The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  We started toward the house, and he said, “Look, for you — another special deal. Let me crash in that upstairs, and I’ll cut the fee in half.” He hung behind me as I sprang up the front steps to the porch.

  I considered the risks. It was better, I had surmised, to hire this creep and know where he was at all times — and who knows — he might actually find Bondesky. “Promise me you won’t use your key thingy on my house,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. And he couldn’t resist adding, “I’ve already been through everything in your house, anyway.”

  “Braggart,” I said to him as we entered the front door just in time to see Janie on the stairs struggling with a bag that seemed to want to stay upstairs while she was trying to wrestle it down. “Help Janie with that bag. And there’s a sack in the kitchen that needs loading, too.”

  Janie dropped the bag just as Hamra reached her. “Honey Huckleberry, how rude. How can you order someone around like that? That’s not like you.”

  “I just hired him. To load bags and find Bondesky,” I informed her.

  “Oh, in that case, Sledge, there’s another bag by my bed upstairs and a case of dog food on the back porch.”

  “Yes’m, Miss Janie. Anything else I can load for you? Any windows I can do? And by the way, can I inquire where you two ladies are going?”

  “Houston,” I said while Janie replied, “Corpus Christi.”

  She changed her destination to Houston while I did mine to Corpus. “Well,” I finally said, “Houston for a little business then on to Corpus Christi for a bit of relaxation.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any money,” he said.

  “We’re staying with friends of mine,” Janie lied before I could get a chance to do so.

  We left Mr. Sledge Hamra standing on my front walk, staring suspiciously at our departing van.

  “Bailey,” I yelled to the back of the van, “stop your whining. You keep that up one more block, and I’ll leave you with the jerk.”

  Now, miles away from the south side of Fort Worth, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t heard a word of the Grisham book. I looked over at Janie. She was out cold. Snoring even.

  Bless her heart. It had been hard for her to go back by West, the town about an hour and a half from Fort Worth where she had lived with her husband and had her bookstore, Pages. I had been willing to forgo the customary Czech bakery stop for cream cheese kolaches, but she had insisted. However, she’d waited in the van while I ran in for our to-go order. And also, at Pages, the converted gas station where Janie had her business.

  “You just go check for mail,” she’d said. “I don’t have the heart to get out. And besides, the books are probably all collecting dust and that would kill me.” Pages was closed while the divorce was pending. Janie owned it, but her husband was asking for half of the value to go against their house. Janie was sure she would get the bookstore, but was thinking of selling it. Small-town bookstores never make money, anyway, and I think she was looking forward to a clean break from West.

  I struggled back to the van with a huge box. “It’s from Ingram’s. It was just sitting outside. Good thing the rain didn’t get to it.”

  Janie came to life. “Oh, I bet it’s my back order. I haven’t made a regular order in ages. Let’s open it.”

  “Do you have to pay for them if you open it?” I asked.

  “Well, yes. If I keep them, that is.”

  I drove straight to the post office and told the clerk to return to sender.

  Needless to say, that made Janie more morose. “We really don’t have any money, do we, Honey?”

  “Nope, it’s getting thin. Cheer up. I have this Grisham tape I haven’t heard and I bet you haven’t either.”

  That was hours ago. Now, as I looked at her, Janie stirred and sat up straight. “I missed the start of the book,” she cried.

  “No problem,” I told her. “I’ll just start it over.”

  “It’s going to rain again,” she observed as she reached back and pulled a diet Coke out of the cooler. “Want one?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “The Client, by John Grisham,” said the still unidentified reader, and I drank my Coke and this time listened to cassette one, side one.

  TWELVE

  We were being followed.

  I first knew it when we were approaching Austin. Actually, it was a feeling. Over the past few months, I had learned to trust my feelings. They weren’t always right, but they were always a harbinger that something was about to happen. In between Grisham cassettes, the feeling hit me like a load of bricks. I looked in the rearview mirror and memorized the vehicles behind me. Called myself paranoid as I did so.

  Janie doesn’t miss a trick. “What?” she asked as soon as I started the traffic inventory.

  “Call me paranoid; I certainly am, but would you mind monitoring the traffic behind us?”

  “They’re going too fast,” she declared as she suddenly realized we weren’t the only car on the road.

  “Well, yes, but that’s a given around here. I meant watch for the other cars and trucks and tell me if they are following us.”

  Janie laughed. “They’re all following us . . . or we’re following them. It’s a highway, and we’re all heading south.” Then she stopped her backward perusal and stared at my grim face. “Oh, my lord, you’re serious. Oh, my dear Aunt Bessie, is someone after us?”

  “Well, if they are, it’s not your Aunt Bessie. It’s just a feeling I have.”

  That statement heightened her excitement; she had come to rely on my feelings and hunches. She whipped out her notebook and started making notes. She said her entries aloud as she wrote them down in her particular brand of shorthand. “A green jeep Jimmy, blue Caddie, rusted Ford truck, white Camry, red Chevy station wagon, black Ford truck.” Except in shorthand I knew it would come out: gJJ, bCad, rustFtr, wCam, rChwgn, and bFtr.

  “How do you know so much about cars?” I asked. I barely knew a van from a bus.

  “My husband is an auto dealer. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  Janie had told me so little about her husband, I didn’t even know his first name. I just shook my head and said, “No, you left out that part.”

  “Well, he is, and that’s how I know a van from a bus.” Sometimes Janie can read my mind. We took a second to look at each other and grinned. However, now was not the time to discuss cars or husbands.

  She bent over her notebook and continued to make out the list, crossing out those who passed us.

  “Got ‘em?” I asked.

  “As well as I can. It’s hard to tell in this rain,” she replied as her body twisted almost completely around in the seat.

  “Okay, now see who does this trick,” I told her.

  I crossed three lanes of traffic on Highway 35 from the left lane to the right just outside downtown Austin. There is an option for motorists there: to either go straight on the overhead or a right lane for those who want on the express overhead. I didn’t close my eyes and cross the three lanes, but I certainly felt like it. I don’t recommend the procedure.

  “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” shrieked Janie. From her vantage point, it must have seemed like I had lost my mind. I know it did to the honking motorists behind me.

  Between the good graces of Aunt Bessie and Miss Molly, we safely entered the ramp for the Austin underground freeway. Traffic was only minimally slower through there, but it was enough so we could tell if anyone had followed my maneuver with the Plymouth Voyager.

  “Anyone?” I asked as I watched for traffic.

  “The Jeep and the black Ford truck,” she answered.

  All of a sudden it hit me, “Doesn’t Sledge Hamra have a black Ford truck?”

  “Yes. Yes. Why didn’t I think of that? Let me try to get a look at the driver. Oh, this awful rain. Yes, Honey, it’s him. It’s him. He has on a gimme cap, but I can tell it’s him.”

  “That dirty dog,” I yelled, startling the real dog in the mi
ddle seat behind us. Bailey was in a stubborn mood and had refused to lie down between Fort Worth and Austin. He’d stood swaying on all fours despite my frequent admonitions for him to “Chill out” and “Relax.” Not even a harsher “Lie down” had fazed him, and he had refused his share of kolaches. This dog was a work of art in passive resistance. Now I told him, “I ought to stop the van right here and let you ride with that idiot behind us.”

  Bailey circled the pillows in the seat I had put in for his comfort and sat down. It was an improvement, but he still held his majestic snout in the air and pretended he didn’t know me.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Janie.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “If he wants to spend his time on the road to Mexico, let him. I know one thing we’re not going to do, though.”

  “And that is . . .?”

  “We’re not going to go see Kantor on the trip down. We’ll save it for when we return. There’s no sense in leading Hamra straight to Evelyn Potter. Let him earn his money and find her himself. Ever seen the Capitol or the university?” I asked her.

  Janie had never seen much of anything—never been to Austin, so I took a turn off the underground freeway and drove her by the famous University of Texas bronze horse sculpture/fountain and once around the Capitol grounds.

  “He still with us?”

  “All the way,” Janie said. “What fun this is.”

  We stopped for gas and then a to-go burger from the Night Hawk. And this time Bailey didn’t pass up the chance to eat his own burger. He even lay down on his pillows in the van after I walked him in the grassy area at the gas station. “Finally,” I said with relief. I don’t know much about dogs, but this one was definitely a challenge.

  “That’s enough fun for one day,” I said. “Let’s load ’em up and move ’em out. On to Padre.” And I swung back on to 35 South.

  “The rain is clearing,” said Janie. “I see blue sky up ahead.”

  “Oh, it’s going to be a gorgeous day now. I can just feel it. If you think you liked our little tour of Austin, just wait until you see my Padre.”

  THIRTEEN

  I chatted away — it was new for me to have company on a trip down into the Rio Grande Valley. Bailey was the better listener.

  Janie would rouse from a road-induced stare from time to time to ask something like, “You ever wish one of those new cars would just roll off one of those transport trucks and glide to the side of the road? You know . . . with keys in the ignition and title in the glove compartment?” Or she would nod and say, “There sure is a lot of Texas down this way.”

  I was telling Bailey about Texas being the second largest grapefruit producing state and was just about to the part where the first grapefruit orchard was planted in the late 1980s when Janie asked out of the blue, “Honey, could you ever kill someone?”

  By the time I had switched mental gears from grapefruit to handguns, she was asking, “I thought you said there were lots of wildflowers on this trip — poppies and wine cups and primroses. All I see is grass or maybe goldenrod.”

  I turned on the cassette player to another book on tape, a mystery I had heard before but that was new to Janie. I think she listened to it while I explained to Bailey that September wildflowers were not as prolific as those that bloomed in April and May. I also told him that I didn’t think I could ever kill someone, and then I backtracked and said, “Well, maybe if someone I loved was in danger, I could — just might could — kill to save the one I loved.” And I added the non sequitur, “Besides, the summer was too hot and dry. If you want flowers, look at the cacti.”

  In this manner we made our way through a cloudless blue sky to where Texas meets Mexico at the Gulf. I explained to Janie that even if you’re running short on money, you still had to stop in Robstown at Cotton’s for barbecue, and after her first bite of real Texas chopped beef with onions and pickles, she agreed. “Best thing I’ve eaten in a month of Sundays,” she declared as she let Bailey lick the grease from her fingers. “Even better than the Railhead.”

  “Only three more hours to South Padre from here. Maybe we’ll get there to see the sunset.” I told her about Louie’s Backyard, where the customers seated on the bay side deck drank margaritas while they waited for the sun to go down. “They always applaud,” I told her.

  “For a sunset?”

  “Wait and see.”

  Later, she noted, “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

  “Yep,” I replied. “I know this area like the back of my hand. Why?”

  “There are so many cars coming this way. I thought maybe the beach was back that way.”

  “There are a lot of cars going north, but I reckon they are weekenders heading home.”

  “It’s Wednesday,” she said.

  “Well, maybe they’re taking the kids home for school to start. Schools start at different times in different parts of the country, you know.”

  “Just seems strange,” she said. “Like they know something we don’t. I think we’re the only ones heading south.”

  “Except Sledge Hamra,” I reminded her. “And I haven’t seen his truck behind us in a while.”

  I was getting so excited. I was in love with South Padre Island long before I met Harry Armstead. I had visited the Sandscript when the older couple — owners before Harry — had owned it. I loved the sea breezes, the fishy Gulf smell, and the endless miles of white Texas sand. I couldn’t wait to show it to Janie. She came out of her road lethargy about five miles out of Port Isabel, and by the time the Port Isabel Lighthouse was in view, she was sitting on the edge of her seat, straining to see the sights ahead. I started a running commentary on the area, beginning with the refurbishing of the lighthouse, explaining that’s why the top of the lighthouse was off.

  “Where do they clean lighthouse tops?” Janie wondered, and we laughed. We were giddy with anticipation. We laughed at the gigantic, sprawling, purple octopus on the shell shop, and I pointed out the yacht club, telling her we would eat there, but we didn’t have the money. And we laughed because we had no money. Everything seemed carefree and light. It was a beautiful day.

  When we started over the causeway, Bailey started a ritualized whine from the backseat. I knew he smelled the sea air and home.

  “I love this bridge,” said Janie.

  “You ought to see it lit up at night,” I told her — still the tour guide. “It looks like a carnival ride. One time Harry rented a boat, and we went under it. Talk about scary.”

  “Why did they have those barriers back there? Do they check everyone who comes on the island?”

  Confident in my island lore, I explained. “It’s the border patrol. They do periodic surprise checks for illegal aliens from Mexico. I’ve run into them lots of times down here.”

  “Well, they should keep them manned. I thought you were going over the side of the causeway when you went around those orange cones.”

  “They probably just went out for coffee . . . or a shrimp sandwich. Oh, Janie, you’re gonna love being down here.”

  I pulled into a parking spot at Louie’s just before the sunset. I apologized to Bailey as Janie and I ran to an open area and looked out on the peaceful bay.

  “Was it everything I promised?” I asked her.

  The evening’s sunset was nothing short of spectacular. Even I was amazed. “I’ve never seen such colors,” I told her. We both applauded a final glimpse of the fiery sun ball. Golds, purples, and reds filled the sky. “If you painted this, they would call it a fake,” I said.

  “There was no one at Louie’s Backyard,” she said.

  “It’s a Wednesday, like you said. Sometimes I wonder how these businesses stay open in the off season. Would you just look at all these boarded-up places? They’ll reopen when the snow birds get here.” And then I had to explain about the Northern retirees who winter on the island to get away from the snow and cold of the upper states.

  “They start arriving around Thanksgiving and stay until E
aster. The locals take their vacations now. Harry says most them head to Colorado to ski. Aren’t people funny?”

  We were still in wonderment of the awesome sunset when I drove up to the beach access parking area across the narrow island. This time Bailey accompanied us as we walked across the wooden walkway to the beach. I let him go, and he ran to meet the waves. I was not far behind him, and neither was Janie, who caught on fast. She peeled off her shoes at the water’s edge and squealed when the first tiny wave caught her toes.

  There was still a lot of light, and we cavorted like kids in the warm surf, not caring that our shorts were soaked to the waist. I laughed and called to her, “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say it was fantastic?”

  Bailey made a fool of himself, and I think he would have cried if he could have. He dove into the waves and swam back to tell me about it. He woofed and squealed as loudly as Janie.

  “The water is so warm,” she said as she finally just sat down in the shallow waves.

  “Yes, this is that time of year. Hurricane season, you know?”

  “What’s that? I thought you said hurricane something . . .?”

  “Yes,” I shouted back over the roar of the surf. “It’s when the Gulf waters are still warm and the air is colder up high . . . or something like that. It’s over in November.” I saw her look nervously around, and I laughed. “Don’t worry. They have excellent tracking and warning systems here. Believe me, we’d know if there was a hurricane out there.”

  “It’s as warm as a bathtub,” she said, her spirits revived with my assurances.

  Then suddenly it was dark.

  And out there was gray and menacing looking.

  “I’m ready to go now,” Janie told me, and Bailey came up to me with a questioning look, too.

  I retrieved towels from the back of the van, and we rubbed Bailey off and wrapped big colorful beach towels around us before we got in the van.

  “And I’m hungry again,” Janie said in surprise. “Never thought I would want to eat again after Cotton’s.”

  “Harry always keeps steaks in his freezer. I’ll cook them on the deck. No one can see us from there. Remember, we don’t want anyone to know we’re here.” Especially Sledge Hamra, I thought as I recalled our road stalker.