by Jeff Abbott
“Candace, sweetie pie, we’ve covered this already. I am not preparing any ethnic dishes aside from Tex-Mex, spaghetti, or French fries,” Sister insisted nicely. She’d finally given up her glamorous job as the cook out at the End of the Road Truck Stop (also known locally as Hell with Twelve Booths). Sister was one of the best cooks in the county and she’d finally realized her culinary talent was wasted on folks too road-tired to use their taste buds. Sister looked right spiffy in her new turquoise T-shirt with Sit-a-Spell Cafe stenciled in white cursive across the front. We can nearly pass for twins, she and I, with our blond hair and green eyes. I of course have a calmer, more pleasant temperament.
“But my friends in Houston say Lithuanian food is in!” My girlfriend, Candace Tully, ran a tired hand through her heavy brown hair. “We need a gimmick, something different to grab customers. Food they can’t get elsewhere in Mirabeau. If we don’t lure ’em, no one’s going to—” She paused for advertising pathos and sang in a tremulous soprano, “Come in and sit a spell.”
This recital fired salvo number two. Sister took a deep breath. “I already told you, Candace, we are not doing that stupid radio ad. If Ed stops making a fool of himself in the street long enough to pitch that off-key jingle again, you just tell him I’m not exchanging a month of free lunches for ten seconds of airtime. He needs to give us a better deal. I’m sure he’s giving himself bargain rates for that fool Elvis store.” Sister crossed her arms. I knew that meant the conversation was over. Candace hadn’t quite learned yet.
“Ladies, ladies.” I stood, cajoling peacefully before Candace could launch a counteroffensive. They both looked up at me like I was aiming to lose myself a testicle. I ignored it; they both love me too much to actually hurt me. “Y’all can’t argue out here in front. Scare off any stray customers that wander in. Go in the back and wrestle in the flour.”
Sister glared. Candace tossed up hands and said, “The problem, Arlene, is that there’s still loyalty to Minerva. People feel funny coming in here knowing she’s gone.”
Minerva Halsey had been the sweet-natured owner of the Sit-a-Spell; according to rumor, Minerva had opened the cafe sometime during Reconstruction and never changed the grease. She’d died in her sleep two months ago, leaving the downtown Mirabeau property to a niece in Victoria who had no interest in running a cafe in a small Central Texas river town. Candace had offered to put up the money (she had it to burn, thanks to her long family history of aggressive capitalism) if Sister would cook the food. Tired of fending off truckers most days, Sister had accepted. Now all they had to learn was to work together. Considering each was as stubborn as a government mule, this was no small task.
“Fine, Arlene, we won’t offer European cuisine,” Candace demurred, the very soul of compromise. “We’ll copy every other single menu in Mirabeau and see how that sets us apart from the competition.”
Sister rolled her eyes and forced a tight smile. “This isn’t one of them city bistros, honey, with tables and umbrellas out front advertising water that makes you belch. I’m going to start cuttin’ chickens for today’s lunch special.” As Candace set about wiping off tables that hadn’t been dirtied by any customers, she muttered about the un-healthiness of fried foods.
I returned to my seat. Junebug frowned again, watching Ed and Wanda Dickensheets argue over their sign. At least Wanda wasn’t still waving that doughnut. “I just wonder if this institute is going to offer degrees in Elvis Studies,” he said.
“Elvisology,” I corrected automatically. I lowered my voice. “I hope this little partnership of Candace’s and Sister’s works out. What am I going to do if it doesn’t? I’ll be stuck right in the middle.”
Junebug shrugged. “It’ll be good for them both. Candace will have a real job for a change, instead of all that volunteering. It’s time she worked for herself. And Arlene, it’ll be nice for her not to slave away at Bubba Jasper’s truck stop.” He paused for a moment, then said gruffly, “I hated her working out there.”
I sipped at my coffee without comment. The burgeoning romance between Junebug and my sister had not been exactly unwelcome, just strange. When two people you’ve known practically your whole life—and who have only had the faintest of friendships because of you—suddenly decide to make a go of romance, it’s quite unnerving. I couldn’t complain that Junebug had come courting; I just would have never put my mouthy sister and my laid-back police-chief friend together. But considering the horrible history Sister has with men, I thought Junebug made the best possible choice. He was a good man.
Sister hadn’t dated much in the six years since her no-account husband ran off to play cowboy with a traveling rodeo, and I wanted her to find happiness. Mind you, I was not about to be consulted for my opinion. They could make goo-goo eyes all they wanted, then if they broke up, guess who’d get caught in the middle? (You only need one try.)
“Bubba’s not too happy about her leaving.” I took his untouched kolache and began munching.
“Yeah, I heard.” Junebug looked stern. “He always was tryin’ to spark Arlene.” He spoke her name with an annoying amount of reverence. I forced myself not to cross my eyes.
“Actually, I wondered how you felt about all this, Jordy.” Junebug stirred his coffee, not looking up at me.
“What do you mean?” Finally, my view on this nascent relationship was going to be asked for. I cleared my throat, preparing my brotherly blessing.
“Well, Jordy, this restaurant’s going to affect you and Candace. I mean, this gives Candace even deeper roots in Mirabeau, and it gives your sister her own business. Does that mean you’ll stay here longer?”
How rude. I’d been expecting a solicitation for advice, not a chance to expound on my own problems. I didn’t want to answer, because I didn’t want to contemplate my future in Mirabeau. I’d given up a promising career in publishing to come back, and while being head honcho at the Mirabeau Public Library was fun and often rewarding, it couldn’t quite compare with the exciting big-city life I’d lived. Now that Sister and I had full-time help to assist with Mama, Sister had abandoned night shifts and started her own business. Why couldn’t I go on back to my old life in Boston, secure in the knowledge that Mama was taken care of?
Two reasons. The first was Candace, with whom I’d fallen in love when she was working part-time at the library. And when I say I’m in love with Candace, it’s a bald statement of fact; she’s become a part of my thoughts and my breathing, the tempo of my heartbeat. It’s downright scary.
Reason number two was Bob Don Goertz. Loving Candace had been a surprise; the real thunderbolt, though, was finding out in the course of a murder investigation this past spring that Bob Don was my natural father (a fact no one had previously bothered to share with me). I had to deal with the shock of discovering my mother was flawed, with discovering the dead man I’d loved as my father wasn’t my daddy, and with dying to deal with a stranger who desperately wanted to be a father to me. And Bob Don’s not exactly a shrinking violet about what he wants; he has the largest car dealership in Bonaparte County. You don’t build an automotive fiefdom out of shyness.
I sighed. “I don’t know, Junebug. I don’t believe Candace will ever want to leave Mirabeau. She really loves it here.”
“Does that mean you might consider marrying her someday?” Junebug asked idly.
Oh, God, I thought. He’s going to propose we have a double ceremony.
Instead I coughed. “She and I don’t talk much about wedding rings. I used to think Candace was eager to settle down and get married, but she doesn’t seem to be in any rush.” Plus, I was in my early thirties and Candace was in her late twenties, so she was still exploring her options. At least, all the options that Mirabeau offered. There were about four total, and I know, ’cause I counted them one day when I was real bored.
Junebug’s walkie-talkie squawked. He answered it, then listened, his face growing grim. “Hell. Emergency out off Old River Road. Gotta go.” He stuck his Stetson over hi
s brown crew cut and stood, scratching at his slight beer gut that was just beginning to form.
“What’s the problem?” I asked politely. Junebug wouldn’t ever admit it, but I’ve been more than helpful in unraveling some local crises. He’s not ungrateful, but I’m not exactly deputized.
“Goodbye, Jordy.” Junebug grimaced. “Thanks for the coffee, honey,” he called to Sister. He scooted out quick before I could offer to ride along. I sighed, went back to sipping my coffee, and tried not to think about those hard questions Junebug asked me. As a diversionary tactic from myself, I glanced out the cafe window.
Wanda Dickensheets postured beneath the Institute of Elvisology sign, crouching with fake heartbreak as though she’d just finished crooning “In the Ghetto.” Her camera-armed mother, Ivalou Purcell, snapped orders ami what I could only hope were not publicity photos. Ed stood, surveying the street, embarrassed at his wife’s shenanigans. Poor Ed.
I wondered, if I asked nicely, could Wanda be persuaded to trill a rendition of “Don’t Be Cruel” and get the hint.
I quit having to worry much about Candace and Sister, as my morning got unduly hectic at the library. The rest of my staff, Florence Pettus and Itasca Huebler, were both out sick with a bad flu that was making early rounds of Mirabeau. So I did the layout for the library newsletter, returned phone calls to people wanting to reserve books or tapes, and listened to a very eager salesman from Austin as he pitched unaffordable booktracking software to me. Determining I’d earned a moment of peace, I enjoyed a cup of coffee out by the periodical tables with the library’s most loyal patron, old Willie Renfro (coffee out on the floor is strictly forbidden, but he and I were the only ones around and we’re extra careful). I was then pleasantly surprised by a visit from my old friend Davis Foradory and his son Bradley.
Davis kept the nickname “Four Door” by becoming a solid kid and plowing through other schools’ defensive lines for the Mirabeau Bees. (Our school mascot comes from a less-than-stylish play on the name of the second president of the Republic of Texas, for whom our fair town is named: Mirabeau B. Lamar. It has cursed all Mirabeau High School graduates with horrible memories of wearing too much yellow and black during our formative teen years.) Davis had kept his owlish look, though, and now he worked as a lawyer and was also a part owner of KBAV, our county’s only radio station. Not that many men in Mirabeau wear coats and ties on a daily basis, but Davis always looked as sharp as a crease. By Mirabeau standards, you understand. He wouldn’t have kept a single client if he’d represented them in an Armani—too sophisticated to trust at that point. Today he wore a gray suit with a red striped tie. He stood at the counter with Bradley, who did not look too happy.
Bradley’s big for fourteen—he’d gotten his growth spurt early, a gentle blond boy with a smiling face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bradley unhappy; but when life is so very simple as it is for Bradley, I suppose it’s more difficult to be sad.
“Hello, Jordan.” Davis greeted me with his usual cool formality. He’s one of my oldest friends, but he never addresses me by my nickname.
“Hi, Davis. Hey there, Bradley.”
Bradley, for some reason shy, shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “Hi, Jordy,” he finally said.
“Jordan, this is a little embarrassing. I found this under Bradley’s bed.” Davis reached behind Bradley’s back and produced a thin children’s book: Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. It’s a classic. Most boys Bradley’s age are hiding a different kind of wild-thing literature beneath their beds.
“Bradley neglected to return this book when we returned several others a few weeks back,” Davis said, using what sounded to me like his courtroom voice.
“I like it—cool pictures,” Bradley said by way of defense. Nervously, he dragged a hand across the back of his mouth and along a freckled cheek, leaving a wet smear. Bradley salivates more when he’s tense, I’ve noticed.
Admiring a book was a good defense with Judge Poteet. “That’s okay, Bradley. I love books, too. But other people might want to read it, too, and we only have one copy.” I kept my voice real kind. I have a reputation for being sharp-tongued (not sure how I earned that) but I’m genuinely fond of Bradley. I opened the book and peeked at the due date. Whoops, twenty weeks ago. This one’d slipped through the cracks. Bradley gave me a cautious, toothy smile. Davis looked pained. Breaking rules was not ever on his daily agenda.
“Say you’re sorry to Jordan, son, for hoarding the book,” he instructed.
“Sorry, Jordy,” Bradley whispered, staring at his feet. I take back what I said before; he could and did look sad.
“Bradley’s going to pay the fine out of his chores money,” Davis announced, Bradley hung his head in fur-flier shame.
I did a quick calculation. Usually we notify someone of an overdue book three times, then charge them the fine, the replacement cost of the book, and a five-buck extra processing fee. That’d come to over thirty dollars for this particular transgression. But we hadn’t notified the Foradorys; Itasca probably forgot to file the card right. I couldn’t entirely blame the problem on Bradley. He’d kept the book because he loved it, and we’d let him. The book was being returned in perfectly good shape. How many pleasures in life did this kid have?
“It’s a quarter, Bradley,” I said, using my patented authoritative voice.
Bradley began digging around in his pockets. Davis frowned; he pointed at a sign some idiot-in-charge (who shall go unnamed) had left hanging behind the counter.
“That says ten cents a day, Jordan.”
“That applies to adult literature,” I said smoothly. “We’re currently running an amnesty program on overdue picture books.” Note I was careful not to say children’s books in front of Bradley. I’m sure he must have some pride.
Davis wasn’t buying. “Now, Jordan—”
I wasn’t about to brook argument. “Mr. Foradory, I am the director of the Mirabeau Public Library and do believe I know our current overdue rates.” I said this with all the gravity it was worth. I was glad Candace wasn’t here to see me in my nobler moment; I’d never hear the end of it. Bradley carefully picked a quarter out of a palmful of change, held it up for my inspection, and when I nodded, he placed it in my open hand.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Jordy. I won’t do it again,” Bradley offered. I knew he was right; I’d just decided what to give Bradley for Christmas. With his own copy of Sendak, he wouldn’t be tempted by ours and he could spend hours with Max and his fanciful friends.
Davis still frowned. Okay, if he wanted to make up for Bradley’s minor crime, he could help me decide how to keep poor Ed from selling his soul to Elvis merchandisers.
Inspiration struck. We’d received three new books today: a best-selling, sex-dripping potboiler, the latest James Lee Burke, and a new children’s book. They still lay on the counter.
“Bradley. We just got in a new picture book. Want to be the first to look at it?”
His sky-blue eyes lit up and he laughed, a deep-chested cawing. If he hadn’t been deficient in certain areas, he might have been considered the handsomest boy in the junior high school. It really was a shame.
“Sure! A new book! Yeah!”
“Now, you can’t check it out yet, because I haven’t done all the paperwork or put in the date-due slip.” This went over his head and I hurried along. Best with Bradley just to give him instructions rather than options. “You sit over there and be real careful with it, since it’s new. I need to talk to your daddy for a minute.”
Bradley took the book and ambled to a chair mumbling to himself. Davis looked like he’d just been summoned to the principal’s office.
“You have a second, Davis?” I asked.
“I guess. I need to get Bradley home, though. Cayla doesn’t like it if he’s out long.” He followed me into my little office. I sat on the desk and gestured toward a chair.
“How’s he doing with home schooling?” I a
sked.
Davis shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Cayla has the patience of a saint with him, of course. I think it’s hard not being around other kids as much, but he’s probably learning more. Maybe we’ll have him in regular school again before too long. If Cayla’s comfortable with him being back around other kids.” Davis indulged himself in a long sigh. “I’ve found it’s best not to hope too highly for Bradley. That way he doesn’t get disappointed.”
I thought it was more that Davis didn’t get disappointed, but I forced my jaws shut. Davis misinterpreted the thinness of my mouth.
“I’m sorry about the book, Jordan.” Davis ran a hand through his thinning strawberry-blond hair. I hoped I wouldn’t lose mine as quickly as he seemed to be relinquishing his.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Actually, I wondered if you’d talked to Ed about his Institute of Elvisology. You know that Wanda cavorts about town acting like the King during various stages of his career. She’s practically auditioning for a postage stamp.”
Davis permitted himself a quick smile. “I had lunch with Ed yesterday. Wanda’s pretty excited about their new venture. Her mother’s pushing Ed and Wanda to make a success of it.”
I sighed. “Ed’s heart isn’t in that store. I’m not sure he even likes Elvis. Poor Little Ed. I swear that woman and her mother are going to clean him out. Look, he’s got a good job with you at KBAV. I hope he’s not going to forsake that.”
“He says he won’t—Wanda and Ivalou are going to run the store. Ed’s just putting in all his money.”
I made a face. Okay, call me immature. “Doesn’t that sound crazy to you? Ed and Wanda aren’t exactly famous for business savvy.”
Davis nodded, back on the familiar ground of commerce and bankruptcy. “First the nursery she wanted to start, then the arts-and-crafts store, and now this. Not a single one ever pans out for them, I’m afraid.”