Maybe Kelly was on to something, Tanyalee thought, taking a seat. Even in pink, Dante was all man. Of course, those faded jeans fit so perfectly that no woman in her right mind would even notice the color of his shirt. Lord have mercy! Just how was Tanyalee supposed to stop herself from pawing at him right here in lane 7 of Gateway Bowl, in front of her whole family and half the town?
Just then, Dante caught her eye. He gave her a lopsided smile and winked. There was so much heat in that simple twitch of his eyelid that Tanyalee decided she needed a cold beverage.
Gladys and Fern returned from the shoe rental booth with Fern sporting a pair that made Tanyalee’s look brand-new. Gladys had a no-nonsense look on her face as she made a beeline toward Dante. She poked a crooked finger into his breastbone. “You?”
Dante rubbed his chest and gave her a polite smile. “Hello, Ms. Harbison. How have you been?”
Gladys rose up on her tiptoes and got right in his face. “I already told you and that federal lady over there”—she pointed at Kelly in the observation seats—“that you may not talk to Fern under any circumstances, yet here you are, barging into her fund-raiser—”
Fern swooped in, grabbing Gladys’s arm. “It’s okay. I asked Agent Cabrera to be on our team.”
Gladys reared back in surprise. “You did whaaat?” She whipped her head around to search for Tanyalee, then pointed in her direction while frowning at Fern. “Did she encourage you to associate with this man?”
Fern shook her head. “For cryin’ out loud, Great-granny. Look.” She gestured toward the high-quality leather bag Dante held in one hand. “See that? Agent Cabrera’s got his own ball and his own shoes in there, if you know what I’m sayin.’”
Gladys peered closely at the bag.
“He’s a champion, Three-Gee. And anyway, I don’t mind talking to him.”
“Champion?” Gladys scowled at Dante. “Exactly what kind?”
“At fifteen I was Northeast Regional Junior Division champion, ranked sixth in the nation.”
Gladys gasped.
“At your service, ma’am.” Dante practically saluted.
A smiling Fern laid her cheek on Gladys’s shoulder. “See? So why don’t you let me talk to him for a few minutes? It won’t hurt nobody none.”
Gladys’s scowl disappeared, then slowly morphed into a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes. “Well, since you brought your own shoes and all, I suppose you can have ten minutes of Fern’s valuable time…”
“Thank you.”
“… but only if your cumulative game average today is over 220.”
Dante winced, then reached out to shake her hand. “You drive a hard bargain and I’m real rusty, but you’re on, Ms. Harbison.”
At that moment, Tanyalee saw Cheri making her way to the lanes with an overloaded tray of soft drink cups. She swooped in to rescue her.
“Let me help you.” Tanyalee lifted the tray with one hand, balanced it at shoulder height, and carried it easily.
“That’s impressive,” Cheri said. “Where did you learn to do that?”
Tanyalee smiled. “I’ll have you know that I waitressed for a whole month after…” She stopped herself before finishing the sentence with “after J.J. kicked my sorry ass to the curb.” Those words—and the mind-set behind them—had been with her for so long that they were automatic. The bridge to Cheri was made of sticks, not steel, and Tanyalee knew it was her duty to tread carefully, and that would require putting herself in her sister’s shoes. “Before I got hired at Wim’s real estate office. I left Duke’s Bar and Grill with a pocketful of tips and a single useful skill, which you just witnessed.”
“Why, that isn’t true, Taffy!” Viv shook her head and forced her way into the conversation. “You have a variety of skills! In fact, I never even knew a person could combine three shades of pink in an outfit and not end up looking like a mixed bag of candy hearts!”
Cheri’s eyes widened and she shot Tanyalee a glance of painfully suppressed laughter, because that’s exactly what Viv looked like today—a slightly sloshed, mixed bag of candy hearts.
It was nice to share a private joke with her sister, even a small one.
“I’m glad ya’ll didn’t spill my Coke-cola.” Gladys reached for a drink from the tray. “I need all the sugar I can get if we want to beat the Bowl of Kindness team.” She inclined her head toward a team in baby blue several lanes away. “Maryvelle Wilcox is in my ladies’ league, and she can make a seven-ten split like nobody’s business.”
* * *
Along with everyone else, Dante turned his head to observe a short, full-figured woman of about thirty, wearing a team shirt with W.W.J.B.? printed on the back. She was rolling her shoulders like a shot-putter about to step up to the line.
Tater Wayne was there to translate. “It stands for ‘What Would Jesus Bowl?’”
Dante let out a breath. Only in Bigler. “Let me guess—a three hundred.” Sure enough, when the aforementioned Maryvelle Wilcox turned their way, they saw the digits 3-0-0 across her considerable bust.
He turned to share the laugh with Wes, but was surprised to see that his friend was busy assessing Tanyalee, an expression of glee on his face. He sent a sideways glance toward Dante. “Taffy?” he mouthed. He lifted his forearm and shook his wrist. “Bracelet Taffy?”
Dante looked away, but there was no avoiding Westley’s sharp bark of laughter. Then the bastard sauntered up to Tanyalee and helped himself to a soft drink, hitting her with the same high-wattage grin that had made women’s panties disappear from D.C. to Denver.
Dante sent his friend a threatening glare, but Westley just laughed and returned to his side. “Gotcha, Cabrera. You have feelings for her.”
He started to say something, but Wes held up an open palm. “Don’t even,” he said.
It was a good thing Dante delayed his revenge on Wes, because his buddy turned out to be a hell of a bowler. Between himself, Wes, and Gladys, a playful competition developed, but they cheered each other on as much as they jeered each other.
Cheri and Tanyalee were obviously out of practice, but as the game progressed they warmed up. Soon Dante was smiling as Tanyalee pranced back from the foul line, visibly delighted with her second spare in a row.
As she approached, he held up his palm in congratulations. She delivered a playful high five, but Dante let his hand close over her smaller one. Their fingers entwined for a moment before they slid apart. Tanyalee looked down at the floor, an expression of shy pleasure on her pretty face.
Damn, she was cute when she wasn’t in her prissy mode. Well, actually, that was kind of cute, too. Just like when she was putting on the crazy, or the crazy-sexy, or the crazy-fun. And even when she was talking a blue streak about nothing at all.
“You got it bad,” Westley muttered as he went up for his turn.
Dante felt O’Connor’s eyes burning two beady holes in the back of his SUGAR & STRIKES T-shirt. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder because he already knew what her issue was: Tanyalee was a felon.
When he risked a glance a few moments later, he was in for a surprise. O’Connor wasn’t the one giving him the hairy eyeball, and the message had nothing to do with DEA policy. It was Garland Newberry, the old newspaperman, and he had his head tilted slightly to one side, measuring Dante with great attention to detail. Dante found himself straightening his spine in response.
As it turned out, Kelly was otherwise occupied, standing up with a team shirt stretched over her usual tailored blouse, cheering on Tater Wayne as he took his turn. “Way to go, Thomas, way to go!”
When Dante glanced Garland’s way again, his attention had been diverted by Candy Carmichael, now plying him with something white and chunky, cut into squares. Dante knew that Tanyalee was worried about her grandfather’s diabetes. Should he rat the old guy out?
He felt a touch on his arm. “Don’t worry.” It was Tanyalee’s sister, Cheri. “He only thinks he’s cheating with Candy’s divinity. Someday soon we�
�re going to let him in on the secret—she’s been testing her sugar-free recipes on him for months.” Cheri gave his arm another pat and looked up at him with a sweet smile. “But it’s nice of you to be concerned.”
Kelly let out another yell and clapped harder. “That’s okay, Thomas! You’ll get it next time!”
Tater wasn’t much of a bowler. He was a little better than Turner and Fern, but not by a lot. He was, however, one of the friendliest and most unassuming millionaires Dante had ever met.
From what Tanyalee had said, Thomas Wayne began working hard-labor jobs in middle school to help support his widowed mother. He’d never had the time or money to spend on leisure activities that didn’t involve bringing home venison or fish. It seemed that O’Connor had finally caught herself a decent man. Dante hoped she wouldn’t be throwing him back anytime soon.
Tater scored eight pins for the frame, but by the claps and pats on the back he received—and his own bashful smile of pride—some might have thought he had the best score of the night.
Maryvelle Wilcox obviously did.
“Well, good for you, Tater!” Maryvelle sauntered right into the semicircle haven of lanes 7 and 8, a clear invasion of team territory. She’d brought two Bowl of Kindness teammates for backup.
Team Sugar & Strikes was uncharacteristically quiet.
“Tater Wayne, my, my, my.” Maryvelle walked right up and tucked her arm into his. “You should come over to the Bowl of Kindess crowd!”
“Hello, Maryvelle.” Tater extracted his arm with admirable dignity. “You should probably ask someone else to join your team. I’m not a good bowler t’all.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dante saw O’Connor stand up. Oh, hell. This chick had better watch her step.
“No,” Maryvelle said sweetly. “We’ve got all the team members we need. I just thought you might like to make some new friends, since you can afford to associate with a higher class of people these days.”
Silence.
Maryvelle switched her attention to Tanyalee, who stood with Cheri behind Viv’s seat at the scoring table. Maryvelle’s venomous smirk locked onto Tanyalee. “There’s no need to associate with felons, Tater.” Her friends laughed.
Dante saw Tanyalee stiffen. He watched her cheeks flush. But she lifted her chin and stood her ground. Dante knew he was watching a show of courage and restraint, but Maryvelle mistook Tanyalee’s calm for submission. She gazed at the rest of the team with bitter glee.
“Why, with Taffy Newberry on the team, ya’ll should have prison stripes on those pink shirts of yours!” She smiled widely at the three law enforcement officers, in particular. “Instead of Sugar and Strikes, ya’ll should call yourselves Cops and Robbers!”
“Huh?” Fern’s eyes had gone huge. “What’s she talkin’ about, Tanyalee?”
It was subtle, but Dante saw Cheri press even closer to her sister, then squeeze her hand. “Maryvelle,” Cheri said evenly. “If you wanted Thomas on your team, perhaps you should have been nicer to him when we were kids.”
“Is that you, Maryvelle Spickler Wilcox?” Garland came strolling down from the observation area, his hands nonchalantly stuffed in his pockets. He went around the semicircle of chairs to stand just behind Tanyalee. “Well, yes! From here I can see that it is you! Why don’t you run along now, Maryvelle, before you embarrass yourself and the fine organization you are representin’ here today?”
Gladys took a step forward. She folded her arms and squinted her false eyelashes at Maryvelle. “Go on and git, like Garland said. It’s plain to see you’re jealous as a jilted skunk.”
Maryvelle reddened and her bright eyes grew as hard as creek pebbles.
One by one, the rest of the Sugar & Strikes team came to stand with Tanyalee. Viv spun around in her scorekeeper throne and glared. Dante went to stand on Tanyalee’s other side, opposite Cheri. Even genial Tater, who wouldn’t like to cause insult to a fly, stared expressionlessly at Maryvelle.
Whatever she’d come for, she wouldn’t be leaving with.
Dante caught Turner’s eye and said one word. “Sheriff?”
As if he’d been waiting for his cue, Turner moved forward to cup Maryvelle’s elbow in his hand and guide her toward the bowling alley’s main floor. “Miz Wilcox,” Turner said, “why don’t I escort you back … to people who might care what you think?”
Maryvelle sputtered. Her cronies skittered away, disappearing into the milling crowd headed for the snack bar. She looked as if she’d like to slap Turner, but apparently thought better of it before she was seen assaulting a police officer.
Instead, she yanked her arm away with dramatic flair, even though Turner had never even closed his grip. “Seeing as I have no desire to associate with criminals, I am already gone!”
“Thank you for the support, everyone.” Tanyalee’s voice was small and wobbly. “Fern? Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Once the Maryvelle incident was behind them, the rest of the bowl-a-thon went by quickly, a new sense of solidarity among the team members. The rivalry between Gladys and Wes had lost its edge, although Wes did corner Dante at one point to whisper harshly in his ear.
“Felon? Are you kidding? You know we’re not—”
Dante cut him off. “Not now.”
The highlight of the whole day was when Fern followed up four gutter balls with a strike. The plastic orange chairs emptied for a loud group celebration, and Dante picked her up to sit on his shoulder. Fern’s face was beaming when she was back on solid ground, and the first person she ran to was Tanyalee.
Interestingly enough, J.J. DeCourcy wandered in for the last few frames, sat near O’Connor and Garland, and cheered when the team was awarded both trophies. Not only did Dante average a 231 for the day, the team raised $16,500 for the Girls Club, a large percentage of which was courtesy of Tater Wayne.
After they posed with their trophies for the official team photo, Dante felt a tug on the back of his T-shirt. Fern stood there with Gladys at her side.
“Ten minutes,” Gladys said, failing to hide her smile. “I have to say you’ve got the best form I’ve ever seen out there. And you’re a good bowler, too.” She wiggled one penciled-in eyebrow and sauntered off.
Dante wasn’t sure how to react to that, but Fern made it easy for him.
“She’s a piece of work, I know, but she’s got a good heart.”
Dante smiled down at Fern and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Where would you like to have our chat? I always like a dark room with a bare lightbulb if I can get it.”
Fern laughed so hard she snorted. “I bet you’d have your pick in this place.”
They ended up on an outdoor bench under a tree, in plain sight yet far enough away from the commotion that they could talk without shouting.
“So you’re doing good, Miss Bisbee? You seem to be.”
“I am, Agent Cabrera.” She gave him a shy smile. “School’s good and Gladys is taking good care of me. Plus, hanging with Tanyalee is always a hoot, as you know.”
Dante chuckled.
“Look, I know I was kinda mean and snappy the day you rescued me. Sorry about that.”
Dante shook his head. “You had every right. I just wish I could have done something earlier to help you get out of that place, but I had to wait until we were ready to make arrests.”
“I understand. I watch a lot of TV.”
Dante nodded, keeping his amusement to himself.
“What do you want to ask me about?”
“The Spivey place.”
“What a hellhole.”
Dante readily agreed. “I kept an eye out for you the best I could. You were very smart, Fern, lying low and going up in that tree house when it got rough.”
Fern’s eyes widened. “You knew about the secret tree house?”
“Sure.”
“Wow. You’re good.” Fern adjusted her position on the bench and folded her hands in her lap.
“First, I want to say I’m sorry about y
our father. I know how painful it must have been to lose him.”
She pursed her lips and looked away. “I lost him a long time ago.”
As much as Dante wanted to take it easy on her, he only had a few minutes left. “I need to ask you a specific question about who you saw up at the Spivey compound.”
“Sure. So this isn’t about my dipshit cousin Gene Lewis Tillman? The one growing all that pot up on Possum Ridge?”
Dante had no reaction. “No, it’s about someone who might have been keeping an eye on the Spiveys, someone who came up to check on things. I’m looking for a particular man I think may have visited with Bobby Ray Spivey on occasion. Do you remember Bobby Ray?”
“Pfft.” Fern rolled her eyes. “How could I forget that psycho?” She frowned. “But aren’t all the bad guys from there either in jail or dead? I thought the whole thing was over.”
He nodded. “It is. I’m just trying to tie up the last loose end. I often heard the lab workers mention someone they called the ‘Fat Man.’ They made it sound like he’d been up there before, giving Bobby Ray a hard time. Did you ever see him?”
Fern cocked her head and paused a moment, thinking. “Gosh, no. I don’t think so. Was he real big and fat?”
Dante smiled. “Don’t know for sure. I’ve never met him.”
“Huh,” she said. “Because if he was a skinny guy, why would anybody go around calling him the ‘Fat Man’? Don’t make no sense to me.”
Dante remained quiet for a moment, hoping to draw her out a bit more. He wasn’t certain what Fern was up to. It felt as if she were trying to change the subject.
But it soon became clear she had nothing to add.
“So, Fern, did you see this man?”
She shook her head to the negative.
“Did you ever hear anyone talk about him? Your father, maybe?”
She shook her head again.
“If you did happen to see him, do you think you’d be able to describe him to a sketch artist, so we could have a picture of him?”
Fern grimaced. “Agent Cabrera. How could I tell a sketch artist how to draw a man I ain’t never seen?”
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