The Long Hot Summer

by Rosnau, Wendy

  Johnny wasn’t expecting Tuck, however, to do anything about it. But a record of the incident on file couldn’t hurt. That way if there was more trouble—which there no doubt would be—he’d have a paper trail to fall back on. It might be the only thing that would save him and keep him out of jail if things took a turn for the worst.

  If he’d learned anything during his stint in the military, and then in prison, it was that keeping quiet wasn’t always the smartest thing to do. Sometimes the more people who knew your business, the safer you were.

  He decided to dispense with knocking and took Daisi’s suggestion of surprise. Slinging the door wide, he stepped inside unannounced.

  The minute Tuck looked up from his desk and saw the condition Johnny was in, he laughed outright. “Well, now. Looks like we got ourselves a problem. Guess your stay is going to be cut short—shorter than even I figured.”

  Johnny closed the door behind himself, and took a seat in the chair in front of Tuck’s desk. Just like the rest of the police station, this room looked in need of more than just paint. A long line of file cabinets ran the length of one dingy white wall. Overhead, an ancient ceiling fan whirled at top speed, vibrating as if it might come apart any minute. A couple of dozen messages and newspaper clippings, some yellowed with age, fluttered on a bulletin board behind the desk.

  “So, should I make the call to your parole officer, or do you want to?”

  “I already called him,” Johnny drawled. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Clifton Tucker leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his bulky chest. The fifty-four-year-old man had put on at least twenty pounds since Johnny had seen him six months ago. He resembled a well-fed bulldog, with dull gray eyes and aging curly hair to match.

  “So, Bernard, what’s your excuse this time? Not that I’ll believe it, but we’ll go through the motions to keep it all legal-like.”

  Johnny came to the point quickly. “Someone tried to run me down on Bayou Road last night.”

  “You got witnesses?”

  “No.”

  The sheriff made a rude noise. “Figures.”

  Johnny reined in his temper. It would do him no good to antagonize Tuck; the man could make his stay in town miserable if he had a mind to. “I told my parole agent what happened, and he made a record of it. Now I’m telling you and expect you to do the same. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  Again, the sheriff made a disgusted noise. But he pulled open his top drawer and took out a paper to file the report. “You say this happened when?”

  “Around ten last night,” Johnny offered.

  “Guess it could have happened. Somebody wanting to get even, I mean.”

  “Like Farrel.”

  “He’s not the only person in town who’d like to see you six feet under, boy. He’s just a little more verbal about it than the others.” The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “Recognize the car?”

  “No.” But it had a sweet engine, Johnny wanted to say. One that had been worked over and juiced up. The kind of car a grease monkey like Clete Gilmore could put together with his eyes closed. And why not? If Johnny’s memory served him correctly, Clete had been tearing cars apart and putting them back together in his daddy’s gas station since he was twelve.

  Clifton scratched his head, then looked over the few lines he’d written down. “That it?”

  Johnny didn’t intend to mention the light he’d seen in the window of the farmhouse. He’d gone back to the house to investigate once he’d regained consciousness, but there had been no signs that anyone had been there. He said, “That’ll about do it.”

  Clifton swiped at the sweat hanging from his bushy dark brows, then gave the fan overhead a dirty look. His wilted, tan shirt and the deep circles of sweat ringing each armpit held proof that the fan was failing him miserably. “I’ll check around, talk to Farrel and see where he was last night. If I find out that he’s got no alibi, and you wind up dead in the meantime, I guess you were telling the truth. How’s that?”

  No, nothing had changed, Johnny thought, shoving to his feet. But he really hadn’t expected a party picnic to welcome him home. And it was doubtful Tuck would get anywhere with Farrel. But that didn’t matter. He’d come to make his report and that was all.

  He was two steps away from the door when it opened, and a skinny, old man hurried inside. “I need to see you, Cliff.”

  Johnny thought he recognized the voice. He looked again, studied the man’s gaunt face and sharp green eyes. The man was Jasper Craig, he decided. The voice was a little shaky, yet it had a faintly educated ring to it—a drunken educated ring. When he thought about Jasper, he thought about fancy clothes and polished shoes. About an educated man who had made his money too easily, and had spent it in the same breezy manner.

  Johnny stared, unable to believe the ragged man standing in front of him could be Farrel’s father. What the hell had happened to him? He remembered Nicole saying Farrel had taken over the family lumber business. But he’d just assumed it was because Jasper had retired early. Now it seemed more likely that it was because the man had turned into a pathetic drunk. Johnny eyed his soiled clothes. They reeked of stale whiskey, and there was dirt clinging to him as if he’d just crawled out of a hole in the ground.

  Suddenly the old man locked eyes with Johnny. He didn’t say anything for a minute, then finally he gave up a lopsided smile. “Hello, boy. You grew up.”

  “It happens,” Johnny answered.

  “Plan on staying out at your place, do you?”

  “No. The boathouse at Oakhaven.”

  Jasper nodded, his smile spreading. “The boathouse. Well, that’s real nice of Mae. That old farmhouse is in bad shape. Not really fit for staying in.” He glanced at the sheriff. “Didn’t mean to interrupt, Cliff.” He started to back out the door.

  “J.P., I thought you needed to talk to me.”

  “Ah, no. No, that’s all right. I can wait.”

  “Johnny was just leaving.”

  “No, I’ll come back. I just remembered something I got to do.”

  She came through the bakery door the minute he pulled the pickup to the curb. Nicole was carrying a small white bag between her teeth, a loaf of French bread tucked under her arm, and a paper cup of coffee in each hand. Despite his best intentions, Johnny couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to the rain-spattered shirt clinging to her breasts, or her hip-hugging jeans. She was a sight, and there was no sense denying he was attracted to every inch of her.

  He reached over and opened the door. She handed him the cups, then removed the white bag from between her teeth and set it in the middle of the seat. The long loaf of bread went on the dash just before she climbed in. “Dory insisted I take the coffee and doughnuts. She’s just like Clair, trying to fatten me up.”

  Johnny glanced at Nicole’s slender curves. She was thin, all right, like a sleek, fine-boned greyhound. He swore silently, then handed her back one of the cups.

  “Waiting long?”

  “About ten minutes. Did you go see the sheriff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m still here.”

  She arched a pretty brow, set her cup on the dash, then opened up the white bag and angled it in his direction. He hadn’t bothered to eat breakfast. After last night’s excitement, just getting up and moving had been all he’d wanted to tackle. He was sore in a dozen places. His right leg and hip were black and blue clean to his butt.

  He reached inside the bag and pulled out a cake doughnut. Johnny savored every bite. She offered him another, then another. When the bag was empty and the coffee gone, he draped his wrist over the steering wheel and asked, “Where to now?”

  “I have two stops left,” she told him. “The post office and Craig Lumber.”

  Johnny pulled into the lumberyard parking lot moments later, and killed the engine. It was still raining out, the sky still dark, the rumble of thunder in the distance.

  “I’l
l run this letter to the post office,” she said. “Then I’ll go order the shingles and anything else they don’t have on the list.” She handed him back the list he’d given her two days earlier. “Why don’t you check it over and see if there’s anything else you want to add. I’ll be right back.”

  Johnny took the list. He allowed himself a few minutes to appreciate the view of her hurrying into the post office—her long legs and sexy backside giving his heart rate another jolt—then got out of the pickup. He slid the list into his back pocket, and in his normal lazy gait, sauntered through the front door of Craig Lumber.

  A quick glance at the desk told him Willis Lavel was half asleep behind the counter. But not for long—the doorbell gave a hellish clang, and Willis let out a holler and jumped a good two feet off the high stool he was perched on. He grabbed the counter to steady himself, his gaze searching out the customer who had disturbed his sleep. When he realized who it was, all the color drained from Willis’s pudgy face. “Oh, hell.”

  “Nice seeing you too, Will.”

  Johnny dug into his T-shirt pocket for his smokes. After lighting up, he took a leisurely drag.

  “I got a knife,” Willis finally warned. “Try somethin’ and you’ll be sorry.”

  If Willis owned a knife, it had to be the size of a fingernail file. Johnny glanced around, noticing for the first time that the office door behind the counter stood ajar. The light was on. Loud enough so whoever was inside could hear him, he said, “Came to pick up supplies for Oakhaven. Think you can put an order together without screwing it up, Will?”

  Willis had started to sweat. He swiped at his bald pate, then reached for his half-used black cigar in the tarnished ashtray on the counter. With shaky fingers, he lit a match and struggled to relight it. “You’re gonna have to talk to Farrel about that,” he said, puffing long and hard to get the cigar fired up. “But that ain’t likely, on account I don’t think—”

  “That’s good, Will. Don’t think,” Johnny cut in. “Just call your boss out here. I’ll do the asking.”

  The older man gave up trying to light his cigar and disgustedly tossed it aside. “Farrel ain’t gonna agree to nothin’ that involves you, Johnny,” Willis whined. “I ain’t never seen one man who can hate another as much as he hates you.”

  “I’ve come on business, Will. Oakhaven business.”

  Just as Johnny expected, his voice carried into the office, drawing Farrel Craig out as if he’d thrown in a baited line and bagged himself a sucker. Farrel was almost as tall as Johnny, but fair where Johnny was dark. His tanned face followed the slender lines of his trim body. His eyes, distinctly green, were deep-set. Insolent.

  He wore jeans, snakeskin boots with silver toe caps, and a red shirt too flashy for any kind of real work. Except for an inch-long scar on his jaw and a jog in his nose—both Johnny’s doing—Farrel didn’t own a blemish, a mole or a freckle.

  “You got a lot of nerve coming in here, Bernard,” Farrel snarled. When Johnny said nothing, he taunted, “What’s the matter, beggar boy, they cut your tongue out in prison?”

  Like a puppet who had just had his string jerked, Willis started laughing. Once his chuckle petered out and the silence stretched, he nervously picked up his dead cigar and stuck it in his mouth.

  “I still got my tongue,” Johnny finally said, “and I see you still got a crooked nose.”

  Instead of getting angry, Farrel grinned. “You look in the mirror this morning? You got more than that. Welcome home, Johnny.”

  The doorbell clanged once more, and both Johnny and Farrel turned simultaneously to see Nicole hurry through the door. She looked rain-spattered and out of breath, as if she’d made a mad dash from the pickup—which no doubt she had, the minute she learned Johnny wasn’t inside waiting for her like some obedient puppy. Before she got her pretty mouth open, Johnny said, “You finished at the post office already, cherie?”

  He gave her a lazy smile, and in return she gave him a look that could have turned stone into smoldering ashes. “Didn’t we agreed you would stay in the pickup, Mr. Bernard?”

  She took the necessary steps to close the distance between them. Johnny waited a few seconds before he answered, but when he did he leaned close, whispering, “The lesson here is, if you want to treat a man like a dog, you should remember to bring along a collar and leash so you can chain him up like one. That way you’ll always know where you can find him.”

  “Such a useful tip,” she hissed softly into his cheek. “Next time I’ll be prepared.”

  “Could be fun…you trying to put one on me,” he drawled.

  She didn’t appreciate him baiting her, or his smug smile. “We’ll discuss it later,” she insisted, her eyes shifting to Farrel, then back to Johnny. “Where’s my supply list?”

  “In a safe place,” he assured. “I’ll take care of this. All you have to do is choose a color for those shingles we talked about.”

  “I’ll take care of all of it,” she insisted. “Now give me the list.”

  “Is there trouble, Miss Chapman? Something I can help out with?”

  Farrel’s voice was friendly. Too friendly, Johnny thought, not liking the way his enemy raked Nicole’s body with hungry appreciation.

  “You can call me Nicole,” she told him, “and no, I don’t need any help. I do apologize, however, if my worker has been bothering you.” She gave Johnny a nasty sidelong glance. “He was told to stay in the pickup.”

  “It’s hard to find good help these days, that’s a fact,” Farrel agreed, giving his own man a disappointed look. He ran a hand through his cropped blond hair and leaned his arm on the counter. “So, what is it I can help you with, Nicole?”

  “I need some building supplies and to order new shingles for my grandmother’s house.”

  Suddenly Johnny was aware that Nicole was leaning into him, her hand on his backside. His body tensed just before her fingers climbed into his right back pocket and stole the supply list. She gave him a pleased look, then floated to the counter with that hip action she’d perfected for the sole purpose—Johnny was sure—of scorching a man’s blood and frying his insides.

  “Morning, Mr. Lavel,” she purred sweetly, charming old Willis into a heated frenzy. “Remember me? We met last week at the bank.”

  “Sure do. You look mighty fine this mornin’, Miss Nicki. It’s sure nice, you movin’ in with your grandma. My son, Woodrow, thinks so, too.”

  Johnny was sure Woodrow Lavel wasn’t the only man in town thinking he’d just hit the jackpot. Nicole was definitely the apple that would get picked first in this town; she was shiny and new and ripe in all the right places.

  She offered a friendly smile to the older man, then unfolded the list and laid it on the counter. Her attention refocused on Farrel, she asked, “I assume Gran’s account is up to date?”

  “Sure is.” Farrel glanced down, half interested, at the material list. “Doing some major repairs, I see. That’s quite a list.” He slid the list toward Willis. “See to this, Will. And get the boys to tarp the load so the lumber stays dry. I can pick up the tarp next time I’m out that way.”

  “But you never lend out—”

  “Tarp the load, Will!” Farrel’s eyes left Nicole’s for just a split second and shot Willis a Get moving! look that nearly levitated the older man up and pitched him out the door headfirst.

  Farrel said, “I’ve got shingle samples in my office. How about you and me picking that color out over a cup of coffee?”

  “That would be fine,” Nicole answered.

  Farrel escorted Nicole around the counter and into his office. Then, just before he closed the door behind them, he turned back, grinned at Johnny, held up his middle finger and mouthed the words.

  Chapter 6

  The moon’s guiding light vanished the moment Nicole entered the woods. She glanced around warily, then started down the blackened path, ducking from time to time to avoid whatever might be hanging in the tangled foliage overhead. She didn’t w
ant to think about the many eyes that were, no doubt, watching her. If she did, she would be struck once again by how crazy it was for her to be going to the boathouse after dark.

  Just as she reminded herself of the fact, she stumbled, barely catching her balance in time to save herself a hard tumble. Swearing softly, she stopped to brush her hair out of her eyes.

  “Should have brought a flashlight along. That way you could see what kind of snake you’re kickin’ in the head.”

  Nicole gasped, then whirled around so fast she nearly fell on her face again. Squinting in the darkness, she saw a match spark. A moment later the glow from a cigarette illuminated Johnny Bernard’s handsome face.

  He was leaning against a tree, looking relaxed and every bit the bad boy he was. Still, she owed him an apology, and she hadn’t wanted to put it off until tomorrow.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked stupidly. “You nearly scared me half to death.”

  “That must be the question of the night, ’cause I’m wondering the same about you. What brings you out, cherie? It’s late. Too late for a stroll.”

  “But not for you?”

  “I know these woods. I used to live around here, remember?” He took a drag off his cigarette and sent the smoke into the black night.

  “I would have called, but the boathouse doesn’t have a phone,” Nicole explained, “and I wanted to…” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She hadn’t been looking forward to this part, but it had to be done. “To apologize.”

  “Ah, an apology.”

  She couldn’t see his face very well, but she heard the amusement in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about last night? Why did you let me assume the worst?”

  “Did I do that? Funny, I thought I tried to explain. As I recall, you didn’t want to listen. Sound familiar?”