by Tegan Maher
I smiled back.
"Hey, Noelle!” she said. “How you doin' sugar? I haven't seen you for ages. How are things out at the farm? I sure was sorry to hear about Ms. Adelaide passing, but I was glad to hear she left the place to you. You deserve it, and it'll be good for Shelby to be able to stay in the house."
I had no idea why such a truly good person as Anna Mae stayed with the likes of Hank. It was no secret there was no love lost between the two of them, but I supposed she had her reasons. I set a couple of fresh teas on the table and straightened, carefully stepping away from Hank and re-balancing the tray so the remainder of the teas were centered.
"Thank you, Anna Mae. Aunt Addy was a good woman. The world's a little dimmer with her gone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of thirsty folks to tend to. You have a great time." I meant it, too.
I nodded curtly at Hank, barely able to keep the repulsion off my face, then headed toward the next table to replace empty cups with full ones.
As I walked away, I heard him tell Anna Mae, "You forgot the extra slaw. Go get it, and get some sauce while you're up."
I gritted my teeth, but shook my head and kept walking. If I turned around and saw the hang-dog look I knew she was wearing, I'd be tempted to finish what I'd started.
Turned out, I didn’t have to.
I’d only taken a few steps when Hank began to choke again. Since it wasn’t my doing this time, I didn’t pay it much attention—but then it just went on and on. I turned and Hank was tugging at the collar of his too-tight polo shirt and sweating profusely. That wasn't really anything new for Hank because he was always sweaty, but his skin had a scarlet cast that definitely didn't look healthy. He was groping clumsily for his tea.
I thought he was actually choking—how ironic—and moved toward his table to do what I could to keep him from dying on my shift, whether I wanted to or not. He managed to pick up the cup and drank like he hadn't had a drink in days. He sucked down half the icy-cold goodness, pouring the other half down his shirt and soaking the navy cotton stretched over his beer gut. The empty cup clattered to the table as he tried to stand, then he sat back down again with a solid thump. The folding chair squealed in protest as all three hundred pounds of him collapsed on it at once.
Hank tried to say something, then looked at his hand as if it were an alien appendage. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, and darted back and forth as he reached for Anna Mae's tea, then they rolled back in his head as it lolled back. It hung suspended for a minute, then tipped forward, gaining momentum until he face-planted with a wet splat right in his coleslaw. His one visible, sightless eye was still bulging out of his head and drool bubbled from his slack lips as rivulets of mayonnaise-based dressing dripped off his bulbous nose.
Absolute silence reigned for the span of a couple heartbeats, then Anna Mae began to scream, and the entire place erupted into chaos. Behind me, I heard one of the tables of food collapse as somebody who was rushing to see what had happened crashed into it. I turned just in time to see casserole dishes, bowls full of dip, and a variety of aluminum-foil-covered bowls and plates slide in slow motion to the ground in a massive heap of fried foods, bacon-laced delicacies, and sticky, fruity fillings.
One beautifully molded green gelatin creation stuffed with pineapple chunks rolled and bounced twice before plopping to a jiggling stop in a pool of tea a couple of feet from my shoes. I'm ashamed—sort of—to admit the first thing that flashed through my head was that I was going to be cleaning up pies, casseroles, and bean salads for half an hour when all was said and done.
Gathering my wits about me, I tried to remember my CPR training. I pointed to Jesse Lee Simms and told him to call 911, then about threw my back out when I pulled Hank off the chair and to the ground. He landed with a thud and I began a preliminary assessment to see if he was really dead or if he'd just eaten himself into a food coma. No breathing, no heartbeat—not that I was sure he even had a heart.
I sighed as everybody around me continued to panic; it was gonna be me or nobody. I couldn't just walk away and start pouring the champagne—well, I could but it might come off as tacky. I had to try to save his worthless ass.
The thought of actually putting my mouth on his made me want to vomit, partly because he was foul, and partly because I knew some of the places where that mouth had been. Eww. I shivered, repulsed by what I was about to do.
Then, just as I mentally pulled up my big-girl panties and reached for his nose, a hand landed on my shoulder and stopped me from leaning over Hank. I closed my eyes and gave thanks for the divine intervention. I might also have stupidly promised to avoid ice cream and sarcasm for a year in payment for the reprieve, but the exact phrasing was sketchy afterwards.
Anyway, I looked up into the Caribbean-green eyes of a man wearing a deputy's uniform and a nametag that identified him as Woods.
Frankly, between those eyes, the solid muscles straining against his uniform shirt, and the fact that he'd just saved me from placing my lips on Hank Doolittle's, I didn't care what his name was; he was a god among men in my book. He motioned for me to step aside as two paramedics moved into the canopied area with a stretcher.
They must have already been there in case anything went wrong at the celebration, because there was no way they’d made it from across town in under two minutes, especially since it was Hank. He wasn’t exactly a fan favorite at the fire station, because he’d charged old Mrs. Huddlestein the full fire fee when a few of them had helped rescue her cat from her roof.
Anna Mae was still howling and dabbling at her eyes, but the skeptic in me wondered how much of it was anguish and how much of it was hysterical laughter that she'd been so blessed on such a gorgeous day. Most everybody knew Hank stepped out on her regularly, and after nearly twenty years of marriage, that had to grind. Apparently, yesterday had been my day to get lucky, and today was hers.
I stood up and wiped my sweaty palm on the front of my bean-and-slaw-encrusted apron and shoved that stupid curl behind my ear again. I swear, I was about ready to lop it off. I'd gotten the knees of my jeans wet when I'd kneeled beside Hank, and there was something sticky all over my hand. Gross. Since there was nothing left for me to do, I headed to the back to get a bus tub to start cleaning up the mess, nearly going bottoms-up when I stepped on the ring of green Jell-O now turning to goo in the sun.
"What in the name of blue blazes are they doing to me?" Hank's panic-stricken voice sounded from behind me and I squeezed my eyes shut. I took a deep breath and turned around, dread and irritation warring within me.
Sure enough, Hank—or more precisely Hank's ghost—was trying to no avail to push people away from his body. When his hands kept running through people, he stopped and looked at his hands, then up at me.
Hoping against hope that he didn't realize I could see him, I turned back toward the kitchen.
"Noelle Flynn, you tell them to stop whatever it is they're doing and help me get back in my body or I swear you'll live to regret it. I'll ..."
At that point, the ground around him began to bubble—honest-to-god boil—and black tendrils of sooty smoke curled up around his ankles and wound around his calves. He began to scream and hurl threats at me, but the strange mist had encompassed him and was dragging him down into the earth.
His eyes were wide with terror and he reached for me, but he was hateful right to the end; he wasn’t begging for my help, he was screaming invectives at me. The writhing smoke curled up his arm—the only part of him still above ground—and pulled him the rest of the way under.
The soil stopped churning as Hank’s fingers disappeared; the sounds of confused, excited voices that had been dim just seconds ago returned to full volume, and things were back to normal. Or at least as normal as they could be when people were filling plates with barbecue and tapping their toes to the sound of “Dueling Banjos” while a fat, dead guy was being loaded into an ambulance twenty feet from the all-you-can-eat table.
Chapter 4
W
hen I made it to the kitchen, I braced myself against a stainless-steel table and took a couple of deep breaths. Honestly, I felt a little guilty for my apathy towards Hank's fate, but I reckoned it was called just desserts for a reason.
I was surprised to see that Bobbie Sue and Earl were still hard at work. The sound from the dishwasher drowned out all other noise as Bobbie chopped cabbage and Earl sliced a brisket. Apparently, they hadn't heard the brouhaha that had gone on out in the tent. I stood staring at them, trying to decide how to tell them that the most hated man in three counties was being stuffed into an ambulance, dead as a hammer, at their carefully planned Fourth of July party.
Before I could decide on the best approach, the dishwasher kicked off and they noticed me at the same time. Without giving it any real thought, I blurted, "Hank Doolittle just keeled over dead in his coleslaw."
Bobbie Sue and Earl just stared at me for a few seconds, knives held in mid-air, and Sarah, the other waitress, slid her forgotten drink tray full of teabags and refilled ketchup bottles down on the counter beside her. Finally, my unflappable boss raised her brows. "Huh," she said before she resumed chopping the cabbage. "Do I need to bring out a fresh bin of slaw, then?"
I blinked twice then shook my head. I'd like to say she was just in shock because such a terrible thing had happened, but she wasn't. Hank was just truly that big of an ass.
Before I really had time to comfort Bobbie Sue in her time of obvious distress, there was a tap on one of the swinging doors. It pushed open before I could respond, and Deputy Woods took a step inside, peering at us expectantly with those sea-green eyes—though I had no idea what he expected.
Before Earl could shake a meat cleaver at him for entering sacred space, I asked, "Yes, Deputy? Is there something we can do for you?"
He didn’t seem to know what to do when he realized we weren’t particularly shattered because the sheriff had just fallen over dead within fifty feet of that very door. If he was expecting to find us clutching each other amidst a shower of heartbroken tears, he’d probably have had better luck telling us they revived him.
He cleared his throat and arranged his face into some semblance of professionalism. "I need to talk to the owners, please."
Bobbie Sue held up a chef's knife. "That would be me, Deputy. Give me one second and I'll meet you out there." She pointed the knife in the direction of the door then resumed cutting up the rest of the cabbage.
The deputy took another uninvited step into the kitchen and opened his mouth to say something.
I waited for the cleaver to drop, because the man had just stepped further into the inner sanctum after literally being shown the door, but Bobbie Sue just cocked a brow and told him a bit more firmly, "I said I'll be right out."
He finally caught on, and his ears turned a bit red at the obvious dismissal. I couldn't tell if it was from irritation or embarrassment but he snapped his mouth shut, pivoted on his heel, and left the kitchen.
Bobbie Sue covered the tub of cabbage and wiped her hands on a nearby bar towel, shaking her head. "The boy obviously had no raisin', bless his heart. It's not his fault. If he sticks around here, we'll teach him some manners." Bobbie Sue was nothing if not kind.
The ambulance had already pulled away and flies were starting to swarm over the spilled food when we walked out of the kitchen and headed toward the deputy. He was leaning against a table looking over the backyard at the crowd, shaking his head about something.
Food from the knocked-over table was oozing in all directions, and the floor was littered with plastic plates and utensils. The bluegrass band had started up again outside. People were still filling their plates with meat, slaw, and the potluck dishes remaining on the three tables left standing. They were even being polite enough not to walk through the mess, though that could have just been because most of them were wearing flip-flops.
When we approached, the deputy held out his hand, first to Bobbie Sue, then to me. "Deputy Hunter Woods."
It took a minute for the name to sink in, and I slammed my mouth shut to prevent an immature giggle from bursting forth. I behaved myself because it wouldn't be polite to make fun of his name, especially after he'd saved me from a postmortem lip-lock with Hank. It also helped that he was hot with a capital H, and I was in the middle of a dry spell. Unfortunately, that happens when you live in a small town; the only thing more shallow than the gene pool is the dating pool.
After the introductions were made, he glanced back out at the laughing crowd, furrowing his brow. Bobbie Sue cocked her head and looked at him appraisingly. "Well, what did you expect? That everybody would abandon the Fourth of July celebration just because Hank Doolittle kicked the bucket? Apparently you have no idea how good Earl's barbecue actually is, and you sure didn't know Hank. Shoot, for many of the people out there, his unexpected passin' is cause for even more celebration."
He stared at her, then took his hat off and ran his fingers through his dark hair before slapping it back on. "I've never seen anything like this, though. A man died right over there less than a half-hour ago. I at least expected people to show a little bit of emotion or respect. He was the sheriff and a long-standing member of this community, right?"
Bobbie Sue snorted. "Shee-it. If you're waiting for people to get all teary-eyed over Hank droppin' dead, you may as well pull up a chair and get comfortable. He was crooked as a dog's leg and mean as a snake. He abused his power professionally, and was a bully and a blow-hard. The only thing that surprises any of us is that it took this long for his meanness to catch up with him."
She was straightening the containers on one of the remaining food tables, moving the empties to the back and tucking foil around the rest to keep out any flying picnic crashers. "Did he choke to death, or did that shriveled up ticker of his finally give up the ghost? Lord knows he stuffed so much bacon and donuts into his pie-hole, it's a wonder it didn't happen years ago."
Hunter looked uncomfortably at the ground and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "He definitely didn't choke. We're taking some additional steps just to make sure he died from natural causes. It's just standard procedure until we know for sure."
"What additional steps, exactly, and why?" I asked, bending over to pick up a pie spatula and some paper plates that had fallen to the floor.
"We'll just need to talk to people. Ask some questions. And we'll run some tests on his plate of food just make sure it wasn't something he might have eaten." He was making a point to look anywhere but at us. "But I'm sure that's not the case," he hastened to add.
Bobbie Sue's face turned crimson when she realized what he meant. She stepped forward and put her finger in his face. "Don't you even dare imply anything was wrong with my food. In twenty-five years, we've never had so much as a bellyache for reasons other than eatin' too much, and if you start spreading word we flat out killed somebody, you and me"—she waggled her finger between them—"are gonna have a problem! ’Sides, you don't just drop dead from food poisoning five minutes after you eat." She waved a pair of salad tongs at him and scowled. "Not that there's even a remote chance that was what kilt him."
With a final glower that would have wilted plastic flowers, she stomped back toward the kitchen and through the double doors, slamming them open so hard they bounced off the walls.
For a few seconds, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from the area, but, being used to Bobbie Sue's temper, I wasn't fazed.
Hunter snapped his mouth shut and drew his eyebrows together. "She certainly seems to have some anger issues, and she made it clear she didn't like the sheriff. Have they had any recent dealings? And did she just threaten me?"
I stopped cleaning off the table, narrowed my eyes at him, and squared my shoulders. "Apparently you haven't been listening. Nobody liked Hank, so you can't use that as motive, else you'll have the whole town locked up. You may be new to these parts, but I'm here to tell you Bobbie Sue Banks is one of the best-hearted people in this town."
I waved the pie spatul
a I’d picked up around the tent and toward the crowd. "Look around you—she's eating the cost for all this because times are hard and she wants the entire town to enjoy the holiday. And that's not all she does for this town, either. She may have a temper, but she's not the poisonin' type. Trust me—if she wanted Hank dead, she woulda shot him and been done with it." I paused to suck in a breath. "And if she was threatening you, you'd know it."
He must have realized he'd stepped in it again because he held his hand up. "Take it easy. I'm not implying anything. I'm just asking standard questions. Like I said, at this point, we're assuming it was a heart attack. He was certainly a prime candidate and that's what it looked like to me. I'm just covering the bases. This is the last place he ate—"
I cleared my throat and raised a brow.
He started over. "I mean, there’s a small chance this may end up being a crime scene and you were the last to serve him, so it's logical to question you."
Yeah, because pointing the finger at me was so much better. Although it probably wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I hadn’t half-killed him a minute before something else finished him off.
He took a deep breath and started over. "Look, I don't think anything. I just have to do the paperwork on it and I want to do it right. I've only been here for a couple of months, so I'm not really in the loop yet. I'm investigating because honestly, nobody else stepped up. " He scrubbed a hand over his face." I'm usually much better at communicating but we apparently got off on the wrong foot. Let's start over."
He seemed relieved when I relaxed and sank into a chair, motioning for him to do the same. I curled my toes and rolled my ankles. Wow, did that feel good. I'd been running non-stop since nine that morning and my feet were killing me. A soft breeze blew through the tent and cooled some of the sweat on the back of my neck. I was so caught up in the reprieve that I lost track of what he was saying for a minute. When I tuned back in, he was asking me for my version of events.