She knew that the party next door would not likely be late. The Biermanns and all their friends were always in bed by ten p.m. It was one of the peaceful things she liked about this neighborhood. Patrick wouldn’t try anything with all of those people as witnesses. She checked her answering machine. No messages. Same with her cell. She turned her cell off . . . then back on. If he was going to call or text, it would be wiser if she didn’t ignore it.
She changed out of her jeans and sweatshirt into a pair of sweats and another brick red Cy’s Feed and Seed T-shirt. When Bill bought the feed store and changed the name, he offered Love the stock of T-shirts printed with the old name. Love asked Mel if she wanted them. Mel took them gratefully, all thirty-two. Somehow, wearing one always made her feel closer to Cy.
Though she knew there was a party going on next door, every time she heard an unfamiliar noise, she started, like a puppy on its first night away from its mother. When the last person said good-bye around nine thirty, she actually felt calmer. It became quiet, like normal, so any noise out of the ordinary would be obvious. She sat in her recliner with her .38 on the end table next to her. She wished she had a good watchdog, one as alert as Ace. It would allow her to sleep in peace. She didn’t realize she’d dozed off until her doorbell rang, jolting her awake. She jumped up and grabbed the gun. The digital clock on top of her television read ten after ten.
When she looked out the security peephole in the door, the porch was empty. Was Patrick playing some kind of crazy cat and mouse game with her? She felt sweat dampen the small of her back. Had she dreamed the doorbell ringing? Now that she thought about it, it hadn’t sounded like her doorbell here—a high, old-fashioned ding-dong—but a cheery tring-tring, like the doorbell of her grand-mère’s house in Idyllwild. It must have been a dream.
She went into the kitchen to pour herself a drink. She searched every cabinet and drawer looking for something stronger than vanilla extract. Cursing under her breath, she remembered now that she’d finished her last bottle of whiskey a couple of weekends ago when she had a head cold and had made herself a couple of hot toddies.
She pulled on jeans and boots with the intention of walking the four blocks to Larry’s Liquors and buying a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. She dug through the box shoved under her bed until she found her old holster. She strapped it on and pulled on her barn jacket.
When she stepped outside, she hesitated. Maybe she should drive. She’d be less vulnerable inside her truck. A flash of anger warmed her chest. How dare Patrick O’Reilly make her afraid to walk the streets of her own town. Still, she wasn’t stupid. Walking made her too easy a target. Before she got to Larry’s, she passed the Rowdy Pelican. She suddenly craved company, not people she knew well, just people to sit next to and drink, make comments about the latest football game and how stupid politicians were.
She took one of the five empty stools at the Pelican’s knife-scarred wooden bar. The bartender tonight was new, a woman with bleached pink blonde hair pulled back into a high fifties-style ponytail. A red ruby protruded from the side of her nose, and her unnaturally long fake eyelashes reminded Mel of low-end Vegas hookers, the ones who lingered around the convention center. She always felt sorry for those women; most had kids at home, turned tricks because they were desperate for drugs or needed food for their babies. She understood desperation, didn’t look down on them the way Sean and his buddies did. She’d always suspected that had she not accidentally stumbled into a job fair years ago and started chatting with a Las Vegas Metro Police officer, she might have ended up in the same place as those hookers.
The woman served Mel a whiskey and water with a polite nod, then went back to her conversation with a young man in a Frank’s Sea Charters sweatshirt. Mel was glad there was no one in the bar she knew.
Her solitude lasted about five minutes.
“Excuse me, is that stool taken?” a man’s husky voice asked.
Without turning to look, she said, “Nope.” She took a sip of her whiskey. If he started talking, she’d politely shut him down by moving to a booth. It was a slow night, and half the bar’s eight booths were empty.
“Thanks,” he said. “Nice seeing you again.”
His comment caused her to swing her head to look. She cursed to herself. She hadn’t recognized Ford Hudson’s voice. And he wasn’t wearing his ubiquitous Stetson but a navy watch cap.
“Don’t get too close,” he said, pulling off his knit cap. “Getting a cold. Thought a hot toddy might help me sleep.”
She didn’t answer. Why did this guy turn up everywhere she went? If it wasn’t being absolutely paranoid—a condition she might be only two shakes away from—she’d swear he was following her. Where in the heck did he live?
“I live in Morro Bay,” he said, freaking her out. “I’ve actually lived all over the county since I moved here fourteen or fifteen years ago, but about six months ago I finally settled down and bought myself a place here in Morro Bay. I like how it doesn’t seem to change, even when the rest of the county is becoming like a mini Orange County. Or maybe Santa Barbara’s a better comparison.”
She looked away and stared at the counter in front of her drink.
He called to the ponytailed bartender, ordering a double Irish decaf coffee. “I’d ask you if you come here often, but I know you don’t, because I do, and I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I come here some,” Mel said.
“Guess we haven’t crossed paths.”
“Guess not.”
She sipped her drink, letting the conversation falter, hoping he’d take the hint and move on.
When she finished her drink, he gestured at the bartender again. “Another of whatever this lovely lady is drinking.” In seconds, another glass of whiskey was in front of Mel.
“What if I don’t want this?” she asked in a tight voice, even though she did.
“Then the bartender can dump it in the fake fern,” he said. “But I’m guessing you do. I hate Christmas. No, wait, let me rephrase that. I don’t actually hate Christmas. I hate the hullabaloo surrounding it. Just puts a big ole crack in my heart. What about you?”
She hesitated before picking up the drink he’d bought her. If she drank it, there was the implication that she would owe him conversation or, at the very least, politeness.
“It’s just a drink,” he said softly, again reading her thoughts. “No obligation. I swear.”
She didn’t look at him but took a sip. Silently they watched the television over the bar. It was showing flickered replays of the National Finals Rodeo a few weeks ago in Las Vegas. There was a collective groan from the bar patrons when a young man was dragged by a black and white spotted bull across the dusty ground like a dog’s ragged play toy. One of the crazy-brave rodeo clowns distracted the enraged bull, and the young man limped toward an open gate.
“Double ouch,” Hud said to her. “Those dudes are insane. There’s got to be better ways to make a living.”
“Not to those boys,” she commented, remembering the young men she’d warned and sometimes arrested during that crazy two weeks during National Finals. “But they are the craziest bunch I’ve ever seen, bar none.”
Hud shook his head. “Yeah, and a good plenty of them are from Texas.”
She glanced over at him, almost smiling. “A good plenty?”
He grinned. “Sorry, I swear as I get older my grandpa Iry’s words seem to come out of my mouth more often than not.” He looked down into his coffee. “Lost him last year. My mama the year before that. Miss them like crazy.”
“Sorry,” she said stiffly, shifting on her stool.
He sipped his drink and didn’t look at her. “Thanks. My mama’d been sick a long time, didn’t really know me. Iry . . . well, he was the one person who always seemed to understand me. I guess I miss him for selfish reasons.”
“Maybe,” she said, thinking of Cy. It never occurred to her that missing him would be selfish. But she understood what this guy was trying to articulate.
&
nbsp; He looked up at the television screen where another young man in red chaps with green and purple sparkly fringe was trying to stay on a bull. “When did cowboys get so fashion conscious?”
She’d almost finished her second drink and was starting to feel a bit more friendly toward people, even this annoying sheriff’s detective. “Glitz sells. I think it changed when National Finals moved from Oklahoma to Vegas.”
He shook his head in mock sorrow. “A sad day in cowboydom.”
For some reason, that made her laugh. “Did you say cowboy dung?”
He grinned at her. “You’ve got yourself a real nice laugh, Miss Melina LeBlanc.”
She felt her stomach warm at his words. Or maybe it was just the whiskey. “Mel.”
“Then you have to call me Hud.”
She gestured at the bartender for another drink. “So, Hud,” she said, feeling magnanimous. “Are you all ready for Santa to come to your house? Is he going to bring Maisie a pony?” She chuckled, feeling confident and amusing. Drinking always did that for her, made her feel stronger and more in control. Deep inside she knew it was an illusion. She knew that Patrick’s hate and Sean’s death and losing Cy and August going nutty on them and all the rest of the horrible world lay outside this bar, outside this glass. But right now, she felt good and strong and happy. Well, maybe not happy, but at least not sad. She gulped the whiskey down in one swallow. “Is not sad the opposite of happy?” she wondered out loud.
Hud contemplated her question, then said, “I think it’s more catty-corner. But it’s not a bad place to be. Maybe it’s better than happy. More like being satisfied. And that is much easier to maintain than out-and-out happiness.”
She laughed again. The bartender came over with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and Mel nodded at her to fill her shot glass.
“Double it,” she said, knowing this was foolish. She shouldn’t be drinking this much when she needed to stay alert. But something inside her felt like it was crumbling away, and these drinks seemed to patch it all back together. Or at least make her not care if she crumbled. She finished the drink with two swallows, feeling Hud’s eyes watching her.
Then a tiny, sensible part of her that the alcohol hadn’t reached kicked in. She needed to get home, eat something, get sober. By not staying in control, she was leaving herself wide-open and giving Patrick the advantage.
“I have to go,” she said, abruptly standing up. The bar wavered in front of her eyes, and she suddenly felt like puking.
“Whoa,” Hud said, standing up and grabbing her shoulder. “When was the last time you ate?”
She stared at him, his features soft and blurry.
“I have to go,” she repeated, digging through her pockets and finding a twenty and four ones. She dropped them on the bar. Was that enough? Oh, well, they knew her here. She could come back and settle up later. “Bye, now, Mr. Hud.”
She took a step and stumbled over her feet. He was quick and caught her.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” the blonde bartender called. “Should I call you a cab?”
“I’ll help her get home,” Hud said.
Mel jerked her arm out of his grasp. “I’m fine.”
The bartender walked over, an empty glass in her hand. “This dude bothering you, hon? Want me to call someone?”
Mel stared at her for a moment, trying to piece the words together. “Oh, him? No, he’s okay. He’s a cop. Show her your badge, Hudson.”
Hud pulled out his wallet and showed the bartender his sheriff’s badge. She studied it a moment. “I’m new to this area. How do I know that’s not fake?”
A large man with a bushy mustache walked over. “What’s goin’ on, Wanda?”
“You know this guy?” She nodded her head at Hud. “Says he’s a cop.”
The guy nodded. “Yeah, that’s Hud. He lives here in Morro Bay. Comes in here all the time. He really is a cop. He’s good people.”
“Okay,” Wanda said, her face still doubtful. “Just didn’t want to let her go off with some weirdo psycho nut job.”
Mel heard someone giggle. It took a few seconds to realize it was her. Oh, man, she was drunk. “Thanks,” she heard herself say. “I do kind of draw the line at weirdo nut job psychos.”
The woman gave her a sympathetic look. “You want some coffee before you leave?”
Mel considered her offer. “No, but thank you very much for your hospi . . . hospi . . . hospi . . .” Mel couldn’t get the rest of the word out.
“Help.”
“No worries. It’s my job.”
Once they were outside, Mel looked up and down the street, trying to decide which way to start walking. Had she walked? No, wait, she drove here. That much she remembered. Where was her truck? Maybe she shouldn’t have made that last drink a double.
“Did you drive here?” Hud asked.
She thought for a moment, then shook her head no, then yes. She didn’t want to admit she’d forgotten where she parked.
“Your truck’s over there.” He pointed across the street. “Let me drive you home. I walked here.”
“How’d . . . ?”
“Saw it at Benni’s ranch.” She handed him her keys and carefully climbed into the passenger seat. Though a part of her wanted to protest his blatant taking over, insist she could make it home on her own, she also felt relieved that someone was taking control. The man back in the bar said this Hud was good people. Whatever that meant. Hud could be a serial killer for all she knew. She settled back into the seat. Right now, she couldn’t care less.
When they pulled up in front of her house, she began to grow anxious. She pressed her elbow to her side, feeling for her gun in her jacket pocket.
“It’s still there,” Hud said, amicably. “Though I probably should have taken it from you.”
“Try.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” He cut the truck’s engine. The houses on both sides of hers were dark.
“I’ll walk you in,” he said, opening his door.
“No, thanks,” she said, climbing out of the truck and walking slowly toward her front door. She stubbed her toe on the small front step of her porch. She cursed and lifted her other foot high to avoid repeating her move. Her foot came down hard, causing her to bite her tongue. She cursed again and started patting her coat pockets for her house keys.
“I have them right—” Hud’s voice was right behind her.
“Leave . . . me . . . alone.” Without turning around, she swatted at him like she was being attacked by horseflies.
Hud reached around and unlocked the front door. “Would you like me to make some coffee?”
“No.”
He stood in the open doorway, her car and house keys in his hand. In the dim illumination of the entryway’s night-light, in her half-drunken state, he sort of reminded her of Sean. A strangled noise came from the back of her throat.
“Hey,” he said. “Someone left you a note.” He bent down to pick up the half-folded page lying facedown on the hardwood floor. It had obviously been thrust through the mail slot. He unfolded it and started reading.
“Do you mind?” she said, grabbing the sheet of paper.
“What does that mean?” he asked. “I want the money. Are you in trouble, Mel? Do you owe someone money? Is there anything I can do to help?”
His face looked so kind, the expression so much like one Cy would have had. It wasn’t fair that he died. Cy would have helped her. Cy would have known what to do. He would have . . .
“Mel . . .” Hud started, reaching out to her.
She pushed his hand away and stumbled into the living room, clutching the paper. “You can’t help me. No one can.”
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to her chair. “Let me fix you something to eat.”
Too tired and sad to protest, she sat down hard in her plaid easy chair. In a few moments, she blacked out, only to be wakened by Hud what seemed like hours later.
“What time is it?” She jumped up when he touched her f
orearm.
“Time to eat something,” he said. He handed her a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Your cupboards are pretty bare, Ms. LeBlanc.”
“I eat out.” She looked down at the plate, her eyes trying to focus on the sandwich.
“Eat a few bites,” he said, sitting down on the sofa opposite her. “Won’t really sober you up, but at least your stomach won’t be screaming in protest.”
She took a bite, then set the plate aside. “Thanks, but I’m fine. You can go now.”
“Who do you owe money to?”
She looked away. “I don’t owe anyone money.”
“The note.”
“That’s my business.”
“Mel, whatever it is, I assure you I’ve been there before. You look like you—”
“Shut up,” she said, clutching her stomach, willing herself not to puke all over his boots. “You don’t have any right to tell me what I look like, what I need or what you think I need.”
He sat down on the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. “I want to help.”
She sat forward in her chair, her stomach careening in protest. “Leave.”
“No.”
She stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious? Did he really think that if he sat here long enough she’d pour out her whole life story to him? She’d never be that drunk. Never.
“Mel,” Hud said. “I knew Cy a long time. He was a true friend to a good many people, including me. He’d want you to tell me what’s wrong.”
She stood up and pointed a shaky finger at him. “Don’t you dare tell me what Cy would want. You don’t know. No one does. He’s dead. So no one could say what he wants. Not you. Not me. No one. He’s dead. He’s dead.”
Then, to her utter humiliation, she burst into tears.
TWENTY-TWO
Mel
I’m sorry,” Hud said. He appeared to be floating underwater.
“Go away,” she said, resisting the urge to wipe the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Acknowledging them seemed weak.
“I can help,” he said, not moving from the sofa.
“Why?” she burst out. “Why would you want to help someone you don’t even know?” She sat back down hard, jarring her back teeth. “People don’t do things for no reason. Why would you want to help me?”
Love Mercy Page 23