guy Clark songs, then swung into “Bye Bye Love” for her closing number.
The crowd began to clap along and she felt a quick surge of joyful power, throwing her head back to belt the chorus. As she did, something red caught her eye.
A woman stood near the back, mostly in the shadows. For a moment, the light from the bar caught a bit of bright orange hair, and then she was gone back into the darkness again.
Great-Aunt Nedda? Great-Aunt Nedda came to see me play?
She managed to finish the song without stumbling and got a nice round of applause at the end. Dewey stepped up beside her, clapping his hands. “MG Carmody. Ain’t she great, folks? Here every Wednesday and Friday. Let’s get her to play another song here while Billy passes the bucket.”
MG swung into one of her automatic encore numbers, trying not to peer into the corners of the room. Even if it had been Great-Aunt Nedda, it didn’t mean anything much. Maybe she just wanted a beer. Hell, she might own half of Oltdorf for all MG knew.
Joe had moved to the front of the crowd. Now he looked up at her, smiling, and her pulse did a quick thump. God, he’s beautiful.
He shouldn’t have been. The bald head and barrel chest should have put him into another category altogether. But it didn’t. He was absolutely gorgeous.
I love him. The words floated through her mind as she hit the final chord. She almost faltered, but then she didn’t.
There was nothing to falter about. For better or worse, she loved Joe LeBlanc. Now she had to figure out what she should do about it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nedda sat with her third cup of coffee, studying the lines on the computer printout. She didn’t trust accountants to tell her the truth about her finances, although she paid one to do the books and her taxes. She went over the spreadsheets herself regularly, particularly if it looked like a loan might be in trouble.
Unfortunately, at the moment the loan on the farm didn’t appear to be in that category. Harmon had only missed one payment, although he hadn’t done much to pay down the principal. And now his granddaughter had managed to keep up with the monthly payments and pay down some on the one Harmon had missed along with the interest, although Nedda wasn’t sure exactly how she was able to do it. The chickens couldn’t be bringing in that much, and neither could the music.
Nedda paused, her lips thinning. She’d gone to Oltdorf on a hunch, after that idiot Kurtz had told her the girl sat outside and sang. There were plenty of bars around Konigsburg that hired singers, and a process of elimination had brought her to Dewey Hesseltine’s place.
She took another sip of cold coffee and grimaced. Bars didn’t interest her much. She considered them bad investments. She herself had stopped drinking alcohol after watching Mort pickle himself every Friday night. Alcohol made stupidity worse, judging from her ex-husband’s example.
On the other hand, it seemed to make people more generous even as it made them dumber, judging from what she’d seen at Dewey Hesseltine’s club. Lots of folding money had been dropped into the bucket that was passed around the tables. Enough to make Nedda feel both surprised and cranky. The girl was supposed to be having a tough time. Instead, she was getting money for doing not much of anything. Just singing some songs and waiting for some drunken idiots to throw her a few dollar bills.
She paused, staring out at the sunlight leaking through the grove of pecans at the edge of her yard. The girl had a good voice, she had to give her that. Her own mama had had a voice like that once, a long time ago.
Nedda’s jaw tightened. Her childhood wasn’t something she spent much time remembering. She’d never really bought the idea that poverty was supposed to teach you something. What it mainly taught you was that only a fool stayed poor. Getting out of being poor had been the main labor of her life, and she’d succeeded way beyond what everybody else had expected of her. Nedda herself had expected nothing less than what she’d done. She’d learned early on to depend on nobody besides herself. Other people tended to underestimate you.
Like Harmon. Who’d expected her to stay on the farm like the rest of the family.
She checked her watch. Eight o’clock. Even a worthless farmer like Kurtz should be up and around. She picked up her cell phone and punched in the number.
Kurtz picked up on the second ring. Which probably meant he was inside rather than out tending his goats. Typical. “Yeah,” he grunted.
“You check on my niece lately?” Nedda snapped.
She could almost hear his shrug. “Not much to check on. Far as I can tell she’s just got those chickens and her boyfriend.”
That too was typical. Apparently, Kurtz still hadn’t found out about the singing job. Briefly, Nedda considered what else her niece might be doing to earn money since Kurtz undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to find out about it. “She still taking care of the chickens?”
“Yeah. Feeds ’em, lets ’em roam around some. Probably selling her eggs to one of those free range places. I hear they pay more.”
Nedda rubbed her eyes. Of course, it wouldn’t occur to Kurtz that since the free range places paid more, it might be profitable for him to try turning his own pitiful flock loose in the yard. “She letting them run loose all the time?”
“No, ma’am. Just a couple of hours or so in the afternoon when she sits out there and sings. That boyfriend of hers extended the fence for her so the chicken yard’s bigger too. Got herself a nice setup.” His voice sounded almost wistful.
Nedda grimaced. Minions sure weren’t what they used to be. “You had any problems with predators out there?”
“Some, I guess. Coyotes are always around. Coons too. And we got a couple foxes that come through now and then.”
“They bother your stock any?” She drummed her fingers lightly on the spreadsheet.
“Not mine. Heard a coyote got some of Deke Brainton’s chickens last week. Dug under the fence ’cause he didn’t put the boards down below the fence line like you’re supposed to.”
Nedda smiled grimly. Now they were closing in on her point. “So does my niece have boards around the bottom of her fence?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. She’s got herself a real good fence there. Boyfriend did a good job for her.” He sounded wistful again. Like maybe he wanted to hire the cook to come build a fence for his chickens too.
“Glad to hear it,” Nedda snapped. “Here’s what you do. Next time she leaves at night, you go over there and open the gate. Wide.”
“Open…?” Kurtz sounded confused. “Why’d I want to do that?”
Because I told you to, you ignoramus, and I hold the note on your farm. “Don’t worry about the why, just do it.”
“But if I do that, she’s liable to lose some chickens.”
Brilliant. “Just do it,” Nedda repeated. “The next time she’s gone.” She clicked the phone closed.
For a moment, she sat at the table contemplating her cold coffee. Then she got up and carried the cup to the sink. With any luck, the girl would lose the whole flock. The eggs might not count for much in her finances, but losing the chickens would do some damage to her confidence. Too many things were going her way right now. She needed to lose something.
All in all, an effective strategy.
Watch out, Neddie, what’s wrong with you?
Nedda froze, the cup dangling from her fingers. The image flashed by so quickly she almost didn’t recognize it. Harmon grabbing her hand, yanking her back from the creek swollen with rainwater. She must have been five or six. Young enough not to see danger at her feet. And Harmon would have been ten or so.
Big brother. Watching out.
What’s wrong with you?
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deep. The pain in her chest was back, sharper now. She set the cup on the sideboard, then rubbed her fingers across her breastbone.
Indigestion. Heartburn. If she remembered when she was in town next, she’d buy one of those over-the-counter remedies they were always yammering about on television. And that would take care of it.
Because there was nothing wrong with her. Not really. She was the one still alive, wasn’t she?
MG’s first day back in the kitchen wasn’t marked by anything notable. Darcy told her to peel potatoes, then went off to expedite. Leo glanced at her and then went back to his sauté pan. Only the extern, Ezra, seemed interested in having a conversation.
“You need to watch out when you move around over by the stove. You don’t want to get in the chef’s way. That’s a newbie mistake.” He folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowed in disapproval.
His eyes were large, brown, and overly moist. His shaggy hair grazed the sides of his neck. For a moment, he reminded her of a Newfoundland retriever.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” MG muttered.
“If you have any questions, just ask me. I’ve been here a couple weeks now. I can show you around if you need it.”
“That’s okay. I was here before.” She began scraping the potatoes energetically, hoping it would make him go away.
“Before?” His forehead furrowed. “When? I thought Darcy hired you.”
“No.” She took a breath. “Chef LeBlanc hired me. A while ago.” She gave him what she hoped was a vague smile and went back to scraping.
“Oh.” Ezra still looked faintly confused. “So were you on vacation?”
“You might say that,” she said shortly.
“Oh,” he repeated. “Well, Chef Fairley gave me the externship, but now he’s gone. Did you know him?” Now Ezra was beginning to remind her of an over-active puppy.
“I knew him. Slightly.” She reached for another potato.
Ezra nodded. “I guess he quit. I don’t know what that means for my externship. I mean nobody’s said anything to me, so I don’t know whether I’m in trouble or not.”
“Ezra,” Darcy’s voice cracked across the kitchen. “Aren’t you the runner?”
Ezra snapped to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Leo needs more mushrooms. Hop to it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pivoted on his heel, trotting toward the walk-in.
MG sighed. Ezra almost made her nostalgic for Fishhead. Almost.
She had coffee and a sandwich outside at the picnic table with Darcy once the lunch rush was finished. “Congrats on being the sous chef. You’re looking good.”
Darcy shrugged. “Joe said I’ll be okay as long as I don’t punch anyone out, and the only one I’m likely to do that to is that irritating little twerp, Ezra.”
“He’s not so bad.” She took a sip of the superlative coffee the inn purchased from the coffee roaster in Konigsburg. “How’s the contest?”
“Coming along. Sauce on the quail isn’t quite right yet, but we’ll get it. How’s the singing?”
“Also coming along, more or less. I’m supposed to sing at Bleeker again tomorrow night. I don’t think Joe’s all that happy about it, though.”
Darcy ran her fingers through her spiked hair, currently tipped in magenta. “I wouldn’t be either. That’s a freakin’ dive. And not in a good way.”
MG shrugged. “It’s money. Not much, but some. And maybe exposure.” Although she wasn’t sure it was the kind of exposure any sane woman would want. Still, the last mortgage payment had cut close to the bone. She wasn’t sure how she’d scrape together the money for the next one. She needed every dollar she could find.
“Better you than me, kid.” Darcy pushed herself to her feet. “C’mon. Time to put the kitchen back together for dinner.”
Joe wished he could stop dropping in on the dinner service at the Rose. It pissed Darcy off, and it should have. He needed to just let it go and get out of her way.
But it had taken him months to get the dinner service going at the restaurant. He’d had to fight his way through the previous manager of the inn who wanted to use the Rose as her scapegoat, and then he’d had to prove to the new manager that the operation would be profitable. They still only served five nights a week, when they should be doing six, and they still weren’t pulling in as many customers as he thought they should.
So he dropped in on the evening service and greeted customers and bugged Darcy, who could undoubtedly have run the meal by herself with no trouble.
He should just do the smart thing and let her alone. Or he should switch things around and let her run breakfast so that he could do lunch and dinner. Only he loved the omelet station.
Get a grip. You are a frigging basket case.
The remedy for being a frigging basket case was clear. He needed to see MG, and he needed to see her now.
He turned his truck onto the highway that led to Bleeker, or the highway that led to the Bleeker Roadhouse, anyway. The town of Bleeker, what was left of it, was somewhere off in the brush.
He surveyed the building as he pulled into the parking lot. It looked like one of those places that showed up in blurry black-and-white photos of crime scenes. Some of the bulbs in the sign had burned out, so that it read “Bleker Roahouse,” which didn’t exactly help the ambience.
He took a deep breath and unwrapped his hands from the steering wheel. MG was a functioning adult. She didn’t need or want him to tell her how to run her life. On the other hand, he wished to hell she’d confine her singing to places that didn’t look like they probably had more roaches than customers.
He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. Surely she could knock off now. Hell, he’d throw a twenty into the donation jar just to get her to stop.
As he started across the parking lot, he heard voices from the side of the building. He paused. Parking lots at dives like the Bleeker Roadhouse weren’t the safest places he could think of. If there was going to be trouble it would help to know about it in advance.
A dim circle of reflected light shone at the far side of the building, probably above the back door. He could see shadows, maybe two people, maybe more.
As he got closer, the voices were more distinct—a man and a woman. And then, of course, he recognized the woman.
“Look,” MG was saying, “I just want the take. Nothing else. I’m not hungry, I’m not thirsty, and I need to get home.”
“Ah, come on, sugar,” the man said. “Just a burger and a beer. Nothing big. We can talk about some future gigs. Maybe even set up something with another act—get you some real cash.”
Joe moved more slowly. He didn’t particularly want to walk in on this conversation until MG had a chance to work it out. He had a feeling once he rounded the corner of the building, the discussion part would be over. He wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but talking probably wouldn’t be a big part of it.
“No,” MG said. Her voice sounded tired. But maybe also something else. Joe’s hand’s flexed into fists.
“Hey, sugar…”
The hell with it. Joe stepped around the corner.
MG stood at the far side of the circle of light cast by a bare bulb above the door. The man standing across from her turned as he heard Joe’s step. Long greasy hair, bad teeth, a real winner.
“Who are you?” Bad Teeth snarled.
“The lady’s escort.” Joe flexed his hands. Grabbing the guy by the throat probably wasn’t called for. Yet.
Bad Teeth glanced back toward
MG. “You know him?”
She nodded. “He’s my ride home. I need the take. Now.”
Bad Teeth gave her a long look, then pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. He peeled a couple off the top. “House percentage,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on MG.
Her lips tightened. Joe began rethink the whole grabbing the throat thing.
Finally, MG extended her hand. Bad Teeth gave her the bills and a smattering of change. She wadded it into her jeans pocket. “Thanks.”
Bad Teeth nodded curtly, then pushed the back door open again without a word. It slammed shut behind him.
Joe figured it was a toss-up whether MG would be pissed at him for barging in or relieved that he’d made the guy pay up. Whichever it was, he really wanted to get moving before somebody else came out of the club. “Do you actually need a ride?”
She shook her head. “I drove. I just wanted to say something that would get him to leave.” She blew out a breath. “Thanks.”
Okay, relief. Relief was good. “No problem. Who was that guy?”
“The manager.” She turned back toward the parking lot.
Joe fell into step beside her. “He wouldn’t pay you?”
“He said he was going to pay me. He just wanted to do it over dinner.”
Joe’s hands formed fists again. Going back into the club and reducing the manager to a bloody heap had a certain appeal. On the other hand, that would mean leaving MG alone in the parking lot. “Are you going to play here again?”
She shook her head. “Nope.” She leaned down to unlock her car. “Sorry you missed the performance. Not that it was all that memorable.” Her eyes seemed suddenly huge in the dim light, her shoulders rounded slightly in defeat.
He reached for her, pulling her tight into his arms. “I’m sorry I missed it too, babe. I won’t miss the next one. I promise.”
She leaned against him for a moment, then stepped back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m not upset,” she mumbled.
“Okay.” He managed to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice.
“I’m mad. I’m not upset.”