Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  “What the hell was that?” Alan followed me to the kitchen and gazed after the vanishing kitten.

  “Cayenne. Male kitten. His sister is probably—yep, there she goes.” I took a step back when a fluffy furball zoomed past me into the living room to pounce on a catnip mouse.

  Alan’s gaze bounced from me to the kitten to the hallway. “Sister? Cayenne?”

  “The kittens. Jen’s roommate came over today and dropped them off. I named them. Temporarily.”

  “Right.” Alan moved to one side when the small multi-colored male cat stalked down the hallway, eyes fixed on a rubber ball. “Which one is which?”

  “Cayenne. His sister is Café.”

  Alan grinned. “I’ve never heard it pronounced like that. Ki-ya-an. It’s like it has three syllables.”

  “It does.” I went back to the kitchen table and picked up the receipt. “I figured it might take a while to find them a home, so I bought a few things. I’m glad Wal-Mart was open early on Sunday. So many places aren’t open until noon, Hey, wait a minute. It’s Sunday. You should be at the restaurant.” I turned to regard Alan. “You’re usually doing . . .” prep work died on my tongue when I saw the sad look he leveled at me. “What?”

  Alan swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Owen is going to call you.” The words came all in a rush. “I mean, I think he will.”

  “Damn it, Alan. You said you wouldn’t tell Owen about me and Will.” I shook my head angrily. “I told you, I wanted you to keep it private.”

  “He died.” Alan’s face, normally so relaxed and happy, was settled into a hard mask of grief and pity.

  My knees started to shake. I sank onto a kitchen chair. “Who?”

  “The man they shot.” Alan took the seat next to me, his eyes pinned to my face. “Early thirties, blond curly hair, blue eyes, oval face, slim build. About six feet tall. A scar under his chin.”

  I was okay until he said the last bit. “Sweet Jesus.” I started to tremble. “Will fell off the porch when he was ten and split open his jaw. They stitched it up but it left a scar from one side of his jaw to the other. Oh, Lord Jesus, no, don’t let it be Will.” Even while I said it, I knew my entreaties would be futile. I knew it was Will.

  Someone walked on a grave.

  “They had his cell phone.” Alan put his hand on mine. “They’re going to call some of the last numbers he received calls from. I told Owen I wanted to be here, just in case.”

  I swallowed, hard. “In case one was me?”

  Alan nodded. “I didn’t mean to tell him, Tucker. But I didn’t want you to be alone.”

  Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” rang loudly in the depths of my purse, sitting on the chair next to me.

  Chapter 6

  “Oh, God.” I picked up my purse and dumped the contents on the kitchen table, sifting through it all for my cell phone. I answered it, my hands trembling. “It’s Tucker,” I whispered.

  “I’m sorry, Tucker. This is Sheriff Knott. I have the phone of a man who was shot today. Can you tell me . . .?”

  His voice faded when I lowered the phone, staring blankly at the window over my sink where sunlight brightened the room. Images of Will danced through my head. Years with him as a baby, a toddler, a young boy, a young man. All of those mental images blended, swirled and flashed through my brain. I was barely aware of Alan gently prying the phone from my hand or my tears, which streamed down my face and splashed onto the oak table.

  “I’m sorry, Tuck.” Alan’s hand covered mine. It was the human contact more than the words that awakened me from my trance. “Owen asked—he needs someone to identify the body.” I wasn’t able to speak. He correctly interpreted my stunned silence. “Can you do it?”

  “Lord help me. I don’t know if I can.” I swallowed hard, remembering Will’s terrified voice on the phone. “How did he die? What happened?” I snatched my phone away from him. “Owen, what happened? Who killed him?”

  “I can’t discuss it, Tucker.” Owen’s deep voice sounded hushed and I wondered if he was trying to be covert. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “Will was killed because of what he knew,” I said, my grief segueing into anger. “He told me he was scared for his life.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. What do you mean? When did you talk to him?”

  I remembered the memory stick, zipped securely into the pocket of my purse. “I’m not sure I can talk about it. I’m not sure who to trust.” Alan’s shocked expression told me I may have overstepped my bounds, but I barreled ahead, not caring. “Will was as good as murdered, I’m sure of it.”

  “Do you have information about it?” Owen’s voice was still low but I heard intensity in it. “Do you know who was after him?” Before I could answer, he said, “Don’t say anything. Hold on. Let me think.” There was a long pause. “Was he ever arrested?”

  “What?” Why would it matter if Will had been arrested? I shook my head, not sure I understood the question.

  “Was he arrested? Would his fingerprints be on file somewhere?”

  “Oh.” I thought frantically. “Yes, he was in a protest in South Caroline last year at a factory farm there. Will and some others were arrested.”

  “Okay. You stay put. Don’t tell anyone you know the man who was killed. I’m going to see if I can identify him by his fingerprints. Put Alan on the phone.”

  “What? Wait a minute, whatever you tell Alan, I want to know.” I pressed the speaker button on my phone. “Go ahead. Talk.”

  “Who died and put you in charge?” Owen sounded half-angry, half-amused. “I’m thinking we want to keep Tucker out of this, Alan. If this young man was killed because of something he knew and if someone knows she’s related to him, she might be in danger.”

  “What do you mean he was killed because of something he knew?” I demanded. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  I heard Owen take a deep breath. “He was shot, yes. But it wasn’t my bullet that killed him.”

  I stared at my phone, open-mouthed. “Holy crap in a bucket. Someone shot him and then you hit him?”

  “I shot at him,” Owen corrected quickly. “I aimed over his head, to slow him down. But another shot was fired. I think it came from him.”

  “Well, that’s bullshit. He’d never carry a gun. Will was a pacifist and he’d never do anything like—”

  “Would you let me get in a word edgewise?” Owen interrupted. “I can’t go into details. You keep quiet about knowing him. I’ll come over and see you later.”

  “That won’t work, Owen,” Alan said. “She has to go to work. Either she goes to work or she calls in sick.”

  “He’s right,” I agreed reluctantly. I glanced to my right where the two kittens were tussling with something. Damn, it was a sock. How did they get in my bedroom? I pushed that worry aside. “I have to go in and open the bar. Alan needs to get to the restaurant and get ready for brunch. Otherwise people will know something’s up.”

  “Do you have any information which might shed light on what happened last night?” Owen persisted. “Anything at all?”

  Who could I trust? I didn’t dare focus on Alan’s evaluating eyes. I was an adept liar, but Alan had the uncanny knack of ferreting out the truth when I least expected it. “I don’t even know what happened last night,” I said, stalling for time. “How do I know if I—hey, wait a minute, you guys!” I leapt from my chair and headed for the hallway, chasing the two kittens, one of whom was dragging a sock and the other who was dragging a pair of undies.

  Yes, it was the coward’s way out, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I needed time to think. The kittens raced ahead of me, stumbling now and again when a paw got tangled in an article of clothing. The bedroom door was wide open and when I entered, the first thing I saw was my wicker laundry hamper, lying on its side near the bathroom door. “You little poops.” I wrestled the sock and the underpants from the thieves.

  They promptly disappeared under my doub
le bed. I took advantage of their absence to stuff the laundry basket into the attached bathroom, closing the door firmly. I turned to leave the room and caught sight of a stack of scrapbooks sitting on the chair in the corner. One of my summer projects was to scan my old photos and other memorabilia into my computer, hoping to preserve memories against the ravages of time. I touched the top album, one of those dime store books with black pages and pictures spilling from the sides.

  I took up a stack of photos and leafed through them. Pictures of Will at home in Louisiana, pictures of my daddy and momma, granny, and my no-good brother. Each one held a wealth of memories. I wiped at a tear while I shuffled through the images. All of them dead now. All of them gone.

  “Tuck?”

  I turned at the sound of Alan’s sympathetic voice. “I’m okay,” I said, sniffling.

  “Sure you are.” He smiled. “I’m going to the restaurant. Owen thinks you’ll be fine for now, and I agree. Nobody knows you were related to—” He hurried on. “As far as anybody knows, you’ve got nothing to do with what went on at the factory. We’ll keep it quiet that you—you knew—” He ground to a halt again. “Owen wants us to meet him later this afternoon. You can come to my place and we’ll talk to him there. That will keep it private. You can leave work early, right?” He watched me expectantly.

  I nodded. “I’ll see if I can get Miller to fill in.” Our brew master often stopped in on Sunday anyway. I was pretty sure I could talk him into doing a couple of hours behind the bar. I met Alan at the bedroom doorway, pictures still in my hand.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  I dropped the pictures on the bed. “Not unless you can turn back time.” I shook my head, swiping tears while we walked. “I was so worried about him. Will never cared much for his own safety. I suppose that’s how it is when you’re young. You never think you can be hurt.”

  Alan squeezed my shoulder in sympathy. “Owen will find out who did this. It won’t bring your nephew back, but it’s something.”

  “It’s not fair. Will was a sweet, kind young man with his life ahead of him. He died for a bunch of fucking chickens! Sweet Jesus God in Heaven, what a waste!”

  Alan put a hand on my arm. “That’s not true.”

  I turned on him. I needed to rage at someone. The grief, the anger, and the unfairness churned inside me, aching to bust out. “How can you say that? He died at a god-damned chicken factory. Poor Will was killed because of some damn birds.” Tears splashed off my face.

  “He didn’t die just because of a bunch of birds,” Alan said, his voice soft with sadness. “Will died for what he believed in, which was the humane treatment of all creatures. If you say he died for a bunch of dumb birds, you belittle him. That isn’t fair, Tucker.”

  Alan was right but I didn’t want to hear it. I paced into the living room, wishing I could vent my rage somehow. “I’m sorry if you think I don’t trust Owen, but I’m not sure I can trust him. After all, he says he didn’t hit Will, but how do I know for sure?”

  “You’re wrong.” Alan stopped in the middle of the room, his face drained of color.

  “Well, of course you’d say that.”

  For an instant, I was sure he’d yell back at me. Instead he shook his head. “You’re overreacting.”

  I struggled to hold back a new flood of tears. “Will was scared when he called me and he wasn’t overreacting. Lo-oo-ok wha-wha-what happened.” I stammered, grief making me trip over my words.

  Alan gently enfolded me in his arms and I let loose with my tears, burying my face in his chest and crying like a baby. It felt damn good to let him hold me, to feel safe, loved and protected. I blubbered for a minute or so then I pushed away, brushing at his shirt. “I got you wet,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

  He pulled a hanky from his back pocket and I took it gratefully, mopping my face. “My shirt will dry by the time I get to the kitchen. You can trust Owen. I know you can.”

  I nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Give him a chance to explain what happened. Hang in there, Tuck. If you need anything before you go in to open up, you call me. I’ll check in on you this afternoon.” He smoothed back my disheveled hair. “Lock up behind me.”

  I led the way to the front door, jamming his hanky into my pocket. “I’ll call Miller and see if he can cover for me.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Alan said. “I’ll tell him I talked to you and you weren’t feeling well. I’ll ask him to stand by in case he’s needed. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thanks, Alan.” I stopped at the front door, my hand on the doorknob. “I’ll get to the Acorn in an hour or two. I need time to—” Time to what? Absorb the pain? No amount of time would dull my grief at the thought of a sweet young man, cut down in a farm field at night.

  Once again, a kitten came to my rescue. The two little wild things tore into the living room, chasing each other and landing in a tumbling pile under the coffee table. Both Alan and I laughed at their antics. “I need time to get them corralled.” I pulled the front door.

  “Don’t worry about it. If you can’t get there by two, I’ll open for you.” He bent to put a light kiss on my cheek. “I’m here if you need me.”

  I could only nod, not trusting myself to speak. I closed the door and leaned my head against it, inhaling the wood odor mixed with the sharp tang of the outside air. I felt like my chest would burst from anger and grief. I twisted and sank to the floor with my back against the door, propped my head on my upturned knees, and wept.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, my head lowered and tears dampening my shirt. I didn’t stir until I sensed the tentative questing head butts from my tiny feline companions. I raised my tear-burning eyes and saw two kittens sitting next to me, heads tilted in obvious confusion. What happened? How come you’re not playing? What’s going on? I could almost see the thought bubbles above their heads.

  I wiped my face and tilted over slowly, coming to rest a foot or so from them. For an instant they were poised to flee, regarding me suspiciously. Then they approached, sniffing and patting and prancing near my head, like Lilliputians around some Gulliver. I held my breath when they snuffled my face and tangled with my hair. With a soft laugh, I righted myself and they scampered away.

  Their youthful curiosity reminded me of Will as a child. He would get into scrapes, tangling with trees when he sought hidden places where animals holed up, or falling into the river when he chased after a bird that lured him from her nest. I got to my feet, realizing his curiosity probably killed him this time.

  But Alan was right. I did Will a disservice if I dismissed his death as the result of youthful foolishness. Will cared passionately about animal rights. I should respect that.

  I blotted up the last of my tears and headed for the kitchen. If Will was right, the information in my possession might hold the key to his killer. I needed to make a copy of it and stash it somewhere safe. After I did that, I could focus on who killed him. Someone associated with the factory murdered my nephew and I was damned well going to discover who it was.

  Despite my assurances to Alan, I wasn’t at all sure I could trust Owen Knott. Fitz Agri-Industries had its fingers deep in the financial pockets of Barnsdale and York. What if Owen was charged with covering up what happened to Will in order to make sure the Fitz family wasn’t compromised?

  I wasn’t going to let this get swept under a rug the way the egg recall was. I went into the bathroom attached to my bedroom and examined myself in the mirror. My black eye had morphed to purple, encompassing most of my eye socket and my cheek. At least some of my red-rimmed eyes could be attributed to my wound. I ran cold water over a cloth and pressed it against my face, then I dabbed on makeup, going heavy with the foundation. I figured people would be so focused on my bruises they might not notice my bloodshot eyes.

  I grabbed the scrapbook from the bed and went into the hall. I heard the telltale sound of cat paws digging in litter. I hurried to the kitchen in t
ime to see Cayenne assiduously covering his pee in the litter pan I set there earlier, being supervised by his sister. “Well, good. At least I don’t have to train you.” I left my scrapbook on the coffee table and went to corral them.

  Easier said than done. Forty-five minutes later, I gave up on the idea. The kittens easily eluded me on a chase through the house and were firmly ensconced under my double bed. Nothing I did, no treats I presented, would get them out. I decided to admit defeat and put the used litter box in my attached bathroom. I put a water dish under the sink and closed them in the bedroom, making sure the door was pulled tightly shut.

  I fished Will’s memory stick from my purse and went to my den, inserting the device into the slot on my desktop computer. I skimmed through the list of files then on impulse I printed a copy of the directory so I’d have a record of the contents along with the dates the files were saved.

  I debated putting a copy of the files on my own computer but decided it might be risky. I found the memory stick I used as backup for my home computer and buried a copy of Will’s files deep within a file folder on the stick, tucking it into a location where even I would be hard pressed to find it. I put it into a plastic bag then I put it and the folded-up printout of the directory into my flour canister in the kitchen. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I could laugh about it later. Right now I didn’t feel like laughing at all.

  I came back to the office and to enhance my paranoia further, I dug into a desk drawer and found a fat round Angry Birds memory stick I bought on a whim while standing in the checkout line at an office supply store. I copied the contents of Will’s memory stick to the little red USB device which served as Red Bird’s butt. Where to hide it?

  I considered and discarded several ideas. That’s when I spied the wicker basket where I tossed the various kitty toys. I tossed Red Bird in with the other canvas mice, plastic balls, and sponge fish, tucking it under a pink fluffy snake. It was right at home with all the other brightly colored objects.