by Amy Metz
“Yep.” She picked at her fingers. “He lives with my sister. I see him from time to time, but not often. I figure he’s better off without me. I don’t want him to end up like me. And you shouldn’t either.”
“How old is he?”
“Ten. He’s ten years old. Hard to believe, but time, it does fly. You remind me a little of him.”
He narrowed his eyes. “If you were really in the mob, how’d you get free of them?”
“Who says I did?”
His shoulders rose, held, and then fell. “A hunch.”
“Well, you’re right. There were a lot of guns around, and Antonio—”
“He the father? The head dude?”
“Yep. He and Zeke took me to gun ranges and taught me how to shoot, taught me about guns. He wanted me working for him, and he wanted me to be skilled. And I tried. Then I became pregnant, and he didn’t want me anymore. So I limped off to my sister’s house, had the baby, and jumped at a chance for adventure when Zeke offered.
“Zeke?”
She nodded. “He always liked me when I was with The Man. He wanted to make a name for himself. He tracked me down, offered to let me be his right-hand girl. She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I seem to do better in that capacity than as an assassin.”
“So what are you gonna do now?” His eyes went to her face instead of the bottle of water on the table.
“I haven’t decided.” She met his eyes. “I have some thinking to do.”
“You know what I think?” He scratched his nose.
“No, but I’m guessing you’re gonna tell me.” She sat back in the chair and propped her feet on the nearby bed.
He took a long drink, enjoying the fact that it was his turn. “I think you should go get your little boy and settle down somewhere. You tell me not to choose this life, yet you won’t leave it? You’re a hypocrite, lady.”
She stared at her hands, twisting a ring.
He continued, his voice stronger now. “Maybe you had a crappy life. But is that any reason to continue living one? You’ve never trusted anyone in your entire life, have you? Does anyone besides your boy and your sister even know what you look like? What you really look like?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them, he was staring at her. They sat studying each other for several minutes.
Finally, in a thick voice, he spoke. “Well, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll change if you’ll change.”
Mama always said . . . Never get overly excited about a man/woman by just the way they look from behind.
As soon as Jimmy Dean left, Wynona raced to the bathroom where she removed all traces of John Noseworthy. With her face scrubbed clean, and her blonde hair still in a ponytail, she looked more like she was twenty instead of thirty. She slipped first one foot then the other into her four-inch heeled Jimmy Choo leather booties, cut at the ankle. She zipped up the gold zippers on the side and stood. Ah, it feels good to be back in my Jimmy Choos. She stood and practiced walking in the shoes. Not bad.
Scurrying around the hotel room, she gathered all of her belongings into garbage bags and made three trips to the car. She returned and did one last sweep over the room, wiping down with Clorox wipes the hard surfaces and the entire bathroom, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. Finally, she was satisfied. She pulled her ponytail through the back of a baseball cap, pushed down the bill over her forehead, and closed the door.
The rain had let up, but it was still drizzling. It took her two hours to drive to three different remote locations, setting fire to her belongings at each stop, getting rid of a little bit at a time until all of her disguises, clothes, and IDs were turned to ash. She’d worn John Noseworthy’s long black coat until the last stop. It was the one thing she hated to give up as it had kept her reasonably dry.
She’d used a different persona to rent this car than any she’d used while in Goose Pimple Junction, so she wasn’t worried about the police connecting the car to her. Afraid to push her luck by going to Beau again, this time she drove to the local Enterprise store, filled out the return envelope, and put the key in it. She slipped it into the dropbox, leaving the trunk open so she could move her belongings, mostly tech stuff, to the black Lexus she’d parked beside.
Wynona had picked up how to steal cars very well. She worked fast. Sliding a slim jim tool between the car window and the door skin, she fished around until she felt the lever and pulled up. Once in the car, she located the trunk lock, transferred her gear to the new car, hot-wired it, and pulled out of the lot. By the time they noticed the car was gone, it would be parked in a lot at the Knoxville airport, a two-hour drive away. Her flight didn’t leave until 11:00 a.m. Assuming she arrived one hour ahead of time, that left her with . . . she thought for a minute, using her fingers . . . nine to ten hours to kill. She shook her head. She was getting tired of her assassin puns.
Tired, hungry, and thirsty, she was overjoyed when she saw the neon sign for the Mag Bar up ahead. She added a little eyeliner to her eyelids, brushed two strokes of blush over her cheeks, and applied some lipstick. She didn’t want a pick up, but her mama always said there was no sense in looking like a washwoman.
The bartender gave her a nod as she sat on a barstool. He was pouring a beer but raised his eyebrows in question.
“Kill me now,” she requested with a straight face.
The bartender pushed up the tap, put the mug of beer on a waiting tray, and said, “Huh?”
“Kill Me Now. It’s a cocktail.” His face was blank. “Tequila, rum—” She saw no sign of comprehension on his face and said, “How about a beer?”
He nodded and said, “Draft or bottle?”
“Bottle.”
He held up one finger indicating he’d be right back.
When he brought the beer, she ordered a cheeseburger and fries. And when he brought the food, she ordered another beer. She’d just ordered her third beer and had hamster cheeks from taking a huge bite of cheeseburger when Hank Beanblossom sat three stools down from her at the bar.
She almost choked; some food went down the wrong way, and she began coughing and gasping for air.
Hank rushed to her, pulled her arms up over her head, and patted her back. When she’d gotten her breath and the coughing fit had gone, he sat beside her.
“You scared me there for a minute.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He handed her a napkin.
“Thank you. And thanks for your help.” She rubbed her chest; it was hurting from the coughing fit.
The bartender slapped down a napkin in front of Hank. “What’ll it be?”
“Gimme whatever the lady’s having, and bring her another.”
“I don’t usually have that effect on women,” he joked. “I’m Hank.” He stuck out his hand, and she shook it.
Would he recognize her? Gone were Trixie’s brown contacts, brassy shag hairstyle, heavy makeup, and hippie clothes. Still, she was afraid to look him in the eye. But even more, she was tired of being someone else. Tired of pretense. Tired of life as she knew it. For the first time in a long time, she was purely herself. She couldn’t help it; she met his gaze and said, “Wynona.”
“You live around here?”
“No. Just passing through. I’m guessing from your uniform, you live close by?”
“Yep, little town about fifteen miles away called Goose Pimple Junction. Ever been there?”
“Nope. Maybe one day. I’m headed to Knoxville tonight to catch a plane in the morning.” Why are you talking like a magpie? Shut up, shut up, shut up!
“Are you all right? I don’t want to pry. I just—” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I sense something’s wrong. But we’re strangers, and I should just shut my big mouth right now.” He held his hands out. His shoulders slumped a little, and he put his elbows on the bar and rubbed his face with his hands.
Wynona glanced sideways at him. “You look tired. You just get off duty?”
“Yep. Had a sp
ecial situation. It’s been a rough couple of days. It’s still not over. I hate to say it, but we have a killer on the loose.”
“Oh?”
He scratched the top of his head. “Yeah, the funny thing is, we had two fatalities tonight.” Hank cringed a little and pulled on his earlobe. “I don’t mean it’s funny. I mean it’s the durndest thing.”
“That sounds just awful.”
‘We’ve had two murders today, and one just a few months ago.” He chuckled. “Goose Pimple Junction is becoming a hotbed of crime.”
“Wow. Murder.” She shuddered. “I shy away from anything like that. Did you catch the murderer?”
“No. And the awful thing is, we don’t know why either of them was killed. See,” Hank pulled a pen from his pocket and used a cocktail napkin to write on. “Say we have victims A, B, and C and an innocent person, D. We think A tried to have D killed, but got B killed instead.” He drew lines to and from the four letters. “And A killed C herself.” He swiped at his nose and said as an aside, “We think on account of D’s legal case that I can’t talk about.”
“So what’s the funny, durndest thing? Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
Hank turned slightly, and his knee rubbed against her thigh. Neither one moved or said anything. “We don’t know whether a crime has been committed. The fatality tonight said she fell on the knife as she and ‘Y’ were fighting for it. We got that much out of the vic before she died. There’s no reason for her to lie, but something’s missing. I don’t know. Poor woman, she suffered like a stuck pig. She didn’t say a whole lot. Mostly gibberish.”
The bartender set two bottles of beer in front of them and moved on. Wynona picked up her bottle and began her fourth for the night, trying to hide the guilt she felt.
“Geez, I’m sorry to be talking about all this unsavory stuff. Let’s change the subject. “What is it you do?” Hank took a pull from the bottle.
Wynona fidgeted a little and gave a half-shrug. “I’m just a mom.” She munched on a French fry.
“How many you got?”
She wasn’t sure what he was talking about. She hesitated, and he saved her.
“Kids. How many kids.”
“Oh!” She slapped her forehead. “Just one. A boy.”
“Well isn’t that nice. Kids are great. Is he traveling with you?”
“No, he’s at home with my sister. You have any yourself?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. So . . . what do you do all day?”
Wynona let out a half-laugh. “My favorite question.” She gave his question some thought and then answered, “A little of this and a little of that. What I don’t do is sit around watching TV and eating bonbons.”
Their eyes met again, and he cocked his head. “I feel like I know you. We haven’t met before, have we?”
“No,” she said shyly, averting her eyes.
“That wasn’t a come-on,” he said quickly. “I mean, not that I don’t want to come on to you, but I wasn’t—” he moaned and looked heavenward, “Oh, Lord, make me shut up, please!”
She chuckled and touched his arm. “It’s okay.”
They stared into each other’s eyes. Someone put on a song from the jukebox. Jimmy Buffet began singing “Please Bypass This Heart.”
“Would you dance with me?” Hank stood and held out a hand.
To her complete surprise, she took it. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that fourth beer. They walked through peanut shells littering the ground to the tiny dance floor, where he took her in his arms, and they began to sway to the music.
“Just for the record, this is a come-on,” he whispered, his mouth to her ear. He gently pushed off her ball cap and held it in his hand at the small of her back. He rested his face on top of her head.
Wynona took a deep breath. He smelled magnificent, and she thought she surely would swoon if she didn’t get her nose away from his neck. But his arms felt so good, and she was so tired of running and hunting and being someone she wasn’t. She held on and gave herself to the moment. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was hiding.
When the dance was over, he led her back to the bar, holding onto her hand. She didn’t want to let go.
“Last call.”
“Oh my gosh.” Wynona looked at her watch. “Is it that late? Have we really been talking that long?”
“Guess so.” Their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar until the bartender came by for one last order. They shook their heads, finally breaking eye contact. Then they stood, and Hank helped her on with her jacket and walked her out. The rain had let up, and dark clouds were skimming over a full moon.
They stopped at Wynona’s car, saying nothing out loud but everything with their eyes. Hank leaned in and softly kissed her.
“I hope you come back,” Hank whispered.
“Maybe I will, cowboy,” she whispered before getting in the car.
He watched her taillights get smaller and disappear down the dark country road.
“Wynona,” he muttered to himself. “Why, Wynona?”
Then it hit him. Johnny’s voice reverberated through his brain: Dee Dee kept saying Why did it. Or Y did it. It didn’t make sense.”
“No. No, it can’t be.” He clasped his hands on top of his head and gazed at the sky. He stood alone in the deserted parking lot, realization washing over him.
“WYnona?”
“Wy?”
“Y?”
Read other books by Amy Metz
Writing a book is a solitary task, but getting a book ready to publish takes a village. First, I want to thank the readers who wrote to me asking when the next book would be out. You are the wind beneath my wings. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Y’all are sweeter than a box of jelly donuts!
I could not write a book without the advice of others. To my beta readers Sarah Mallery, Ellen Mansoor Collier, Lisa Spears, Liz Metz, and my editor Lisa Binion, thank you for helping me through the final stage, the one that is the most brutal. I appreciate your attention to detail, your honesty, and your friendship.
Thank you to “Emerico” Imre Tóth for the fantastic cover art for this book. As soon as I saw the “Bowler Hat on a Rainy Day” painting, I knew it was right for this novel. I am so happy I was allowed to use it.
Thank you to Tom Brooks for listening to me babble about GPJ and for your insight and friendship. Thank you to my family, Jake Metz, Michael Metz and Liz Metz, for your support and encouragement.
Amy Metz is the author of the Goose Pimple Junction mystery series. She is a former first grade teacher and the mother of two sons. When not actively engaged in writing, enjoying her family, or surfing Facebook or Pinterest, Amy can usually be found with a mixing spoon, camera, or book in one hand and a glass of sweet tea in the other. Amy lives in Louisville, Kentucky.
This is a work of fiction. All names and character are either invented or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Amy Metz
All rights reserved.
Published by Southern Ink Press, 2016.
1st Edition, 4th volume in the Goose Pimple Junction mystery series.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover by “Emerico” Imre Tóth.
Cover and Interior Design by
www.emtippettsbookdesigns.com
SUMMARY: Caledonia Culpepper is a Southern belle facing a divorce. Wynona Baxter is a wannabe hit woman embarking on a new career.
When Wynona is sent to the crazy little town of Goose Pimple Junction, she comes across several rogues and rascals. The two women, in very different ways, prove you can’t keep a good woman down.
13: 978-0-9897140-9-9
10: 0-9897140-9-8
Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Amy Metz
Dedication
1 - A Unicorn And A Hit Woman
2 - Change a Forty for Two Twenties
<
br /> 3 - If It Walks Like A Duck . . .
4 - Climbing Fool’s Hill
5 - A Formidable Pair
6 - A Monkey Doing Math Problems
7 - A Public Menace & Stupid Idiot
8 - Put That Punk In The Pokey
9 - Probably Pretty Proficient
10 - Don’t Go Pointing Fingers Until You Have A Whole Hand
11 - Police Bidness
12 - Retail Therapy
13 - You Just Have To Be Yourself
14 - Pouring Down Bullfrogs and Bodies
15 - Three IDs And A Funeral
16 - Plan B
17 - You Can Call Me Al
18 - In A Heap of Trouble
19 - You’re Fired
20 - Cookies, Cupcakes, and Pie, Oh My!
21 - Like White on Rice
22 - Don’t Shush Your Gut
23 - The Blue Plate Special for a Bridge Party
24 - Let’s Skip The Appetizer and Get To The Main Course
25 - Tweedle Dee’s Bad Deeds
26 - Santa Claus Is Coming To Town
27 - I Don’t Own A Santa Suit
28 - Coming Up A Bad Cloud
29 - I’m A Special Somebody
30 - It Was a Dark and Stormy Night
31 - No Lights and Sirens
32 - I’ll Fix Your Wagon
33 - A Trash-Moving Gullywasher
34 - He’s A She
35 - Let's Make A Deal
36 Please Bypass This Heart
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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