Only Good Yankee

by Jeff Abbott

  The man on the other side of Lorna was someone I knew: Freddy Jacksill, a local real-estate agent. He was sticking to Lorna and the balding man like sap on bark. I saw another form move behind the three from the stairs and find a seat. A stunning young brunette I recognized as Jenny Loudermilk, the mayor and Dee’s daughter. She looked like she’d gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar—hiding cash. I didn’t miss the glances that Parker and Dee exchanged—or Miss Twyla and Eula Mae exchanged—at this latest development.

  “This is a private meeting, Callahan,” Nina barked. The look she gave the man was one of pure loathing. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.”

  “This is a public building,” Greg Callahan (I’d already guessed who it was) answered smoothly.

  “Um, he’s right, Nina,” I spoke up. “Meetings held in the library, unless previously approved, are open to the public.” There, no one could ever say I hadn’t memorized the library’s bylaws.

  “These good people aren’t interested in your lies,” Nina retorted. Tiny bolted to his feet, presumably to play bouncer. Nina jerked a hand at him and he stayed put.

  “She’s got him trained like a dog,” Candace whispered to me.

  “Lies, Ms. Hernandez? I’m not here to lie,” Greg Callahan said smoothly. “My associate, Ms. Wiercinski, along with our new friend, Mr. Jacksill, thought that we ought to set the record straight.” He pointed an elegant, pale finger at Nina Hernandez. “This woman is nothing but a radical and an environmental extremist!”

  A murmur ran through the sparse crowd. “Wrong,” Nina snapped back. “I have no political agenda. My only desire is to protect the river—and to expose Intraglobal for the wasteful, pernicious business that it is. I wouldn’t quarrel with sensitive, responsible development. But you, Mr. Callahan, have no regard for people or the land they live on.”

  “Ridiculous!” Greg Callahan sneered back. I envied him his glare; it was a right effective one. “You’d throw yourself over a blade of grass to keep someone from building a patio, Ms. Hernandez. And folks, let me tell you: it wouldn’t make much sense for me to invest in riverfront property then trash the river, would it, now? Who’d buy a single condo? No one, that’s who.” He cast his penetrating blue eyes across the gathering. “Investment, ladies and gentlemen. That’s what this resort would be. I’m going to spend so much on the riverfront that I’d ruin my own business if I polluted it.” He jerked his head toward Lorna and Freddy Jacksill. “We’ll be holding a meeting of our own, to really tell the truth about Intraglobal. Tomorrow night at the Sit-a-Spell Café. Y’all are all invited.” I thought he should’ve left that last part off; Texans do not take kindly to having their accents or regionalisms adopted by others.

  Miss Twyla stood. “I won’t be there. I’ve already heard enough from Nina to know I’ll never sell my land to you.”

  Eula Mae was not about to be upstaged. “And I’m going to put my considerable resources behind Miss Twyla’s campaign to save the river.”

  Callahan smiled thinly. There was the vaguest hint of malice lurking there. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind, Ms. Oudelle, Ms. Quiff.” He’d done his homework, you had to give him that. He nodded confidently at the crowd. “I urge everyone not to pay too much heed to Ms. Hernandez. She’s a bit upset right now because this is her third attempt to interfere with Intraglobal’s business, and every time she’s failed. She’s a loser. Until tomorrow night, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned on his imported heel and strode out, with the confidence of a rooster leaving a sated henhouse.

  Freddy Jacksill stayed right in Callahan’s personal space, probably busily calculating the amount of money he could make as the local agent for helping Intraglobal. Lorna hung back for a moment, then left, favoring me with another glance.

  I patted Candace’s hand and whispered, “I want to talk to him.”

  I followed them out, hearing Uncle Bid cackle, “See! Jordy’s chasing that fellow to sell him his land. Y’all ain’t going to win.” I decided I’d worry later about setting Uncle Bid straight—as straight as someone as crooked as he could get.

  I hurried out the back entrance from the stairs. (The upstairs meeting room is accessible by a side door, so folks can have meetings after hours without going through the rest of the library.) Lorna, Greg Callahan, and Freddy Jacksill were standing by Freddy’s Taurus, its RIVERTOWN REAL ESTATE sign big on the driver’s-side door.

  Greg Callahan watched me as I ran up to them. Crickets chirped around us, a deafening chorus of them in the live oaks that towered near the library. The sun was setting and his eyes looked hard in the fading light. I said, “Lorna, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  Lorna shuffled slightly. I don’t think she was happy with the upshot of our last conversation. “Sure. Jordan, this is Greg Callahan. Greg, this is Jordan Poteet, my old friend I told you about.”

  “Jordan, fabulous to meet you.” Greg shook my hand with what I considered an abundance of fake warmth. “Fantastic town you’ve got here. Really homey and cozy.”

  “Thanks. We’d like to keep it that way.”

  Greg fixed me with a smile. “Now, Jordan, I hope a smart gentleman like yourself isn’t going to jump on this environmental hysteria bandwagon. I assure you all the information that Lorna presented you is absolutely valid. We’re not going to shoot ourselves in the feet by ruining the river.”

  “Jordan,” Freddy Jacksill interrupted, “why don’t you give me a call tomorrow and I’ll set up a meeting at my office, where we can discuss Intraglobal’s offer on your land.”

  I made myself smile at Freddy. I couldn’t say I actually disliked him; but he was one of those people who so nakedly curries favor that they annoy the living hell out of you. He was in his mid-forties, portly, and not dressed in the height of fashion. I always saw him on weekends, squiring potential buyers, usually young yuppie couples from Austin who fantasized about country living.

  “Well, Freddy, that might just have to wait a spell. I’m not sure I want to sell my land. I’d prefer to give it some thought before I make any decisions.”

  Greg smiled heartily and squeezed my good shoulder. He didn’t ask what had happened to my arm. “Of course you would, Jordan, and I know that a reasonable guy like you is going to make the right decision. You’re a clear-thinker.”

  I resented someone who didn’t know me making such gross generalizations; I could be as muddy-thinking as they came, if I put my mind to it. My distaste for Greg bolted in my chest; why was Lorna working for him? I smiled politely. “Well, I’ll be glad to attend your meeting and hear you out.” I glanced at Lorna. “You’re very lucky to have Lorna working for you. She’s a remarkable woman.”

  That elicited a smile from both Lorna and Greg. “Isn’t she, though?” he said. “I’d be lost without Lorna. She’s my details lady.” He grinned at her with a nearly proprietary air.

  “Great. Well, then, I’ll see y’all both tomorrow.” I shook hands and turned to leave.

  “And we’ll see y’all tomorrow, too,” Greg chirped. I tried not to break stride. Yankees. They never seem to get that y’all is plural, not singular. Someone needed to have a talk with Greg on how not to alienate the locals. I decided that if I chose to sell my land, I’d coach Greg on the intricacies of Mirabeau etiquette.

  I returned to an assembly that was frothy with outrage at anyone who might even glance askew at our beloved Colorado River. Uncle Bid and his supporters had departed. Candace leaned over and whispered to me, “So did you cut a deal?”

  “Not hardly. That fellow is slicker than a watermelon seed.”

  “Well, Eula Mae announced she’s donating fifty thousand dollars to the antidevelopment cause.”

  “Good Lord!” I whispered back. “I didn’t know she had that kind of cash to burn.” I glanced over at Eula Mae; she was absently twirling her hair with a finger. I hoped she had the money to back up her promise. The Loudermilks were silent. Nina’s voice droned on, outlining how they would use
Eula Mae’s seed money to raise a massive war chest to inform the public about the perils of Intraglobal’s invasion.

  The meeting didn’t last much longer. I didn’t pay much heed; I kept watching the obvious glares between the Loudermilks and their daughter, who had kept her seat in the back of the room. Something was amiss in Mirabeau’s first family. Jenny Loudermilk tossed her rather luxurious locks in prime Barbie style and ignored her parents. Miss Twyla gave a final inspired speech on how we should ban together to fight this godless (not quite sure where theology crept into the equation, but Miss Twyla was on a roll) development.

  “We will stop this!” Miss Twyla vowed. “Whatever it takes, we will stop this!” God, was her timing lousy.

  I’d escorted Candace home. We hadn’t talked much. I told her Lorna had been mostly businesslike at dinner, calmly outlining Intraglobal’s strategy. She didn’t ask for an explanation of what constituted mostly. Her goodbye kiss was quick and dry.

  When I got home, I discovered Clo in the living room. She was watching her favorite program, Star Trek.

  “You never miss that one, do you, Clo?” I asked as Captain Kirk dueled a barbarian with a bad overbite.

  “That Lieutenant Uhura, she looks just like my girl.”

  “Really?” I said. Clo had been tight-lipped about her private life. She’d mentioned a granddaughter once.

  “She’s dead now. Dead for ten years.” Her voice was softer than usual, slack without its stridency. She stared at the screen, watching the battle. “You see, Jordy, I know what family pain is, too. Your mama’s asleep now. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here and watch the end of this. It’s nearly over.”

  “Sure, Clo.” I hadn’t expected such a remark from her. She folded her hands in her lap, as though keeping something in them for an angel, and kept her eyes on the television. I went upstairs, washed my face, and came back down to the kitchen for a glass of milk. I sat there awhile, feeling that if I went into my own living room I’d be intruding on her grief. After a few moments I heard her click off the television. I stood and went back to join her. I walked Clo out to her little Ford Tempo and watched her drive away, only a good-night passing between us.

  I locked up, left the porch light on for Sister when she came in from her irregular shift, checked on Mama’s gentle rasp, took some more Tylenol for my sore left arm, and went to bed.

  At some point, deep in the night’s belly, a phone awakened me. I finally answered it.

  “Yes?” my voice creaked.

  “Jordy? This is Chet Blanton.” The name finally registered with me—Chet was the manager of the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast, and a library patron with a pronounced penchant for Agatha Christie. “I’m sorry to call you so late, but it’s an emergency.”

  “What—what’s wrong?” I managed to mutter, my brain smogged with sleep.

  “I don’t want to go into this over the phone, but your friend—she’s in trouble. Please, could you just come over?” Chet’s normally hearty voice sounded pinched.

  I sat up in bed, wide-awake. I told Chet I’d be there in a minute and hung up. I stumbled into clothes, eased my left arm into its sling, peeked in to make sure Sister was back from her shift (her snoring was a dead giveaway), and as though on autopilot, drove to the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast. A police car stood in the driveway, its lights flashing. My wristwatch indicated two in the morning, but I pounded on the door anyway.

  Chet met me at the door, dressed in a rumpled robe, his heavy face white.

  “What’s happened? Is Lorna okay?” I asked, pushing past him.

  “She’s okay, I think. Follow me.”

  Chet turned and we ran up the stairs of the elegant, antebellum home he’d converted. The second story held the eight guest rooms.

  In one of the rooms, I saw Lorna crouched on a bed, one of Junebug’s deputies talking to her. Her face was in her hands and she didn’t see me. I noticed blood on her right hand, oozing from a badly torn fingernail. I moved forward for her; Chet’s arm stopped me.

  “You better see this,” he whispered, steering me down one more room.

  “Which one is Greg Callahan’s?” I asked. He pointed two doors down the hall, back toward the stairs. “Number four.”

  The room he showed me was comfortable looking, decorated in classy antiques, and with a faint smell of fruit and potpourri, and the gassy odor of death. I stepped in and looked where Chet pointed.

  Greg Callahan lay sprawled on the Persian rug, his pale head bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring up at the slowly turning ceiling fan. He’s drunk, was my first irrational thought; but there was no air of liquor. I didn’t start to gag until I stepped closer and saw the length of barbed wire cruelly and deeply twisted into his neck.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EVEN AFTER A MORNING OF GETTING OUT OF the hospital, an afternoon of Miss Twyla and Nina berating me, and an evening of concern about Lorna, I couldn’t rightly say I’d had the worse day in Mirabeau. That distinction rested with poor Greg Callahan.

  I sat sipping a Dr Pepper in the small waiting area of the Mirabeau police station. Lorna sat next to me, holding my hand. Her own hand felt clammy. One of the officers came in, the door pinging as he opened it, and I could smell the faint grittiness of rubber and gravel from the parking lot. The summer-night air was warm, but I still had goose pimples from what I’d seen.

  While the police began their investigation of the murder scene and the ambulance arrived to trundle off Greg’s body, I got Lorna down to Chefs kitchen. She had been silent as I seated her at the kitchen table and I wondered whether to get her whiskey or coffee. Suddenly she had screamed, burying her face in her hands.

  “My God, he’s dead, he’s really dead!” She sobbed uncontrollably then, and I just held her, whispering into her dark hair that she was okay. Finally she believed me and stopped crying. I held her and thought about what I’d seen in the few moments I’d had in Greg’s room.

  I had carefully knelt by Greg. I saw the ends of the wire had been fashioned into loops, probably for a better grip for the killer. I swallowed; death by barbed-wire garrote was a sickening thought. I forced myself to look at Greg’s savaged throat. The wire had cut into his neck deeply, and the barbs had left little tears in his flesh. God, like simultaneously being strangled and having your throat cut. I could only hope it had happened quickly.

  One of his hands lay open, and I could see small wounds on his palm, like stigmata. I shuddered. It must have been agony for him, having that torturous noose tightening on his gullet and, when he tried to pull the choking cord off, getting metal thorns in his hands.

  He was still in his suit and the dribble of blood from his neck stained his starched collar. His blue eyes bulged, the lids half-closed. I gingerly touched his wrist and felt the silence.

  I stood, wanting to get back to Lorna. I glanced around the room. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood between two used glasses. On the desk was a scattering of loose change, a receipt from the Sit-a-Spell Café, a closed laptop computer with some small disks stacked like playing cards next to it, a sheet with the Mirabeau B. Lamar stationery near the phone. Writing scrawled across it, with doodles surrounding the text: NINA HERNANDEZ=EARTH BITCH. Below that, a telephone number: 555-3489. That was a Mirabeau number, I thought. But whose? I didn’t recognize it, but then I’d hardly memorized the phone book in my copious spare time.

  “Goddamn it! Get the hell out of there!”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to face a very, very irritated Junebug.

  “Junebug—”

  He rumbled forward, grabbed my sore arm (mind you, my sore arm), and hustled me out into the hallway. Chet looked shamefaced and sick. I pulled my sling free from Junebug’s grip with what little dignity I could muster.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Jordy, tainting a crime scene?”

  “Tainting? I was just looking—”

  “What you were doing, clueless, was leaving hair and fibers and prob
ably fingerprints that are now going to have to be weeded out in my scene-of-crime work.” Junebug shook his head.

  I opened my mouth to retort, then shut it. He was right. I’d had no business in there. My own curiosity and shock at seeing Greg dead, who I’d only talked with a few hours before, got the better of me. I took a deep breath and fought down a spasm of nausea.

  “You’re right. I apologize. I didn’t think.” I glanced down the hall. “Can I go see Lorna?”

  “In a minute.” Junebug whirled his sirens on Chet. “You stand guard here till Franklin tapes off this room. No one gets in, Chet. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Junebug,” Chet said miserably. Fortunately Franklin Bedloe, one of Junebug’s deputies, galloped up the steps that moment and took over. Chet looked vastly relieved. I stood in the hall waiting while listening to Junebug chew out the officer sitting with Lorna for not securing the crime scene. The rookie tried to tell his chief that he’d just been concerned about Ms. Wirechinski (he nearly had the name down), but Junebug wasn’t having any of that. I heard him speak in low, kinder tones to Lorna and she sniffled an answer.

  We three civilians were relegated to the kitchen while the authorities took over. Lorna refused Chet’s offer of whiskey, but coughed out that she would like a glass of brandy. One of the policemen sat stonily in our midst—I guess making sure none of us headed for the border. He gave Lorna first aid for her injured finger while I watched.