by Amy Metz
“With pleasure.” Caledonia sighed. “On both accounts.”
Wynona made a show of looking out the window. “Is Paprika coming?”
“No, remember? She had to work. She’s a computer whiz. She works out of her home mostly doing freelance stuff. She has some steady customers, but she’ll take just about any job that comes along. Mostly security-related stuff. People actually hire her to try to break into their systems. Can you believe that?”
“Wow. She sounds smart.”
Caledonia nodded. “Pixie, she’s smart as a whip, let me tell you.”
Wynona’s face was quizzical, and Caledonia quickly added, “You don’t mind if I nickname you that, do ya? I have a nickname for everybody. And it rhymes, plus you remind me of a little pixie.”
“I guess not.” Wynona didn’t particularly like the nickname but decided not to fight it.
As the women shopped, Wynona glanced outside and saw trees bending and leaves fluttering in the wind. The sky was dark and ominous, looking like a storm would blow through any minute. She thought about her wig and wondered if it would hold in place. Maybe they could stay in the store long enough for the storm to pass. Then she spotted a wide-brimmed summer hat. It was made of tight-weave straw and reminded her of something a Southern belle would wear. She could buy it, and then she’d have an excuse to put her hand on top of her head to hold down the hat—and her Farrah Fawcett wig—without it looking odd. Perfect solution.
Caledonia chattered on happily as she combed through the dress racks. Wynona thought she wasn’t as dumb as Penny had suggested. In fact, she was rather charming and witty. Wistfully, she daydreamed of another life where she and Caledonia were best friends. They’d have lunch dates and shopping excursions. Sadly, that life was not to be.
Mama always said . . . Be careful picking your friends, ‘cause clean don’t rub off on dirty.
Wynona sat in the diner flirting over the phone with Beau, the manager of the local car rental place. She was beginning to get used to talking with the artificially enhanced lips. “Yes, I came in the other day and signed the papers.” In a coy tone, she said, “Remember me?” and giggled like a brainless twit. She hated herself for it. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
She’d gone into the rental place a few days ago, all tarted up in a mini-skirt and low-cut top, and she’d hoped to, and succeeded in, finding a man behind the desk instead of a woman. At first, the guy wasn’t willing to do what she needed, but with a lot of flirting and a little cash, she’d accomplished her goal. “You said all I needed to do was call when I was ready for the van, and someone would deliver it. So here I am. Calling.” She put a little twang and a lot of flirt into each word. “Dinner? Well, sure, honey. I could do that when I return the van tomorrow night.” Or when hell freezes over.
“Now, remember, I can’t meet you when you bring the car, but you said you could leave the key under a mat for me, right? I’m really desperate to have it this afternoon. Yes, I know this isn’t usual company policy, and I really hate to be so difficult, but I’ll make it worth your while.”
She’d signed the contract under Lorena Foster, a different persona than the bohemian Trixie. She didn’t want anyone to associate Trixie with the rental this afternoon. Nobody besides the car guy had met Lorena, so she felt she had all her bases covered. Being too cautious? Never.
As she ended the call, she watched Caledonia’s husband and some homely woman two tables over. Poor Caledonia . . .
She smiled when Hank Beanblossom came into the diner and headed for her booth. You figure into my plan just fine, Officer. She fluffed her bangs so they fell even more over her eyes.
“Officer Beanblossom.” She made her tone friendly but kept it short—she didn’t want to lead him on. Besides, Lorena was the flirt. Trixie was the shy one. Sometimes she had trouble remembering who she was.
“Trixie, I wanted to apologize for how our date ended last night.” He slid into the booth seat opposite her.
“That’s all right. I know all about the call of duty.”
“You do?”
“Well . . . I can imagine.” She gave him what she hoped was a shy smile.
“I’d like to make it up to you by taking you to dinner with some friends of mine. I know you’ll like them, and it will be a chance to get to know each other better.”
She cocked her head. “Don’t you already know your friends?”
“You and me.” His finger waggled back and forth between them. “I want to get to know you better.”
“Oh,” she palmed her forehead. “I don’t think so. I’m not really the social type.”
His face clouded over. “You don’t have to be. My friends are good people. You just have to be yourself.”
Fat chance of that. A scene at a dinner table flashed in her head: one of Hank’s friends would ask her what she did for a living and she’d say, “I’m a hit woman. Would you like to have anyone killed?”
Hank filled the silence. “It’s just one evening. I’m not asking for a commitment or anything. Just one date.”
“I see. You know I won’t be in town for long, right?”
Hank was usually a confident man, but his timid smile showed Trixie she had taken a bite out of his self-assurance. “I was hoping to maybe change your mind on that count.”
“Oh, you—”
Just then, there was an outburst from the two old men at the counter. “It absodarnlutely will,” one man screeched.
“You’re not hooked up right, you know that? That miniature dozer will not outpull my tractor. It won’t!”
The men went back to bickering in their normal voices, and Wynona’s attention returned to Hank.
He rubbed his neck as his head swiveled again to her from the men. “Just a normal day at the diner. Those two could argue with a wall.” He raised his eyebrows. “So what do you say to dinner? With Johnny and Martha Maye and Jack and Tess. You met them all last night. We can get together tomorrow night. It will be fun.”
Wynona had an idea but not the one she told to Hank. “I say it will give me an excuse to go buy that dress I just saw.” And after a fine citizen is murdered this afternoon, the lawmen will be too busy to have any sort of social life. He’ll surely have to cancel the dinner.
Hank beamed. “Great.” His eyebrows drew together, and he asked, “Say, I’m not sure you ever told me . . . What’s your surname?”
She decided to play dumb. “Sir name? Is that like a married name or something? Cause I’m not married.” She twirled a lock of hair around her index finger.
“No. No, ma’am. I mean your last name. What’s your last name?”
“Oh! Cochran. It’s Cochran.”
“That’s a pretty name, Trixie Cochran. How about I pick you up at seven o’clock?”
“Sounds like a plan, Officer.” She gave him a shy smile.
Hank pushed out of the booth then shifted back in. “Uh . . . where exactly am I picking you up?”
“I guess that would be a vital piece of information. I’m staying at the Red Bud Inn.”
He patted the table in front of her. “Then the Red Bud Inn at seven o’clock is where I’ll be tomorrow night.”
Wynona waited ten minutes after Hank left, chuckling to herself when the term “killing time” came to mind. I’ve killed time. Now it’s time to kill a body. She went to the counter to pay her bill and to establish another alibi.
“Was everything all right?” Junebug asked, taking the bill from Wynona.
“Everything was right lovely.” Wynona was from the South, and she naturally talked with a Southern accent, although she exaggerated it a little for effect. The dialect wasn’t the problem; it was talking with these bubble lips that was giving her fits.
“What’s your hurry? We got chess pie, apple pie, and lemon meringue.”
“I’d just about kill for a piece of lemon meringue.” She laughed to herself at her pun.
“Best stuff you’ll ever put in your mouth. Y�
��ont a piece?” She waited to see if she was going to add to the bill. When Wynona said no, she keyed in her bill’s amount on the cash register.
“Say, what exactly is chess pie?” Wynona felt her bottom lip slipping off. She put her hand to her mouth.
“It’s a concoction of delicious sugary goodness; that’s what it is. I hear it got its name when someone asked the cook what the name of the pie was. She replied, ‘It’s jes’ pie’, and her Southern drawl slurred the name to sound like, ‘It’s chess pie,’ and it stuck. In any event, you don’t know what you’re missing if you never had a piece. It’s granny-slapping good. That’ll be ten forty-eight.”
Wynona pressed her upper and lower lips together. It seemed to be staying put now. “Um . . . what?” She took out her wallet and handed over some bills.
Junebug looked at her as if she had carrots growing from her ears. “So good you’ll want to slap your granny.” She took the money from Wynona and made change.
Wynona shook her head. “But I don’t have a granny.”
Junebug let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s just an expression, honey. So how about it? Want a piece to go?” She slammed the register drawer shut and tore off the receipt.
“It’s tempting, but I’m headed to Miss Penny’s to buy a dress I saw this morning, and I want to be able to fit into it.” She took her change and receipt from Junebug.
“Why, a little thing like you doesn’t have to worry about watching your weight.”
“I’m little because I do worry about my weight.”
Junebug leaned in and lowered her voice. “I saw you chatting with Officer Beanblossom. You wouldn’t be buying that new dress for him, now would you?”
Wynona kept her face blank when she replied, “No. I’m buying it for me to wear.”
Junebug peered over the top of her reader glasses at Wynona. “Are you for real?”
“Come again?” She gripped her purse straps, experiencing momentary alarm.
“What I meant was, are you buying that dress to impress a certain police officer?”
“Oh!” Wynona brought her hand to her throat and looked at the ground, shuffling her feet. “I guess so.” She giggled.
“You just go easy on Hank. He’s got a heart of gold, and I don’t want to see him hurt.”
“I couldn’t hurt a fly,” Wynona lied most convincingly.
“It’s pouring down bullfrogs out there,” Junebug called out just before Wynona got to the door. “Why don’t you wait a spell until it lets up?”
“That’s okay. I won’t melt.”
Mama always said . . . A conscience is what hurts when all your other parts feel good.
Wynona’s rental was parked in front of the diner, but the storm was in full force, and she was nearly soaked to the bone by the time she got into her car. She drove to an abandoned gas station five minutes from town where she spotted the white van she’d rented with Beau. She pulled in and parked next to the van. Switching from the driver’s side of her car to the passenger side of the van, she climbed over the console to the driver’s seat and reached under the mat for the key that Beau had left for her. Car rental delivery and the power of flirtation were a beautiful combination.
Wynona drove to the residence she’d staked out previously and parked diagonally across the street. The van she’d rented was the typical delivery type with one blacked-out window behind the driver’s seat. Wynona climbed into the rear of the van and set up a bipod. Then she pulled the pieces of her rifle out of a duffle. She wasn’t going to chance getting up-close and personal for this one. Zeke’s sniper rifle would do the job quickly and cleanly and from a good distance. One good thing about the rain though: nobody would be out walking. She stared at the various pieces trying to remember the steps to put it together. Then she sat back and waited. She’d heard her mark say she would be here mid-afternoon.
The only sound in the van was the drumming of the rain. Wynona stretched to reach the keys in the ignition and cut the engine. It was humid, but at least the sun wouldn’t be burning down and turning the van into an Easy-Bake Oven. She cracked the side window and adjusted her sights, readying herself for the kill.
As she waited, she thought about Hank and his interest in her, daydreaming about living in this town and actually dating a man like Hank. Maybe their souls had noticed each other. She had to admit an attraction to the man. There was something about him that just seemed right. She was glad she wouldn’t be sticking around. She’d avoid breaking both their hearts by leaving town.
Her wet clothes stuck to her body, and her head felt sweaty under the false hair, so she wiped her forehead and readjusted the brightly-colored wig. Wynona’s eyes felt scratchy, thanks to the brown contact lenses. She popped a contact out, and just as her eye began to feel some relief, her nose started itching under the latex. Damn humidity . . .
Twenty minutes later, she was so engrossed in trying to control the perspiration and daydreaming about Hank, she nearly missed an approaching car. The hissing sound of the tires on wet pavement got her attention as it passed the van and pulled into the Culpepper’s driveway. As brake lights lit up the wet asphalt behind the car, Wynona scrambled to get into position and take aim. She lurched and fell, crawled, and drug her body into position, shaking off Trixie and becoming Wynona, the professional who didn’t have thoughts or feelings; she just did the job. Her marks weren’t people, just targets. She didn’t allow her brain to think anything other than the steps she needed to complete. She was only vaguely aware of a line of sweat rolling down her spine and Trixie’s small voice telling her not to do it.
The rain was coming down in sheets now. A quick scan of the surrounding houses proved nearly futile because the rain so hampered visibility, but she figured it kept her from being seen as well. The only thing any nosy neighbors would possibly remember seeing would be a nondescript delivery van. No one would detect the tip of the rifle at the back window. And if someone should hear the shot, there would only be one. They might momentarily stop what they were doing, but when they didn’t hear a second one, they wouldn’t give it another thought because shootings just don’t happen in Goose Pimple Junction. One thing she was sure of was that no other cars were approaching. In fact, it had been quiet the whole thirty minutes she’d been parked on the street.
Through the sight, she watched the brake lights go off and the car door open. Show time.
Wynona was completely rattled as she kept the target in her sights as it dashed to the door. With the deluge of rain, all she could see was the form. She gritted her back teeth, fired once, and missed. Crap!
She took aim again and pulled the trigger once more, hitting her target perfectly in the upper middle torso as sure as if it had an actual target painted on it. As the body hit the ground, she sprang into action tearing down the gun, stowing the gear, and climbing back into the driver’s seat. Her windshield immediately fogged up when the van started. She turned on the windshield wipers and defroster, swiped the glass with her shaky gloved hand, and dropped the truck into drive. Tears streamed down her face, and she wiped them away with her sleeve.
She had to agree with Junebug that it was indeed “pouring down bullfrogs.” As she took off and saw the body crumpled on the Culpepper’s front porch, she regretfully added, “And bodies.”
A few blocks away, she pulled the van over, opened the door, and vomited.
Caledonia heard a sound at the front door. She could hear the rain pounding on the roof, but she could have sworn she also heard a thump or a thud at the front of the house. She went to the front window and saw it was a trash-moving gullywasher out there. Then she spotted Penny’s car in the driveway. What on earth is that old battle-ax doing here? As usual, she shows up like a bad penny. One thing’s for sure, she doesn’t have to worry about getting wet. She sure as shooting won’t melt. That woman’s about as sweet as a turnip.
Straightening her back and squaring her shoulders, Caledonia opened the front door, expecting to find Penny stand
ing there with a sourpuss expression on her face. Instead, she found no one.
She opened the storm door, took one step outside, and got the shock of her life. Penny was lying on the porch, facedown, a bright red spot spreading across her ugly white blouse.
Caledonia’s hand shot up to her mouth to cover a scream. She scanned the street and then stepped back, moving so fast she twisted her ankle and fell off her two-inch-heeled sandal and onto her bottom. She scrambled backward like a crab, trying to put distance between herself and what looked like a dead body. Bad Penny’s dead body. Penny could be snide and rude, but who would want to kill her? Now she felt bad about all the little slights she had directed toward Penny. Lord, maybe her mother was right when she said a woman must always be pleasant and gracious.
Her mind raced. What should she do? Was Penny dead? She tried to think. What would Suzanne Sugarbaker do? No, she was the dumb one. What would Julia Sugarbaker do? Caledonia closed her eyes and took deep breaths. She got to her feet and limped down the hall to the kitchen, pulling out her cell phone on the way. Sinking into a chair, she dialed 911. Bernadette picked up.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I think there’s a dead body on my front porch.” Her voice was shaking now along with her hands.
“Caledonia? Is that you? What dead body? What you talking about, girl?”
“It’s Bad Penny. Miss Penny. Penny. I think she’s been killed.” Caledonia dropped her face into her hand.
“You went and killed Miss Penny? I heard y’all couldn’t stand each other’s guts, but you don’t have to kill a body just because she’s hateful—”
“I didn’t kill her! Would you just tell Johnny and have him get here as fast as humanly possible? This is the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
“Yeah, well, I bet it makes the top ten for Miss Penny too.”