Bones to Pick

by Linda Lovely

  I spotted the egg lady’s dented truck and parked beside it. Three trips to the car and back and I’d muscled the cheese-filled coolers into my stall.

  “How you doin’?” The high-pitched voice startled me. “Sorry to hear about Lilly. Wondered if Udderly would send anyone today. I’m Addie. Do I know you?”

  I turned toward the voice. A dried apple face peeked out of the woman’s oversized parka. Light cast by a space heater rigged behind her table gave the small wedge of face an eerie glow.

  “Yes’m, Miss Addie,” I answered. “I’m Brie Hooker, Lilly’s niece.”

  Whew. I made it through our greeting without a startled gasp. Glad Aunt Eva had reminded me that while Miss Addie bore a striking resemblance to a witch, she was a very nice lady. “Don’t worry, Brie.” Eva chuckled. “The smile above that hairy mole on her chin doesn’t mean she’s finished off Hansel and Gretel and is sizing you up for dessert.”

  Addie looked puzzled. Clearly she didn’t remember me.

  “I helped Aunt Lilly with the booth once last year. She introduced us.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “I remember. Dang calendar says spring’s sprung, but it feels colder than a witch’s tit on Hallow’s Eve. I can spare a mug o’ coffee so’s you don’t freeze.”

  “Uh, thanks, but Aunt Eva sent me off with a full thermos.”

  A bundle of rags shuffled down the aisle heading our way. I thought “zombie.”

  Addie called to him. “Hey, Jimbo. Got your eggs all ready. Think my hens are still cackling.”

  Official sunrise remained half an hour away when my first prospects arrived. In an hour, nibblers tore through a full pack of toothpicks as they speared free samples. I’d artfully arranged the dainty cheese cubes in a color-coded wheel. Then valiantly tried to fill in the holes as folks poached samples. After forty-five minutes, I gave in and tossed cheese on the tray. Sort of like feeding wild animals, I withdrew my hand quickly to keep all my fingers.

  “Where’s Lilly?”

  I looked up. A red-haired spitfire had planted herself in front of the booth.

  “That little scamp promised this limey she’d bring me an apricot cheeseball today,” the British import continued.

  She sounded quite put out. Then I saw her grin. The lady was putting me on. That didn’t unglue my tongue. It never dawned on me that Lilly would have friends here who didn’t know she’d passed.

  My chin trembled as I fought my tears. The stranger reached across my now untidy cheese platter and squeezed my arm. “Sod it, what did I say?”

  I blubbered my news and watched matching tears pool in the Brit’s eyes. “I had no idea.” She choked out condolences. “I’ll miss Lilly. We had a good ol’ time blowing smoke up each other’s knickers.”

  During the next hour, I broke the sad news to a dozen of Lilly’s regular customers. Her obit hadn’t caught their eyes. Most didn’t know my aunt’s last name, just her teasing patter.

  About eight o’clock, Paint visited my stall. I flashed him my best grin before I realized he wasn’t smiling. What now?

  “Hi, Brie. I dropped by Udderly after I read the morning paper. Knew Eva wouldn’t look at it till evening. Wanted to prepare her in case a reporter came nosing around. Eva said you were here and asked me to warn you.”

  He pushed a folded Ardon Chronicle across the table. A two-column photo immediately snagged my attention—my smiling aunts holding some goat cheese award. The paper had superimposed a skull-and-crossbones over the picture. The headline: “Murdered Corpse Dug Up On Udderly Property.”

  Oh, no.

  I quickly scanned the story. It did everything but flat out claim Eva’d murdered her husband and potted him in the side yard. The story insinuated Udderly’s profitable business wouldn’t exist if Eva’s husband hadn’t mysteriously disappeared allowing her to “seize” the Watson family farm. No mention of the fact the farm had been deep in debt and primed for foreclosure prior to her stewardship.

  “Liverwurst and Limburger!” I spat out my curse, prompting the egg lady to look my way in alarm.

  Paint looked confused. “Come again?”

  “Um, I’m just riled. Mom got on my case about my language. So I switched to using processed meats and cheeses for swear words.” I smiled. “Drives Aunt Eva nuts.”

  “You’re a most interesting young lady,” Paint wheezed out between guffaws. “I’d love to hear the rest of your cheesy vocabulary.”

  I tried my best to glare at him even though his laughter made it hard to hide a grin. “One more snide remark, you Son of a Salami—”

  He doubled over. We’d definitely gotten off track.

  I glanced back at the paper and my amusement died. “How can they get away with this? They let the Watsons paint Eva as a conniving bitch. They didn’t even bother to get my aunt’s side of the story.”

  He shrugged. “The Ardon paper’s a pile of uh, bologna, but they skirt just short of libel. Folks take it for school news, coupons, and obits. The only game in town.”

  I’d heard my father rage about Allie Gerome, the Ardon rag’s publisher. Dad said the pompous idiot delighted in stirring up hatreds between noble “natives” and evil “newcomers.” The natives were victims; the newcomers, vile carpetbaggers.

  By ol’ Allie’s definition “natives” were white settlers who’d called Ardon County home for at least three generations—in other words, the Watsons. No mention of Indians, the real natives. Carpetbaggers like Aunt Eva were born elsewhere, most often in states that furnished troops for the “War of Northern Aggression,” i.e. the Civil War.

  “You gonna be okay?” Paint asked. “Maybe I should stay.”

  “I’m fine. I appreciate the heads up. I’m angry that’s all.”

  “I’ll check on you later. Long as I’m here, I’ll see if I can spot any products that might sell in our store. That’s how I found Udderly Kidding goat cheese, cruising the market.”

  I watched Paint saunter away. Could see him all the way down the aisle. His height made it easy to follow his bobbing head. He truly was head and shoulders above yahoos like Allie Gerome, people who got their jollies re-fighting the Civil War.

  I took a calming breath and tried to send positive thoughts Aunt Eva’s way.

  TEN

  Time flew. One fellow stomped off when I refused to deal on price. That’s when I scribbled a note on our sign: “Our prices are as firm as Udderly’s hard cheddar.” Didn’t hear a peep from anyone else.

  Actually, ninety percent of my would-be customers weren’t buttheads. They were nice, and I wished them long lives. Nonetheless I resisted warning them that Udderly cheese—no matter how tasty—could clog their arteries.

  For the most part, I didn’t mind the gig. I liked chatting with people—especially about food and cooking. More importantly, it gave me a break from my worries about Aunt Eva wearing prison orange. No one seemed to have read the newspaper, or if they had, they didn’t comment on who might have killed Jed.

  My low IQ regarding goats and cheese proved my main conversational stumbling block. Customers stumped me with the simplest questions. ’Course I didn’t voice the sarcastic answers on the tip of my tongue.

  “Can I eat goat cheese if I’m lactose intolerant?”

  Uh, don’t know, not a big concern for vegans.

  “Does Udderly sell raw milk?”

  Ask me about raw cashews. I can answer that one.

  One whiskered old geezer asked me to list our breeds. I knew Udderly’s goats came in brown, black, white, and speckled as well as in assorted shapes and sizes—sort of like bonbons in a Whitney sampler. But breeds? Not a clue.

  I confessed to my idiocy, offered brochures, and promised myself I’d bone up before next week’s market.

  I asked the egg lady to watch my booth while I did a quick swing through the veggie section to pick up fixi
ngs for supper—fresh asparagus, oranges, cantaloupe, cabbage. I hadn’t looked in Aunt Eva’s pantry yet, but this was a start. I smiled to myself. I’d dazzle her with a vegan masterpiece. She’d never miss the meat or cheese. Ha.

  While I flipped through my mental recipe index, I people watched. No better place for it. A young Amish woman with scrubbed cheeks and a starched white bonnet marched past me, her basket filled with overripe bananas. An old man in lavender suspenders leaned on his gnarled hickory cane as he inspected rusty hammers. One poor old lady had a hump on her back bigger than the cantaloupe she was thumping.

  Then there was the subgroup of customers who embraced camouflage as a fashion statement. Whole families, from infants to geezers, dressed in various shades of camouflage. Why would anyone need a camouflaged diaper? Did they want to lose the kid in the woods?

  Some of the camo guys roaming the dusty aisles carried gnarly knives, shotguns, even swords. In Ardon’s booths, folks could buy almost any blade or long gun they fancied. The flea market’s arms dealers could outfit a new Confederate army. And I wasn’t even counting lethal farm implements like the picks, shovels, and pitchforks available for low-tech warfare.

  By ten thirty, the egg lady had vanished. Time for me to pack it up, too. Most vendors left by eleven a.m. I saw no reason to be the only seller on site at noon when the flea market resembled a graveyard for warped wood.

  I bent over to retrieve a cooler, my back to my stall window.

  Thud.

  Startled, I jumped and cracked my head on the table’s underside. Then I spied a sharp blade wedged in the table less than a lasagna pan from the tip of my nose. The weapon had sliced clean through the spongy wood. My heart skittered around like drops of water in a hot frying pan.

  Should I get out from under the table? What if axe-man had more weapons? Of course, the table hadn’t exactly proved an effective shield.

  I scooted backward and inched my head up far enough to see axe-man’s face. That just made my nightmare worse. Glaring, bloodshot eyes. Greasy black hair. Flaring nostrils. A neck bigger than a bone-in ham. And, oh, yes, a menacing sneer.

  “You’re not Eva.” His pissed off growl expressed both surprise and rage. “Who the hell are you?”

  I didn’t exactly decide not to answer. I was too scared to swallow, much less speak.

  “Don’t matter.” He paused and glared at me. “I figured the bitch would be here since that car wreck turned her meddling sister into roadkill. You give Eva a message. Tell her she ain’t gonna get away with murder. No way. Some fancy mouthpiece may get her off, but there’s still mountain justice. Jed was kin. Watsons don’t forget.”

  Axe-man whipped his head around to look behind him. Paint had seized his collar. “Hey, Eli, looks like you got tuckered and dropped your axe. Clumsy of you. Maybe you should apologize and leave.”

  Thank heaven. An ally.

  I hadn’t seen Paint arrive. I’d been too focused on the gargoyle who went by the name Eli.

  “What the hell you doin’ here, Paint? Ain’t none of your business. Butt out.”

  Paint turned a smile on Eli that carried its own menace. “Just try me,” it said.

  “This lady’s a friend, so it’s definitely my business. Go. Now. Or I’ll have to help you with that axe.”

  The ogre speared me with another glare. “You give my message to Eva.” He turned, giving Paint’s shoulder a solid thump before he stomped off. I didn’t know if the axe was his or clipped from another stall, but he left it wedged in my table.

  The handsome moonshiner grinned as he pried the axe from the wood. “Glad to see me? Have you been annoying customers? Did you slip vegan propaganda in with Eli’s goat cheese?”

  “Hey, I didn’t say boo to that Eli person.”

  Now that axe-man had disappeared, my pulse began to saunter below stroke range. Yet being this close to the Ardon County bad boy wasn’t exactly a sedative.

  “Who is that guy?” I asked. “Don’t know what you heard, but he threatened Eva.”

  “Eli’s a Watson,” Paint answered. “His wife, Nancy, started bad-mouthing Eva the minute your aunt set foot in Ardon County. The Watsons claim Eva killed Jed. All the men are loudmouths, but Eli’s the worst hothead. Killed a guy in a bar fight. Cut him with a broken beer bottle. Got out of prison five years ago.”

  “Great Gouda! What if he shows up at Udderly?”

  “Doubt he’s eager to return to a jail cell. Imagine he just wanted to scare Eva—scare you.”

  “Well, he succeeded. This isn’t what Eva needs. Not with everything else on her plate.”

  Paint nodded. “I agree, but Eva can handle herself. She’ll keep her shotgun handy and listen to anything her guard dogs have to say. Those Pyrenees provide a great early warning system. ’Course, I’d be happy to drop by in the evening. My truck in the drive might give Eli pause.”

  “Until you leave. Your truck wouldn’t be parked there all night.”

  His slow smile gave me a preview of his reply. “Could be. I’d be happy to spend the night, any night. Not a hardship.”

  There went my pulse again. Time to listen to one of my meditation audios. After going cold turkey on males, I learned that concentrating on my breathing could keep uninvited thoughts at bay. Some of the time. Okay, it worked once in a blue moon.

  ELEVEN

  Paint helped me load the coolers in my car.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue. How about joining Eva and me for dinner—a high-calorie thank you around seven thirty?”

  Paint grinned. “Is this BYOM?” He laughed at my puzzled expression. “You know, BYOM—bring your own meat.”

  I rolled my eyes. “If Eva has her say, she’ll add at least one carnivore-approved entrée.”

  “That works. See you then.”

  I figured Eva would enjoy Paint’s company. Viewing his rogue’s-gallery grin across the table wouldn’t impose a hardship on me either.

  Before starting my car, I had one more piece of business. I pulled out my smart phone and Googled the nail salon where Nancy Watson worked.

  Paint’s mention of Nancy—sworn enemy of Aunt Eva, dead Jed’s one-time mistress, and gargoyle Eli’s current wife—convinced me I needed a pedicure. I wanted to meet this woman. See if she seemed capable of offing Jed in a jealous frenzy or coldly conniving with some male—Eli?—to waste Jed and bury the lover who’d spurned her in a spot where Eva would get the blame.

  I dialed Hands On and requested an afternoon appointment with Nancy Watson.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  Uh-oh. Hadn’t thought this through. If I gave my real name, she’d know Eva and I were kin. No other Hookers—family members, not pros—resided in Ardon County.

  “I’m, uh, Bea,” I mumbled. When I was introduced, lots of folks heard “Bea” when I said “Brie.” Not a huge change.

  “And your last name?” she prompted.

  What rhymed with Hooker? Looker, Fooker, Rooker.

  The interrogator on the other end of the line cleared her throat. Come on. Think of something.

  “It’s Snooker,” I answered with a mental grimace. “Bea Snooker.”

  Could I be more lame? Oh, well. My made-up name rhymed—Bea Snooker, Brie Hooker. They sounded enough alike I might turn my head if someone called out my alias.

  “Your first visit to Hands On?” the appointment maker asked. “You’re not one of Nancy’s regulars.”

  “Uh, yes. First time. A friend recommended her.”

  “Who?”

  Geez, what was with the cross-examination? I was booking a pedicure, not requesting a bank loan. My silence prompted a round of vicious gum-chewing on the other end of the line. I could hear every snap, chomp, and smack. ’Course, for all I knew, the sounds might have come from chewing tobacco.

  “We give gift certificates to folk
s who recommend us,” the overactive masticator added.

  “Oh,” I stammered. “I think it was…Mollye Camp.” She was the only candidate I could come up with.

  “Huh,” came the response. “Don’t rightly remember Mollye ever settin’ foot in our shop. How’s about three p.m.?”

  “Fine.” I hung up before the inquisitor could give me the third-degree about my relationship with Mollye, a girl she clearly knew. Should have guessed. Ardon included more trees than people, and Mollye wasn’t exactly a shrinking violet. I’d have to give more thought to how I’d parse information at my afternoon toe gig. At least more thought than I’d given my impromptu phone call.

  I texted Aunt Eva to let her know Paint had found me, and I was headed home. I yawned. Getting up at stinking five a.m. had screwed up my internal clock’s wiring. Time to return to Udderly and see if my new boss would let me sneak in a nap.

  I parked in front of Eva’s cabin and received the usual greeting from Braden and Jim, two of the Udderly dogs who lazed near the cabin when they were off goat-guarding duty.

  Tipping the scales at around one hundred pounds each, they could pass for miniature ponies. Put all five of Udderly’s Great Pyrenees in a doggie lineup and most folks couldn’t tell them apart. Shaggy white coats. Shiny black-as-coal eyes and noses. Paws the size of frying pans.

  Eva and Lilly had given me clues to ID the look-alikes. These two were easy-peasy. A coyote had torn off a portion of Braden’s right ear, and a patch of rust-tinted fur surrounded Jim’s eyes, making him look like a canine Tonto.

  My aunts trained them not to jump on people. A definite no-no with a steady stream of drop-in customers and school children. However, their obedience training didn’t preclude them from depositing a quart of drool on my shoes or whipsawing my shins with their hyperactive tails.

  And the big lugs barked. Pitch and frequency told Eva whether new arrivals were friends, foes, or strangers placed in Braden and Jim’s undecided column.