Rogues & Rascals in Goose Pimple Junction (Goose Pimple Junction Mysteries Book 4)

by Amy Metz

  “Bless your heart, Scarlett. You’ve been through hell in gasoline pants lately.” Junebug crossed one arm over her middle and brought her other hand up to her cheek. “Mm, mm, mm,” the woman tsked. “Listen, hon, sorry to keep you waiting. I thought Willa Jean was on duty. Prolly on a smoke break or something. I keep hounding her to quit, but it’s like I’m talking to deaf ears.”

  “No problem. I see you’re still putting up decorations.”

  “My motto is you can never have too much Christmas. You eating all by your lonesome?”

  “No, actually, I’m meeting someone from the state bar association. He’s coming all the way from Nashville to talk to me.”

  “The state bar? Well ain’t you highfalutin?” Both women laughed. “You wanna order anything before he gets here?”

  “I’d love some cherry pie and a sweet tea.”

  “You got it. Life’s short; eat dessert first, right?” Then she quickly added, “Not that you have to worry about that. Doggonit, why do I always put my foot in my mouth?” Junebug went off muttering to herself.

  Caledonia fished in her purse for a coin, got up, and went to the jukebox. She examined the choices, and when she found the right one, a smile grew across her face. The quarter went in, and she hit number fifty-eight. “If You’re Gonna Do Me Wrong, Do It Right” began playing. There were only a few other people in the diner. One man, a stranger to her, was sitting in the booth behind her own. He kind of smirked, and she shrugged her shoulders and slid back into her seat. The diner was quiet without Clive and Earl.

  Her right leg was crossed over her knee and her left foot was bobbing up and down to the music when a short, blond, and handsome man walked up to her table.

  “Well, hello,” Caledonia said before she could stop herself.

  “Caledonia Culpepper?” short, blond, and handsome asked.

  “None other.” Her smile was radiant, his was sexy, and she noted his white teeth.

  “I’m Virgil Pepper.” He stuck out his hand, and she studied him as she shook it. “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, no, sorry. It’s just ever since I heard your name, I’ve been debating your nickname.”

  “My nickname?” He slid in across from her.

  “Yes. See, I have one for everybody.” She waved into the air. “It’s just my way. But I needed to meet you before I could properly decide on yours.”

  “And?”

  She cast a rascally grin at him. “I still don’t know whether to call you sergeant or doctor.”

  “Well, my grandfather used to say ‘You can call me anything, just don’t call me late for dinner.’”

  Her mouth flew open. “You’re kidding. Mine used to say the same thing.” She played with the necklace at her throat and turned serious. “Thank you for coming all this way, Doctor.”

  “I’m not a—” his face showed comprehension. “Oh, the nickname. Gotcha.” He made his finger resemble a pistol and pointed and fired it at her. “I disappointed my parents when I went to law school instead of med school.”

  Junebug appeared at the table and set down muffins, butter, and Caledonia’s sweet tea. She indicated the man’s pistol finger with a nod of her head. “I’ll not have any murderous activity in my diner.”

  Caledonia spoke up. “Jitterbug, this here is Virgil Pepper.” The women exchanged looks. “Now, do you think he’s more like a sergeant or a doctor?”

  Junebug studied him for a moment. “I’d go with Doctor Pepper.” She glanced over her shoulder, then out of the side of her mouth said to Caledonia, “Actually, I’d go anywhere with him, no matter what you call him. You know what I mean?”

  “Simmer down, Jitterbug. The man’s here on business.”

  “Oh all right.” She turned to Virgil, saying, “WhatcanIgitcha?” so fast, she made the sentence sound like one word.

  He tugged on his ear while he thought for a moment. “I’ll just have coffee with cream, please.”

  Junebug’s hands went to her hips, and she looked at Caledonia. “Now see, Callie, here’s my dilemma. I have my choice of ways to ask for coffee with cream. I could say, ‘Give me a dirty water and make it moo,’ or ‘Gimme a blond.’ Or I can just order coffee and get the cream myself by saying I need a ‘bellywarmer’ or ‘cup of mud,’ or “draw one in the dark.’ Which one are you partial to, hon?” She addressed Virgil Pepper.

  “Let’s go with a cup of mud. I can add the cream myself.”

  She gave him the thumbs up. “That is what I will do. Y’all want anything else?”

  Virgil glanced at his phone that set on the table to his right. “No, coffee will do it.”

  Her shoulders sagged, but she said brightly, “You change your mind, just let me know.”

  Caledonia turned her iced tea glass in a circle on the table. “Well, like I said, thank you for coming all this way.”

  “My pleasure. Now tell me why I’m here.” His elbows rested on the table, and when he steepled his fingers, the tops covered his bottom lip.

  “In a nutshell, we have a corrupt, unscrupulous, wicked, and shameless attorney who must be stopped.”

  “That’s quite a nutshell. Go on.” He nodded for her to continue.

  “I have seven women so far, and possibly more, who will testify that Dee Dee Petty told them one thing and then sold them right down the river. We believe she’s in collusion with at least a judge, possibly another attorney, but I don’t want to go throwing stones. I just want all of the wrongs righted. And I want her to stop practicing law and ruining people’s lives.”

  “Wait a minute. Start from the beginning. Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

  Caledonia told him the whole story, even telling him about the computer hacking but not divulging who was responsible. Finally, she pushed the two-inch thick file folder that Jack had prepared toward the man.

  “Here’s the nutshell in detail. It will tell you all about her double-dealing ways.”

  Virgil leafed through the documents, periodically shaking his head and screwing up his mouth. Junebug brought his coffee and a creamer. Almost absentmindedly, he poured cream into the cup and took a sip. He read the documents some more.

  Caledonia had a hard time taking her eyes off the man. She leaned forward, her chin on her left fist, and studied him while he read. He had an elegant yet down-to-earth air about him. He seemed refined but not prissy. He looked to be in his early forties. His hair was receding, his nose was a little crooked, and one tooth slightly covered another. But they were all endearing qualities on him. He had on a white Oxford cloth shirt with a navy and yellow rep striped tie. She could see his strong biceps through the shirt as he moved the papers around. Unconsciously, she let out a sigh.

  He must have mistaken the sigh as an impatient one because he closed the file folder and looked up. “All right. I’ll have to get Ms. Petty’s side of the story of course. Then there’s due process and all that sh—stuff.”

  She nodded. “Can we do anything about my divorce settlement?”

  He sucked air through his teeth. “That’s a tough one. We can certainly start down that road, but it might be better if you approach your ex-husband and explain the situation. Tell him with a small town like this, you’re sure he wants to maintain his fine reputation before word gets out that he was involved in a scandal.”

  “I just want what’s fair. And then I want to buy Miss Penny’s Dress Shop.”

  He nodded and pulled out a business card from his wallet. “Give him this and ask him to call me if he’d like to re-open negotiations.”

  “And if he wouldn’t like to do that?”

  “Tell him I’ll be contacting him.”

  The gentleman sitting in the booth behind Caledonia was eavesdropping on her conversation. He smoothed his walrus-like mustache and twisted the ends. A finger pushed his horn-rimmed glasses into place. His bowler hat and umbrella lay across the seat opposite him since no one would be joining him.

  “See you got your umb
rella. It does look like it’s coming up a cloud out there.” The waitress indicated his umbrella sitting on the booth seat. She’d already gotten him coffee and muffins but had blessedly left him alone so far.

  “One must always be prepared,” the man said in a clipped British accent.

  She peered down at her customer. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”

  The man suppressed a smile. “No. I am not.” He glanced at her nametag. “Junebug.”

  “I’d say from your accent that you’re a long way from home. What brings you here—if you don’t mind me asking.”

  He raised his shoulder in a non-committal shrug. “Lunch.”

  She shrugged and beamed. “You’re in the right place. You here on vacation?”

  He shook his head. “I’m here on business.”

  “In Goose Pimple Junction?” She looked at him as if he’d just said Slick uses store-bought piecrust.

  “Yes, ma’am,” was his only response. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

  “You got a name?”

  His expression was a put out one, but he eventually answered her. “John Noseworthy.”

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Noseworthy. I’m Junebug, and I just have two questions for you.”

  He tensed. Uh-oh, here it comes . . .

  “Can I call ya John, and can I getcha anything else?”

  He wondered if his face showed the relief he felt. “Is your egg salad made with watercress?” he inquired.

  “Water what?” Junebug cocked her head.

  “Watercress.”

  “No, honey, but it’s awful good.”

  “All right. I’ll have an egg salad sandwich and cup of hot tea if you please. With cream and sugar.”

  “Sure thing.” She walked away, hollering, “Gimme a chicken in the hay, Slick. And Willa Jean, the gentleman wants boiled leaves.”

  The man resumed pretending to read the latest edition of the Goose Pimple Gazette while listening to the conversation in the next booth.

  He adjusted the lapel of his black suit coat and ran a finger under the collar of his shirt. I feel like I’m being choked to death. The horn-rimmed glasses were heavy, and the mustache was itchy. Being a man sucks. I miss my Jimmy Choo shoes and my dresses and skirts. One thing was for sure, she would not use this disguise again and was thankful she’d only have to put up with it for one day. She’d hated that Santa Claus get-up too. It was cumbersome and the beard was itchy. Yep, being a man sucked. Wynona sat back, looking thoughtfully out the window at the gloomy day, not really seeing anything. She wondered what she was doing here.

  Pretending to let her eyes wander, she shot a glance over her shoulder at Hank Beanblossom sitting on a stool at the counter, wondering if he’d been watching her. He appeared to be watching the door.

  She’d failed yet again, but this time it was on purpose. Her foot had let up on the gas as she neared Caledonia in the street. She just couldn’t do it. She was getting tired of this killing business.

  She surveyed the diner and frowned to herself. What she’d just heard from Caledonia made her think. A lot of things she’d learned in Goose Pimple Junction had changed her views on things. Her heart went out to those women. Who’s to say what career path is right? And for one woman to punish another for her choices in life, well, that was wrong. If what Caledonia was saying was true, Dee Dee Petty went against her sworn duty and betrayed other woman all because of her prejudice. To Wynona, that was just . . . petty.

  It appeared someone in this town had morals worse than her own. Wynona didn’t like it when other women were taken advantage of. Her own divorce had been messy, and she’d often thought that her lawyer could have—should have—done better. That was a simple case of being out-lawyered. That and having a vindictive ex-husband. But what had been going on in this town was downright poppycock. She started to giggle at the pun, then remembered men don’t giggle, and she cleared her throat.

  Looking out the window, she saw the first fat raindrops hit the pavement. Yes indeedy, it was coming up a bad cloud.

  Mama always said ... Have some gumption.

  Monday afternoon, Jimmy Dean was bored. He’d cut out of school early, but now he didn’t know what to do with himself. He wished he had a little brother or sister to pester. His mom was out of town on business—again—and, as always, his dad was at work. He thought about finding his toy mouse and tormenting the housekeeper again. Man, that was funny when she screamed and hopped up on the chair. He’d spent an entire day moving that thing around the house, scaring the daylights out of Mrs. Whitaker. By the end of the day, she’d threatened to quit.

  In town, he parked in front of the bookstore. He wasn’t sure he would go in there today, but he knew Louetta would see his car and have a hissy fit.

  Christmas decorations were everywhere, and all he could think was bah humbug. He thought about getting a Santa suit and a big bucket and ringing a bell like he was collecting for charity, but it sounded boring to him.

  Walking to the hardware store on the next block, Jimmy Dean passed Slick & Junebug’s Diner. It wasn’t busy, but he saw several people in there. He spotted Junebug talking to a stuffy-looking man in a suit and tie as he passed by. The wind blew, and he pushed his hands into his pockets and used his shoulder to push through the hardware store’s door. He was hoping something would catch his attention and give him inspiration. Nothing jumped out at him. He shoplifted a screwdriver and a wrench. Not because he needed them, but just for something to do.

  Back out on the sidewalk, he decided the weather called for some coffee. First, he had an idea. On his way to the coffee shop, he stopped in Ernestine & Hazel’s Sundries. He walked two aisles before he found what he wanted: a bottle of spray paint. He stared down the woman at the register, daring her with his eyes to say anything to him. She didn’t. He took his change and left without ever uttering a word. As soon as he was out the door, he wondered why he had paid for it.

  Jimmy Dean sauntered into the coffee shop next to A Blue Million Books like he owned the place. He ordered a caramel macchiato and took it to a table by the window, setting his new purchase on the table next to him. Unzipping his coat, he sat back and breathed in the coffee aroma. He took a tentative sip and decided the temperature was acceptable. He took a longer drink, tipping his chair on its rear two legs. His mother always yelled at him when he did that at home, so he did it every chance he got when he was out.

  Cup to his lips and chair balanced on the back two legs, he planned what he was going to do with the spray paint. He was looking out the window, in the direction of Slick & Junebug’s, when he saw Hank Beanblossom and Caledonia Culpepper come out of the diner. He snorted under his breath at the solicitous way the officer was acting toward the woman. She ain’t all that and a bag of chips.

  It was the person who came out several steps behind them—the man he’d just noticed at Slick & Junebug’s a few minutes before—who caught his attention. It wasn’t every day you saw someone in a black suit and a bowler hat in Goose Pimple Junction. The man had the straightest posture he’d ever seen, and he kind of twirled a black umbrella as he walked.

  Jimmy Dean’s eyes narrowed and his head jutted out, studying the figure striding toward him on the other side of the street. As the man got closer, Jimmy Dean nearly lost his balance before his chair landed with a thud. He jumped up and headed for the door, quickly backtracked, grabbed the bag off the table, and then scurried out of the shop.

  Pickle wore a white shirt with “I’M A SPECIAL SOMEBODY” across the front. From the store’s back door, he stepped into the alley behind A Blue Million Books, carrying a trash bag in each hand. He was trying to hurry, afraid it would start raining again. He heard a hissing noise and turned his head to see what it was as he slung one of the bags into a dumpster.

  Just a few feet away, Jimmy Dean held a can of spray paint parallel to the coffee shop’s brick wall. Pickle glanced to the right and saw Jimmy Dean had already gotten to the booksto
re’s wall. It was covered with graffiti. He quietly put the other bag down on the ground beside him and moved behind the dumpster. He slipped his cell phone from his pants pocket and took two quick pictures of Jimmy Dean administering his handiwork. Then he put the phone back in his pocket and lobbed the other bag in. Brushing off his hands, Pickle stepped out from behind the dumpster and stared at the vandal. Filthy words in white paint blared on the wall with paint drips running off a letter k.

  “Close your mouth. You’re liable to catch flies.” Jimmy Dean walked menacingly toward Pickle, who stood his ground. Jimmy Dean’s stocky frame was clearly tougher than that of Pickle’s, which was skinny as a beanpole. “And you better keep it closed if you know what’s good for you. You remind me of a toothpick, and they’re real easy to snap in half.”

  “You . . . you shouldn’t be doing that.” Pickle pointed to the wall.

  “Blah, blah, blah. Don’t be a Girl Scout.” He narrowed his eyes and leveled a finger at Pickle. “And don’t go being a tattletale either.”

  Pickle propped his hands on his waist. “You know what? I’ll be dipped in bacon fat before I lie for you.”

  “You might regret that decision, dude. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to corner anything bigger than you?”

  “Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to go around destroying other people’s property? What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

  “Oh hell, you’re old before your time, bro. I’m just having a little fun in this two-bit town.”

  “What you are is in serious need of an attitude adjustment.”

  “Who died and left you the boss of me? Go on back to your boring little job and your boring little life. I got things to do anyway.” Jimmy Dean started down the alley, pulling a towel out of his back pocket and wiping the spray paint can with it as he walked toward the storefronts. Pickle followed him.