Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  “I’m leaving,” I said.

  “I’ll have someone drive you back to your car,” he said.

  “No, no, it’s fine.” I made a dismissive gesture, using that to gently pry his hand off of me. “It’s only a few blocks. I’ll walk.”

  “I’d be happier if someone would drive you.”

  “No need.” I nodded to the deputy, a man who was far too young to be toting a gun, or at least that’s how he appeared to me.

  Owen kept pace with me while I walked to the door. “Are you sure there isn’t anything you’d like to share?” he asked when I paused in the doorway, the deputy moving to one side to let me pass.

  “How easy is it for somebody to get my cell phone number?”

  Owen’s gaze flickered to my purse then back to me. “If you called them, it’s recorded on their phone. And it might be listed on some phone registries. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. I’m just curious.” I rested my hand on my purse, which was slung over my shoulder. I had never called Guy Gibson, certainly not with my cell phone.

  So how did he get my phone number?

  Chapter 10

  I left the courthouse and headed south. The Acorn was a five-block-long pleasant walk on a summer’s evening. I dug my sunglasses from my purse and settled them on my bruised face. It was only seven o’clock and the sun was still bright in the sky on my right, golden rays striking me when I passed from shadows of buildings into clear spaces.

  It was quiet on the street with only occasional cars going past. The main downtown shopping district was two blocks over, to the west. This street was mainly repair shops, a branch building for the community college, and a gas station and convenience store two blocks from the pub.

  The sidewalks were damp and the air had a heavy, fusty quality to it which told me it rained earlier but not enough to clear the air. Sort of like my talk with Owen. I should have told him about the threatening text message, but it seemed ludicrous to think that Guy Gibson—fussy, overly perfect Guy—would send me such a message.

  It was probably a prank, but who would do such a thing? Maybe Guy lost his phone. The more I considered it, though, that didn’t make sense. If a stranger picked up Guy’s phone, why would the stranger send me such a text message? Unless it was one of those “I saw what you did and I know who you are” pranks, which was too much of a coincidence to be real.

  Too many facts, too many speculations, were bobbing around in my mind. I finally gave up and plodded onward, happy to let my brain shut down into a fugue of tiredness. The warmth of the day combined with the dense odors from the cooling pavement which combined with occasional bursts of floral scents coming from random containers of flowers.

  I spent an enjoyable few blocks trying to analyze what was going on around me and allowed worry, grief, and anxiety to slip away. My headache began to recede but that let the throbbing from my new cut come to the forefront of my attention. I began to frame the rest of my evening in my mind, starting with a nice cold drink.

  My car was where I left it, in the Acorn parking lot. I was surprised to see other cars there, almost filling the lot, although none parked near the taped-off area where PJ’s car was earlier. Of course, it was only seven and the bar would be open for several hours yet.

  I slid into the driver’s seat of my car and leaned back wearily, closing my eyes. What happened to PJ’s floozy girlfriend? When would they do the autopsy on PJ? Who was the County Medical Examiner? Was it a doctor? I couldn’t remember if I ever heard the name. Suddenly an image of PJ’s bloated face swam into my memory, and my eyes flew open while I leaned forward, gasping for breath. I wasn’t sure if I could get the picture out of my brain.

  Unlike the earlier part of my day, my drive home was uneventful, probably because I drove overly cautiously, careful to avoid potholes and bumps lest it make my stomach lurch and set off a chain reaction. Luckily there was little traffic so there were no impatient tailgaters behind me. When I got to my house, I parked the car in the garage and went to the mailbox, retrieving my Sunday paper and Saturday’s mail, both of which I forgot about in the chaos of Will’s death.

  I entered my house through the kitchen door from the garage and dropped the mail and paper on the table along with my purse. When I took a glass from the cupboard, I glimpsed movement from the corner of my eye. I froze.

  Was someone in the house? It was totally quiet, without even the hum of the air conditioner, although the air was cool, so I was sure it was working. I turned slowly, the highball glass slippery in my sweaty hand.

  A kitten sat in the hallway, watching me with a solemn expression. For a minute I couldn’t remember where it came from. Then it hit me. I locked two kittens in my bedroom.

  Didn’t I?

  Well, apparently I did not have two kittens locked in the bedroom. Cayenne bounded over to me before checking the kitty food dishes I set out so many hours earlier. The empty canned food dish attested to their voracious appetites. And the scattered kibble on the floor told me they found and approved of that food, although their table manners were lacking.

  He dug into the food with gusto, scattering brown bits all around. I made a hasty inventory of the house, noting the bedroom door was open a sliver, just enough of a sliver for a tiny kitten. I tugged on the door, latching it and waited a second. Sure enough, it popped open again, held almost shut by the area rug in the bedroom.

  I made a mental note to see about getting it fixed while I went in search of Cayenne’s sister. It took a few minutes, but I soon found her sitting placidly on top of a chair in the living room, peering through the front window.

  I checked my office, the spare bedroom, and bathroom, but everything seemed relatively intact, although a few items were knocked around on my desk, which sat in front of the side window. A kitten probably got up there and pushed over the pencil holder while angling for a good viewing spot. I rearranged my desk items to accommodate a kitten (or two) and went back to the kitchen.

  The message light blinked on my machine. I pressed the play button, and Alan’s voice said, “Hey, kid. Let me know if you want some company tonight. I won’t bother you unless you call, but I’m here if you need me. Call if you want to.”

  I really didn’t want company. All I wanted was a drink. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything but a snack eight hours earlier. I went to the fridge and found some summer sausage, cheese, and crackers and was sitting down to eat when a muddy green pickup truck pulled into my driveway.

  I met Rob at my front door, opening it and gesturing him in when I saw Café eye the open door with a hint of mischievous speculation. “Come in.” I tugged him further into the room. “Kittens. I don’t want to chase them around the neighborhood.”

  “I didn’t know you had pets.” He stood uncertainly in the tiny entryway, his shoulders hunched.

  “Are you okay?” His pale hair was mussed and sweat-curled and his clothes—jeans and a pale blue shirt—looked like he may have slept in them. The stubble on his cheeks and his bloodshot eyes all added to the Portrait of a Sleepless Man.

  He drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I wanted to apologize, Tuck.”

  I started back through the living room to the kitchen and my vulnerable food, sitting on the kitchen table. Cayenne hadn’t yet made a grab for anything, but he lurked on one of the chairs, his neck stretched to the edge of the table and his inquisitive nose twitching. “Come on in and sit. Can I get you anything? You want a drink? How about a beer or something?”

  Rob stopped at the edge of the living room when he saw my small feast on the table. “I’m sorry. I’m interrupting your dinner. I can talk to you later.”

  “It’s a snack. I got so damn busy today I didn’t have much time to eat. Come on in. What can I get you?” I went to the fridge. “I have some Friar’s Folly here, do you want some?” I held up the glass jug which customers could purchase from the pub, providing them with some of the Acorn’s fine beer in their own homes.

&
nbsp; “Beer would be great.” He pulled out a chair, startling Cayenne, who jumped off and skittered into the living room, dashing at his sister and racing her down the hall. They disappeared into the bedroom in a tangle of paws and legs.

  I started to fill a glass for Rob but stopped. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Marianne said you’re taking medication. Are you sure this is okay?”

  He was facing away from me. I saw his hands clench on the table and his shoulders tightened, pulling the fabric of his shirt taut. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

  It’s her word against his. When in doubt, the customer is always right. I filled the glass and set it in front of him then got another plate and put it near his elbow. “Help yourself.” I pushed my plate toward him. “There’s more where this came from.” I piled a cracker with a scrap of sausage and cheese and watched him sip his beer. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.” He broke off a corner of cracker and fiddled with it. “No, I’m not okay. I wanted to apologize.”

  “You said that. Don’t worry, my eye is fine.”

  His head jerked upright. “Oh. I didn’t mean that.” His pale gray eyes evaluated the new bruises on my face. “Did Guy do that to you?”

  I touched the bandages. “No, not this one. This is a new accident.”

  His mouth twisted in distaste. “Accident? Nothing Guy does is by accident.”

  “What’s that mean?” I nibbled some more cheese, followed by a swallow of wine, which was my alcohol of choice when I wasn’t working.

  Rob didn’t answer for a long moment. His long fingers toyed with the cracker. He didn’t have a workman’s hands. His were well manicured and tanned, with trimmed nails. “Guy set me up.”

  “How?” I’ve been a bartender long enough to know it takes very little to get a person to spill their guts. Often a single word here and there will do the trick. Unfortunately, it often takes more than a single word to shut them up again.

  “I’m going broke,” Rob said in a low voice. “Hell, I am broke.”

  I stiffened. There is nothing I hate worse than self-pity and I’m quick to squelch it when I hear it. But Rob’s next words had my Grow a spine die on my lips.

  “It’s my fault. I got greedy. He knew why I was greedy and he played on it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Rob. But losing money isn’t the worst that can happen to a person. Believe me, I know. You can recover from lost money.”

  He shook his head, his fine golden hair catching light and sparkling. “Guy took everything I ever wanted, everything I ever loved. There’s no recovering from that.” He raised his face to mine, his eyes looking haunted. “Marianne and I should probably have never married, but I honestly tried to make it work. I wanted to give her better things. I wanted to make it up to her. That’s why I took Guy’s advice on the stock market.”

  I held myself still, knowing what was coming next. In my years as a bartender, I think I’ve heard just about every twist on the human story of misery.

  “I lost my money.” He gave a wry, self-deprecating smile. “No big surprise there, right? Now I’m getting divorced and if I’m not careful, I may go to jail.”

  “Jail?” I almost choked on a cracker. I took a swig of wine and resumed breathing.

  “After what happened at the factory last night . . .” His eyes shone with tears. “That poor boy was killed and why? He was killed because of the Fitz family.”

  I started to speak but he barreled on ahead, his voice rising. “The Fitz family has run the factory like their own private kingdom for years. They’ve intimidated people and they’ve bribed people and they’ve ignored safety and humane regulations. And I turned a blind eye. That’s what I wanted to apologize for, Tuck. When we argued about the factory, I knew you were right. I should have stood up to them a long time ago, but I didn’t. I needed a job and I talked myself into believing what they did was okay.”

  “No one can do what they do to animals and call what they do okay.”

  “I know, I know.” He propped his elbows on the table and rested his face in his hands. “I hated it there, Tuck. I needed a job, though. I sold the hardware business to try to pay my debt to Guy, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t know what else to do. When Richard offered me the job, it was a lifesaver. Richard has always been like an older brother to me.” He peeked at me through red-rimmed eyes then hid his face again. “I always trusted Richard’s judgment and when he told me he needed someone to keep an eye on PJ, I believed him.”

  I touched his shoulder sympathetically. He was hot to the touch. I wondered if he was feverish or sunburnt. “I’m sorry, Rob. It’s hard when someone you trust turns out to be different than you believed.”

  “Richard was always so sure of himself. He told me PJ was running the factory into the ground. He needed me to come in and take care of things. Richard was so ashamed of having PJ as a brother. Maybe that’s why he helped me. I think he thought of me like a brother, too. He needed me at the factory to keep an eye on PJ, but the factory . . .” He shuddered. “It’s horrible.”

  “I know, Rob. And other people know, too.” I cast around for something to say which might mitigate his guilt. “It won’t be long before it’s shut down. I’m sure of it.”

  “I only did what Richard asked me to do.” Rob’s voice was low and wavering. Unlike a drunk whose world falls apart suddenly, Rob acted like a man who’d watched his world fall apart for decades. This was a slow and strong slide into despair.

  “What did he ask, Rob?” I eyed my wine bottle surreptitiously. I could use a refill. I got up as quietly as I could. Rob didn’t even stir. He still sat slumped in the chair, his face supported by his hands.

  “It was illegal but I did it. I knew it was wrong.”

  I stopped in my tracks, wine bottle in hand. “What?”

  “It won’t be a secret much longer. The government is investigating. It will come out.”

  “What will?” I refilled my glass and moved back to my seat.

  Rob let his arms drop to the table. His face was pale except for dark red splotches where his palms rested. “I won’t go to jail for the Fitz family.”

  “What did you get yourself into, Rob?” I put my hand on his forearm, squeezing gently.

  He regarded me with wide, solemn, bloodshot eyes. “Richard told PJ to bribe one of the inspectors who checked conditions at the farm. PJ told me all about it. We got reports from a laboratory showing salmonella was there, in the chickens and in the eggs.” Rob shuddered slightly. “It was everywhere in that damn factory.”

  I sat back, my hand sliding off his arm. My stomach lurched at the thought of those animals, all infected, all trapped and tortured. I swallowed hard. “Who did he bribe?”

  “He told me to slip a thousand dollars to the inspector when he came for the monthly check. PJ told me to burn the reports.” Rob leaned back in his chair, shoulders bunched. “I didn’t do it. I told PJ that I wouldn’t be the one to do the bribing. He did it. I made copies of the reports and I kept them. They prove PJ knew what was going on. I’m sure Richard knew, too.”

  “Good Lord,” I breathed. “If they knew about it . . . Good Lord, hundreds of people got sick. Those children died. Anyone associated with the factory could be charged with murder.”

  “Murder?” Rob shook his head. “No, not murder. Negligent homicide, maybe.”

  I blinked in surprise. He sounded very knowledgeable. But he’s probably been stewing about this for months. Of course he’s considered the options. “Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

  “I needed the money. I told you. Marianne wanted—” His lips compressed and he briefly closed his eyes, his expression bleak. “I wanted to give Marianne things. She never complained but I knew how unhappy she was. She doesn’t know how broke we really are.”

  I took a big swallow of wine to banish the cloying film of distaste clogging my throat. If what Lee Knight said was true, Marianne did indeed know how bad off they were. Why else would she tell Guy she neede
d money?

  What a tangled chain of circumstance! Poor Rob, unable to succeed, turned to Guy for advice. Guy gave him exactly the wrong advice, which landed Rob in a job where he ended up abetting a crime. “My daddy always said if you sleep with dogs, you’re liable to wake up scratching fleas. I guess that’s God’s truth in a nutshell.”

  “You always come up with those sayings. Where was it you grew up? Back Bum, Arkansas or someplace like that?”

  “Catahoula Parish, Louisiana.” I deliberately laid on my accent so thick it was like molasses rolling off my tongue.

  “Catahoula,” he repeated. “Sounds so peaceful and easy-going the way you say it.”

  I raised my glass. “It’s peaceful as the grave most days except payday when everybody heads to the nearest bar and gets drunk and acts stupid and mean.”

  “Is that where you learned to tend bar?” He took a sip of his beer, which up to now sat untouched in the glass.

  “There and other spots.” I pulled my mind back to the current conversation. “Speaking of Guy, have you talked to him lately?”

  Rob tilted his glass, letting the amber liquid slide around the sides. “No. I think he’s away. I haven’t seen him since the night we got into a fight. I am sorry about it.” He leaned forward as if to touch my face.

  I leaned back. For a split second he seemed angry then he relaxed, sipping more beer. “Guy called me,” I said, trying to cover up the awkwardness. “I wonder how he got my mobile phone number.”

  Rob eyed me over the rim of his glass. “Why wouldn’t he have your number?”

  “I don’t give it to many people.”

  Rob shrugged. “Maybe Marianne gave it to him. Why do you care if he called?”

  “No reason.” Did Marianne have my cell phone number? I tried to remember if I called her using that phone. “I’ll bet she’s swamped tonight at the paper.”

  “Why?” Rob took a piece of cheese and held it to the side.

  I peeked under the table. Cayenne had his front paws on Rob’s leg and was stretched out long, nose questing for the cheese. “Don’t feed them from the table, please. I don’t want them becoming beggars.”