by Kym Roberts
Bob’s face, however, was washed with apathy. “That’s the reason for all the police vehicles crossing the creek?”
Unable to do anything but nod in response, I pulled Jacob’s jacket in closer to my chest.
Bob continued, “That’s what happens when you get so drunk you don’t know where you’re going. He must have wandered off and got hit by the morning train. He wouldn’t be the first.”
A vague memory of another man being killed by the train a year or so back tugged at my emotions. I’d been in such a grief-stricken haze after Jacob’s death, nothing had fazed me. Not even the death of Woody’s young manager. Everyone expected him to be found in a stripper’s bed. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. A train engineer operating the daily mill run had blown his whistle that day until the entire town woke up. Everyone except the man whose mutilated body was found lying across the railroad tracks when the train had finally come to a stop a mile down the line.
I never knew the man’s name. Or at least if I did, it didn’t survive the passage of time. I did remember the justice of the peace had ruled his death accidental since he’d had a blood alcohol level well over the legal limit. At the time, that had been enough for me to trudge forward without looking back. Now it seemed like too many young men were dying in my home town.
Too cold and too tired to argue, I gave in. “I suppose you’re right, Bob.” My day had already been longer than I could bear and I still hadn’t opened up for business. Which honestly, didn’t seem important any more. Bogart nudged my hand.
“Whose dog? He didn’t tear up your coat, did he?” Bob looked at Bogart out of the corner of his eye, almost as if he established eye contact the dog might maul him as badly as Jacob’s jacket.
I stepped closer to Bogart. “I’m not sure who he belongs to, but he’s harmless. My jacket —” I hesitated. “It got cut, but it didn’t have anything to do with Bogart.” I pet the dog on the head to show Bob how docile he really was. “He showed up last night and seems to have claimed me. I’ll have to call the animal shelter today and see if anyone reported him missing.” Bogart’s ears flattened as if he knew I was talking about doggie jail and Bob glanced uneasily at the beast sitting patiently by my side.
“Rilee, you know better than to take in a strange dog; he could be diseased.”
Bob, always the over-protective civic leader, jumped on his soapbox and tried to handle my wayward pal. “I’ll take the dog over to the pound and get him out of your hair. You look like you could use a break.” He reached for Bogart, who began scooting behind me.
“We’re fine,” my teeth clacked in a shivering denial. “I’ll take care of him.”
“You’re sure? I’d never forgive myself if the dog attacked you.” Bob eyed Bogart like a man who understood cats, not dogs.
I wanted to laugh, but could only manage a small smile with a chin quiver that trailed through the rest of my body. “He’s as tame as they come. I appreciate your concern, but I need to go in and get cleaned up before I open the shop.”
“Sure, sure. If you need anything, call us, okay?”
Again I nodded, unable to give more. Luckily, that small acquiescence was enough for Bob to refocus.
“I suppose I should contact the officers and see if there’s anything I can do to help. I’ll see you later, Rilee.” Bob walked toward the bridge with the confidence of a man who knew where he was going and what he was going to do.
“Come on Bogart. Let’s go inside and thaw out.” My faithful companion took the steps two at a time and wagged his hind end with excitement. His tail-challenged wiggle made it a full body experience that warmed me to the core.
Chapter Six
Warm, slobbery and gooey. Not the face cream I expected (or wanted) to wake up to. But since yesterday, Bogart had wormed his way into my life, and my routine was suddenly not so routine.
“Bogart. Really? Do you need to wash my face?” I wiped the remaining slobber away and opened my right eye. The dumb dog sat in front of me with his tongue hanging out and his ears perked up. “Do you need to go out?”
“Arrrfff!” He responded enthusiastically.
I pulled back the covers and dragged myself out of bed, only to be knocked back down by my (did I say “my”?) overly hyper giant dog.
“Bogart!” I reprimanded, hiding a laugh.
“Arrrfff!” Bogart tore his way through the hallway, then tumbled down the stairs like a herd of mini elephants. By the time I reached the steps, I could hear him charging across the floor to the back door.
Thankful to have the previous day behind us, I was anxious for the piney scent of the woods to fill my nose, knowing it would give my body as much refreshment as sleep had given my brain. Reaching the door, I laughed as Bogart jumped straight up in the air like a kid with his arms opened wide.
This crazy dog had added so much to my life in such a short time, he really was a mind-saver, if not an actual life-saver. “You are a goofball, Mr. Bogart.”
“Arrrffff!’
“Let’s go.” I opened the back door, and we both stopped dead in our tracks. Standing there with his hand raised to knock, was the massive Mr. Stone. Bogart and I looked up to his face. Despite the lack of a smile, his eyes were alight with amusement. Whether it was the fact that I had bedhead or that I was talking to a dog like he understood my every word, I don’t know. But somehow, I’d managed to humor Mr. Stone.
“Good morning, Dusty.”
No. One. Called. Me. Dusty. Except my dead husband. I could barely speak. “How did you …?” Dumbfounded, I couldn’t finish.
“When something fits, you wear it. Dusty definitely fits you.” He looked at my hair.
Bogart chose that moment to maul Stone. His giant feet slammed into Stone’s chest, making him take a step back, as Bogart jumped up to lather his face.
“Bogart!” I yelled.
But Stone laughed, a deep rich noise gurgling to the forefront. “I think your dog needs a little male bonding time. How are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
His eyes traveled to my head. Again. I patted at the unruly mess.
“Obviously you have recovered from your swim in the creek.” Mr. Stone turned around and headed down the steps. “You know you should look out your window before you open the door. You never know who’s going to come knockin’. It’s best to keep the door between you and the next axe murderer.”
Another warning. Was it meant to make me feel better, or worse?
“Mr. Stone, what’s your first name?”
“Just Stone. It fits me.”
Yes it definitely fit his muscular form — but it wasn’t enough. “Like Madonna or Prince? You only have one name?”
Mr. Stone turned around and smiled — a glorious smile.
Holy cow. My body stirred. I shut it down instantaneously.
Stone was solidly handsome when he exercised his lips. Jacob would be jealous as hell.
“I suppose you could say I’m more like Bond.” He responded.
“Bond always followed it up with — James Bond.” I wasn’t giving up that easily.
“Bond, James Bond had something to prove. I don’t.”
With that, Stone, blank Stone turned and walked away. Leaving me with a smile on my face and an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. Bogart leapt into the woods in pursuit, but quickly came back. I couldn’t tell if his mood had dampened because Stone left, or because he still needed to do his business.
I sat down and waited for him to finish and Pattie walked out from under the porch. With her quills flat, she looked harmlessly fuzzy and cuddly. Bogart knew otherwise and was deliberately staying away as he eyed her suspiciously.
“Hey, girlfriend. It seems we have a new member to the family. The animal shelter didn’t have any reports of lost boxers, so it looks like he’s going to be staying for a while. Please don’t quill him again. That was a very painful experience.” Porcupine Pattie looked back at me and shook her head be
fore waddling away in the opposite direction of Bogart, every wiggle of her hips announcing “not my fault.”
Obviously the two of them were going to have to work it out for themselves.
“Come on Bogart, let’s go!” Once Patty was out of sight, the dog bound through the woods like a galloping horse — minus the grace — and then up the steps, hitting his shins on each rise. No complaints of boo-boos from my happy hound this time.
My cell phone chimed at me from the kitchen counter, and suddenly I was attempting my own graceless gallop as we entered the house.
“Hello!” I yelled a little too loudly, catching it on the final ring.
“May I speak with Ms. Rilee Dust, please?” The obviously distraught voice on the other end chilled me, her tears coming my ear-piece. I didn’t want to answer the question, but I did.
“Yes, this is Rilee.”
Her voice hiccupped before she continued. “This is Missy Stark; I’m Ryan Heart’s fiancée …” Her voice trailed off in tears and I knew exactly what she was thinking. She was Ryan’s fiancée. Now she was Ryan’s widow.
“I’m so sorry, Missy. I barely knew Ryan, but I could tell he was a great guy who thought the world of you. He couldn’t wait for the wedding.” Yes, they were meaningless words now that Ryan was dead, but it always helped to hear them — even two years, nine months and twenty-one days later.
“Th … thank you.” She sobbed. “I’d really … I’d like to talk to you.”
I hesitated, wondering if I could possibly shorten my shop’s hours two days in a row, yet knowing there was no way I’d deny her.
“I won’t take too much of your time.” Anxiety tinged her voice.
“I completely understand. Can you come by at closing time? Around five o’clock?” I didn’t normally close until seven, but she needed answers. And I hoped I could give them to her.
Chapter Seven
The oohs and ahhs of the elderly customers in my shop lightened my spirit. Senior bus tours never failed to give me a sense of validation as an artist. The older generation knew the value of hand-carved art and had a genuine appreciation for my craftsmanship. They liked the sculptures I’d soaked in alkali to bend and contort the wood into positions it didn’t want to go. They enjoyed the quaint, old-world charm of our holiday decorations. They were nothing like my own generation, who looked for bargain basement price tags on machine-made resin manufactured in China.
A jingle at the front door announced the arrival of another customer and I turned to see Woody’s bouncer, Tommy, assisting an elderly woman with the heavy oak door. He was a natural born gentleman, which made his job shielding strippers from unwanted attention an interesting career choice. But I guess his size made the position of bouncer, a likely profession. With his hair shaved close, Tommy’s eyes sparkled as he looked down at the frail, slender woman who couldn’t have been a day younger than eighty. Her delight in their conversation came through the school-girl giggle she covered with one hand.
“A pleasure to be of assistance to such a beautiful woman.” Tommy gave a slight bow and I thought her heart was going to stop. Instead she matched him beat for beat, her head turned just so, her hand on her hip showing a level of sass I wouldn’t expect from a woman dressed in polyester.
“If you’re looking for a sugar nana, I’m not worth much, but I can cook a mean supper if you’re ever hurting for a dinner date.”
“I will keep that in mind, Ms. Betty.” He winked, and Ms. Betty coyly turned away with a final pat on his bicep (which frankly looked more like a caress), and began browsing the shop with the rest of her tour group. Then to my surprise Tommy turned and asked, “Are you doing okay, Ms. Rilee?”
Concern was written in the lines forming on his brow, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the whole damn county knew I was the unfortunate one to find Ryan’s body. Obviously the news had spread as quickly and erratically as the crow flew.
“I’m doing well, thanks.”
Tommy paused with uncertainty, his desire to ask more questions about my welfare evident with shuffle of his feet. Reaching across the counter, I squeezed his hand, minus the caress. “Really. I’m fine.”
Tommy smiled, his Southern drawl taking over, “I’m glad. I was wantin’ to sign up for your next carving class.”
At a loss for words, I stammered. “Oh ... ahhh…” What do you say to the bouncer of the local strip club who wants to mix with the somewhat conservative, elderly crowd paying you to learn wood carving? I gave him the ugly truth. “We start on Friday at nine A.M.”
But Tommy didn’t flinch at the early morning hour, so I looked for another way out of a disaster in the making. “My father will be leading the class.”
Again, not an ounce of hesitation and I wondered if my Dad was slipping with his over-protective father routine. I went for the kill and dropped the generation-bomb. “We’ll be making Santa Spoon ornaments.”
He smiled, showing off his pearly white teeth. “Hot damn. My momma will love it. See ya Friday. And remember, if y’all need anything b’fore then, I’m right across the street.” With a nod in Betty’s direction, Tommy disappeared out the front door just as Betty began stirring up the pot with the bus tour crowd.
“Myrtle, would you look at this?”
I caught a glimpse of the two little blue hairs giggling over the nudes on display. It was the second time in a couple days that someone had expressed interest in my new line. Hopefully Mayor Bob wouldn’t get his tighty-whities in a bunch and say I was selling pornographic material.
“Aren’t they delicious?” Betty stroked the bottom of my piece entitled, Adam.
Myrtle blushed as another customer spied them admiring the male nude.
“Put that down, Betty. Everyone will think we’re floozies.” Her eyes darted toward the gentleman heading in their direction.
In his mid-seventies, the man had the gait of a fifty year old, and the hearing of the dead. “Were you calling me over to show me something, Myrtle?” He asked.
Myrtle stammered. Her plump body swiveling in circles in an obvious attempt to find something more appropriate to show him.
Ready to take my turn at rescuing a damsel in distress — before Betty caused Myrtle to stroke out in my shop, I reached for the gentleman’s arm and lightly directed him away from the nudes. “Sir, I believe she wanted to show you my wildlife collection on the back wall.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” He smiled and gazed hopefully at Myrtle, who scurried forward. Linking her arm in his, Myrtle gave me an appreciative smile and I let her take the lead.
Ornery Betty, however, wouldn’t let go of the spoon she had in Myrtle’s pot, “These are much more interesting...” her voice squeaked as she tried to talk loud enough for him to hear. Myrtle’s man, however, was too busy to hear anything but her.
I couldn’t help but laugh when Myrtle put her loose hand behind her back and flipped Betty the bird on the sly.
“The last thing those two need is to hook up. It will ruin my poker night, and redefine ‘poke her’ for him,” Betty pouted.
This time I held back the laughter, afraid the feisty woman’s feeling were getting hurt. “You don’t want them to be happy?” I asked, somehow knowing she’d never go that far.
“Of course I do, I just don’t want to be the one to separate them with a hose on my patio in the middle of a winning hand.”
I sputtered and hid my humor behind a cough. Myrtle’s evil eye caught
Betty. “Maybe you need to find a boyfriend for yourself,” I offered with all my worldly wisdom.
“What good would that do me? My vibrator has brought me the best sex of my life. I’m too old to give it up now.”
I found myself blushing as other tour members began to whisper and look in our direction. I was definitely getting a taste of what it was like to walk in Myrtle’s shoes. Changing the direction of our conversation I asked, “So, is there one particular carving you’re interested in?”
“Well, I don’t
see any here in the shape of a penis...” she glanced around. “You’re advertising Woody’s outside, but there isn’t a good stiffy in the whole place.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” a woman with hair the color of a jack-o-lantern, leaned over the display from the next aisle over. At almost six foot tall, her rail-thin form shadowed my five foot seven easily as she nodded in the direction of
Myrtle and her man — whose hand wandered to Myrtle’s backside and brought color to her cheeks.
Betty’s eyes glistened with trouble. “Do you have a hose in this joint? Those two aren’t going to make it back to the bus.”
Who would’ve thought a group of seniors would be this distracting? I was beginning to think hormonal teenagers might be easier to handle.
The willowy redhead quickly turned the mood with her bluntness. “Hey, isn’t this the town where they found the groom dead on the tracks?”
Our friendly, if a little embarrassing moment, turned into a flashback of Ryan’s mangled body. The clock hands turned back to the gruesome moment I knew he was dead and my head started to spin. I grabbed the shelf and stared at the nude figurine of Adam. Smooth, not torn. Solid, not in pieces, and sexy — not heart-stoppingly mortifying.
“Are you okay, honey?” Forgetting the water hose, Betty’s hazel eyes turned soft with concern, “Are you the townswoman who found the young man?”
“I … I…” What do you say to people? Yes, I am and it was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen. Ryan’s expression will be etched in my brain forever.
Or do you suck it up and let others gloss over the gore of reality?
Choosing the latter, I put on a pathetic attempt at a smile and replied with as much control as I could muster. “It was a tragic accident. But I’m comforted knowing he’s in a better place now.”
Red made the sign of the cross and stood up tall before moving down the aisle. Betty wasn’t so easily dissuaded. She saw right through my ruse, and latched on like a reporter from the most recent political scandal. Except her eyes shone with commiserating tears. She wasn’t going to walk away, and something passed between us as she reached out and clasped my hands. The instant we touched, I knew she had been through much worse than me. Haunting souls from her past pulled at the skin around her mouth and strained the lines in her forehead.