Tangled Up in You

by Rachel Gibson

“What did you find once you arrived?”

  “Screaming and yelling, mostly. A few times Loch’d have his clothes torn or a red mark on his face.” Bill chuckled. “One time I got there and the front window was busted out and a skillet was lying in the yard.”

  “Was anyone ever arrested?”

  “Nah. Then the next time you’d see the two of them, they’d be all lovey-dovey and happy as pie.”

  And when they weren’t lovey-dovey, they pulled other people into their messed-up marriage. “But once they moved into the farmhouse, the calls to your office stopped?”

  “Yeah. No more neighbors around, you know.”

  “Where is the farmhouse now?”

  “Burned down….” He paused in thought and deep grooves wrinkled his forehead. “Must have been about twenty years ago. One night, someone went over there, doused it with kerosene, and lit it up good.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No one lived there at the time.” He frowned and shook his head. “Never did find out who started it. Always had my suspicions, though.”

  “Who?”

  “Only a couple of people wanted that house gone bad enough to do such a good job. Kids just playin’ around with matches don’t torch a place like that.”

  “Mick?”

  “And his sister, although I could never prove it. Didn’t actually want to prove it, if truth be told. Growing up, Mick was always in trouble. A constant pain in the ass, but I always felt bad for him. He had a real hard life.”

  “Lots of children lose their parents and don’t turn to arson.”

  The sheriff leaned forward. “Lots of kids don’t live the life Rose Hennessy left behind for her kids.”

  That was true, but Maddie knew a bit about that life. She flipped a page in her notebook and said, “Alice Jones lived in the Roundup Trailer Court. Do you know a woman by the name of Trina who may have lived in the same trailer court in 1978?”

  “Hmm, that doesn’t sound familiar.” He thought a moment, then leaned forward. “You might talk to Harriet Landers. She lived in that trailer court for years. When the land was sold to a developer, she had to be practically hog tied and carried away.”

  “Where does Harriet live now?”

  “Levana,” he called to his wife. When she appeared from the back of the house he asked, “Where is Harriet Landers living these days?”

  “I believe she lives at the Samaritan Villa.” Levana looked at Maddie and added, “That’s a retirement center off of Whitetail and Fifth. She’s a little hard of hearing these days.”

  “What?” Harriet Landers yelled from her wheelchair. “Speak up, for pity’s sake.”

  Maddie sat in an old iron chair in the small garden at the Samaritan Villa. Looking at the old woman, it was hard to gauge her age. Maddie would guess somewhere between one foot in the grave and fossilized. “My name is Maddie Du pree! I wonder if I might be—”

  “You’re that writer,” Harriet interrupted. “I heard you’re here to write a book about them Hennessys.”

  Wow, news traveled fast even on the nursing home circuit. “Yes. I was told that you once lived at the Roundup Trailer Court.”

  “For about fifty years.” She’d lost almost all of her white hair and most of her teeth and she wore a pink housecoat with white lace and snaps. But there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her mind. “I don’t know what I could talk to you about.”

  “How about living at the Roundup?”

  “Humpf.” She raised a knobby and gnarled hand and swiped at a bee in front of her face. “Not a lot to say that anyone wants to hear. Folks think that people who live in trailer houses are poor trailer trash, but I always liked my trailer. Always liked having the option of packing up the house and moving the whole damn thing if I wanted.” She shrugged a bony shoulder. “Guess I never did, though.”

  “People can be very cruel and dismissive,” Maddie said. “When I was little, we lived in a trailer, and I thought it was the best.” Which was true, mostly because the trailer had been such an improvement over the other places she and her mother had lived. “We certainly weren’t trash.”

  Harriet’s sunken blue eyes gave Maddie the once-over. “You lived in a trailer?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Maddie held up the tape recorder. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  “What for?”

  “So that I don’t misquote you.”

  Harriet put her skinny elbows on the arms of her wheelchair and leaned forward. “Go ahead.” She pointed at the recorder. “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you recall the summer that Alice Jones lived at the Roundup?”

  “Sure, although I lived down the road from her and not next door. But I’d see her sometimes as I was driving past. She was a real pretty thing and had a little girl. That little girl used to swing all day and half the night on the swing set in her front yard.”

  Yes, that part Maddie knew. She remembered swinging so high, she thought her toes touched the sky. “Did you ever talk to Alice Jones? Have friendly conversations?”

  A frown pulled at the wrinkles in her forehead. “Not that I can recall. That was a long time ago and my memory isn’t so good these days.”

  “I understand. My memory isn’t always in the best of shape either.” She looked down at her notes as if to remind herself of what to ask next. “Do you recall a woman by the name of Trina who may have lived at the Roundup at that time?”

  “That would probably be Trina Olsen. Betty Olsen’s middle girl. She had flaming red hair and freckles.”

  Maddie wrote down the last name and circled it. Do you know if Trina still lives in Truly?”

  “No. Betty’s dead, though. Died of liver cancer.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why, did you know her?”

  “Ah…no.” She put the cap back on her pen. “Is there anything else you can remember from around the time Alice Jones lived at the Roundup?”

  “I remember lots of things.” She shifted a little in her chair, then said, “I remember Galvin Hennessy, that’s for sure.”

  “Loch’s father?” Maddie asked, just to clarify. What could Galvin have to do with Maddie’s mother?

  “Yep. He was a handsome devil, just like all the Hennessy men.” She shook her head and sighed. “But a girl would have to be an idiot to marry a Hennessy.”

  Maddie skimmed her notes looking for Galvin’s name. She thumbed past a Founders Day flyer she’d been handed at the front desk, but as far as she could recall, he’d never been mentioned in any of the police reports.

  “I dated that man off and on until the day he dropped dead in the backseat of my Ford Rambler.”

  Maddie’s head came up. “Pardon me?”

  Harriet laughed, a crackling, rattling sound that left her in a fit of coughing. Maddie became so concerned, she set her notes on the grass and rose to thump Harriet on the back. When Harriet got herself under control, Maddie asked, “Are you okay?” Gee, Harriet was old, but Maddie didn’t want to be the reason she keeled over.

  “I wish you could have seen your face. I didn’t think it was possible to shock anyone in this town anymore. Not at my age.” Harriet chuckled.

  “So?” Maddie sat back down. “Did Galvin have anything to do with what happened at Hennessy’s Bar?”

  “No. He was dead before all that happened. Loraine never forgave me for Galvin dying in the back of my car, but shoot, you can’t throw a rock in this town without hitting some woman who hasn’t slept with a Hennessy.”

  “Why?” Maddie asked. Lots of men had looks and charm. “What makes the Hennessy men so irresistible to the women of Truly?”

  “They’re beautiful to look at, but mostly on account of what they got in their pants.”

  “You mean they’ve got…” Maddie paused and held up a hand as if she couldn’t think of the word. She could, of course. Her favorite word, heft, came to mind, but for some reason she just couldn’t say it in front of an old woman.


  “They’re blessed,” Harriet provided. Then, over the next hour, she proceeded to give Maddie the details of her long and illustrious affair with Galvin Hennessy. Apparently, Harriet was one of those girls. No matter that she was well into her nineties and no more than a raisin with eyes, Harriet Landers was one of those girls who loved to talk about their sex lives with a perfect stranger.

  And Maddie, lucky girl, got it all on tape.

  Wednesday night at Hennessy’s was Hump Night. In an effort to help the citizens get past the hump in the week, Hennessy’s offered half-price well drinks and dollar drafts until seven. After seven, a few people left, but most stayed and paid full price for their booze. Galvin Hennessy had been the brains behind Hennessy’s Hump Night, and the custom had been carried through the following generations.

  There were those who’d feared the demise of Hump Night when Mick had taken over the place. After all, he’d done away with panty-tossing at Mort’s, but after two years of cheap well drinks and dollar beers, Truly could breathe easier knowing that some traditions were still sacred.

  Mick stood at the far end of the bar, weight resting on one booted foot and pool cue in hand as Steve Castle bent over the table and took a shot. Steve was slightly taller than Mick and wore a baby-blue Attention Ladies: I loved The Notebook T-shirt stretched across his barrel chest. Mick had known Steve since flight training. Back then, Steve had had a full head of blond hair. These days he was as bald as the billiard he sent down on the table.

  When Mick had gotten out of the army, Steve had stayed in until his Black Hawk had been shot down over Fallujah by an SA-7 shoulder-fired missile. In the crash that had killed five soldiers and wounded seven, Steve had lost his leg. After months of rehabilitation and a new prosthesis, he’d gone home to Northern California to find his marriage in ruins. He’d gone through a real rough time and a bad divorce, and when Mick had asked him to move to Truly and manage Hennessy’s,

  he’d climbed into his truck and arrived in days. Mick had never expected him to last in the small town, but that was a year and a half ago, and Steve had just bought a house near the lake.

  Steve was the closest thing Mick had to a brother. The two shared the same experiences and visceral memories. They’d shared a life that civilians did not understand, and their time in the military was something they never talked about in public.

  The six ball landed in the corner pocket and Steve lined up the two ball. “Meg was in here yesterday looking for you,” he said. “I guess the whole town is buzzing like a wasp nest because that writer talked to Sheriff Potter and Harriet Landers.”

  “Meg called me about it last night.” Steve was the only person Mick had ever spoken to about Meg’s unpredictable emotional outbursts and mood swings. “She isn’t as upset about this whole book business as I thought she’d be.” At least she hadn’t freaked out, which was what Mick had expected from the woman who’d been known to lose it over the sight of a wedding ring.

  “Maybe she’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

  Maybe, but Mick doubted it.

  Steve shot, but the two hit the corner of the pocket and bounced back. “I meant to do that.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mick chalked his cue and hit the remaining ten ball into a side pocket.

  “I better get back behind the bar,” Steve said as he placed his cue in the rack. “Are you going to be here until close?”

  “No.” Mick put his cue next to Steve’s and looked out over the bar. On weeknights, both Hennessy’s and Mort’s closed at midnight. “I want to see how the new bartender is doing at Mort’s.”

  “How’s he working out so far?”

  “A hell of a lot better than the last one. I should have known better than to hire Ronnie Van Damme in the first place. Most of the Van Dammes are worthless.” Mick had had to fire Ronnie two weeks ago for always coming in late and standing around jerking his gherkin when he had been there. “The new guy used to manage a bar in Boise, so I’m hoping he works out.” Eventually Mick’s goal was to find a manager for Mort’s so he could work less and make more money. He didn’t trust government pensions or Social Security to provide for him for the rest of his life and he’d made his own investments.

  “Let me know if you need help,” Steve said as he walked away, his limp barely noticeable. Mick hadn’t been in Iraq when Steve’s bird had been shot down, but he’d had a few close calls and been forced to make an emergency landing in Afghanistan when a rocket-propelled grenade hit his Apache. The landing hadn’t been pretty, but he’d survived.

  He’d loved flying and it was one of the things he missed most about his former life. But he didn’t miss the sand and dust and the politics of army life. He’d take getting fired at over the tedium of sitting around waiting for orders, only to gear up and have the mission scrubbed at the last moment.

  These days he lived in a small town where nothing much happened, but he was never bored. Especially lately.

  Mick looked out at the empty dance floor at the other end of the bar. On the weekends, he usually hired a band and the floor was packed. Tonight a few people stood around talking, others sat at tables and at the bar. By nine on Hump Nights the bar usually cleared out except for a few stragglers. Growing up, his dad had brought him and Meg to the bar occasionally and let them pour root beer into mugs. He taught them how to pour the perfect head. Looking back, that hadn’t been the best thing to teach your kids, but he and Meg had loved it.

  Your father may have been a cheater, Maddie had said, but did he deserve to be shot three times and bleed to death on a barroom floor while your mother watched?

  He’d thought more about his father in the past two days than he had in the past five years. If Maddie was right, his mother watched his father die, and he just couldn’t get that image out of his head.

  He sat on the edge of the pool table and crossed one booted foot over the other as he watched Steve grab a Heineken from the refrigerator and twist off the top. Mick knew that the waitress, Alice Jones, had been killed behind the bar, while his mother and father had both died in front of the bar. He’d never seen photos or read the reports, but throughout the years he’d certainly heard enough talk about the night his mother had killed his father and Alice that he thought he’d heard it all. Now he guessed he hadn’t.

  Over the past thirty-five years, he’d been in this bar thousands of time. Meg had a photograph of him at the age of three sitting on a barstool with his father. Generations of Hennessys had worked their asses off in the bar, and after his parents’ deaths, the place had been completely renovated and any trace of what had happened that night had long since been removed. When he walked through the back door, he never thought about what his mother had done to his father and Alice Jones.

  Until now.

  So your mother was perfectly justified in shooting her in the face, Maddie had said. For some reason, he couldn’t get Maddie Dupree and her damn crime book out of his mind. The last thing in the world he wanted to occupy his thoughts was the deaths of his parents. His past was best left buried, and the last person he wanted stuck in his head was the woman responsible for digging it all up again. She was a one-woman backhoe, uncovering things that were best left covered. But short of tying her up and shoving her in a closet, there wasn’t anything he could do to stop her. Although tying her up did have a certain appeal that had nothing to do with stopping her from writing.

  My God, you’re like a tornado. Sucking up everything around you, she’d said, and it didn’t seem to matter that she was the last person in the world that he should want. The memory of her lips beneath his, and the sight of her looking thoroughly kissed and gasping for breath, were trapped in the center of his brain.

  Mick rose from the table and moved past the dance floor toward the bar. Reuben Sawyer sat on his regular stool, looking old and pickled. Reuben had lost his wife thirty years ago, and for the last three decades, he’d sat on the same stool almost every night drowning his sorrows. Mick didn�
�t believe in soul mates and didn’t understand that kind of sorrow. As far as he was concerned, if you’re that lonely for a woman, do something about it that doesn’t involve a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  Several people called out to Mick as he passed, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t feel like shooting the shit. Not tonight. As he moved down the hall toward the back door, an old high school girlfriend stopped him.

  “Hey, Mick,” Pam Puckett said as she stepped out of the ladies’ room.

  He supposed pushing past her would have been rude. “Hey, Pam.” He stopped and she took it as an invitation to wrap her arms around his neck and give him a friendly hug that lingered a few seconds beyond friendly.

  “How’re you doing?” she asked next to his ear.

  “Good.” Since high school, Pam had been married and divorced three times. Mick could have predicted divorce in her future. He pulled back and looked into her face. “How about yourself?”

  “Not bad.” She dropped onto her heels, but kept one hand on his chest. “I haven’t seen you in here for a while.”

  “I’ve been spending a lot of time at the other bar.” Pam was still attractive, and he knew that all he had to do was take her by the hand and he could take her home. He kept his palm on her waist, waiting to feel the first pull of interest behind his fly. “Are you still working in the sheriff ’s office?”

  “Yeah. Still dispatching calls. I threaten to quit every other day.” Her palm slid up and down his chest.

  He had three hours before closing. It wasn’t like he had to haul ass to Mort’s. He’d been with Pam before and they both knew that it was just sex. Just two adults getting together and having a good time. “You here by yourself?” he asked.

  Her hand slid to his waist and she hooked a finger through his belt loop. He should have felt a spark of interest, but he didn’t. “With a few girlfriends.”

  Tell me, Mick, do all the women you sleep with know about each other? Sex was probably just what he needed to get Maddie out of his head. It had been a month since he’d gotten laid, and all he had to do was take Pam’s hand and pull her behind him out the back door. “You know I don’t ever plan on getting married. Right?”