“Were they expensive boots?” Mae Ella asked.
“Well, yes,” Flossie said. “I will give you that. Hank has his boots handmade at M.L. Leddy’s in San Angelo.”
“He what?!” Mae Ella exclaimed. “Handmade boots on a deputy’s salary? How does he manage that?”
“Danged if I know,” Flossie said. “You want a cup of this?”
“Yes, please,” Mae Ella said. “Black is fine.”
Flossie handed her a steaming cup and sat down, rolling her own chair around to face Mae Ella. “Just after that fire at John Powell’s, Hank showed up to work on a Monday morning with a gold horseshoe ring on his little finger. You know, the kind with the diamonds in the horseshoe?”
“I do,” Mae Ella said stoutly. “And they’re tacky. Looks like something a Matamoros pimp would wear. Where did Hank say he got the ring?”
“Claims it was a gift from his parents,” Flossie said. “But Ima Jean Trugood told me that according to Millie Houston, who heard it from her cousin, who lives up around Synder -- that’s where Hank’s from -- that his parents are just oil field trash. Millie also told Ima Jean that her cousin said Hank couldn’t wait to get out of the oil fields. He went to the Army and was a military policeman, but they let him go on account of something medical.”
“He didn’t go to Vietnam?” Mae Ella asked.
“No,” Flossie said, “and he sure enough doesn’t like to talk about that. He gets all defensive and talks about how he tried to go and serve his country. Hank wanted to be one of those boys that wear the funny little hats. You know, like in that John Wayne movie that’s coming out next month.”
“The Green Berets,” Mae Ella said.
“That’s it!” Flossie said. “Hank wanted to be one of those boys, but he couldn’t pass some kind of medical test for getting in.”
“Hank look like he’s got any physical problems to you?” Mae Ella asked.
“Not really,” Flossie admitted. “He comes bouncing up the front steps two at a time just to show off. Seems like a strapping young feller to me.”
Mae Ella snorted. “From what I hear about the way he’s carrying on with Maybelline Trinkle, he’s not lacking for stamina. Is any of that true?”
Flossie looked around and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well,” she said, “one afternoon last week I forgot my library book. It’s the one about the big airplane that gets in trouble? Airport? You ought to read it now that I’ve checked it back in, Mae Ella. It’s awful good. I hope they make it into a movie. Anyway, the book was gonna be overdue, and that’s a 10-cent fine, so I came back to get the book. Hank was here by himself because Lester was out at the river running his trot lines. Hank was sitting right here with his boots up on his desk and his back to the door talking on the phone when I came in and . . . well . . . I heard him say something real . . . suggestive.”
Mae Ella, who had been listening as patiently as possible to Flossie’s recitation, waited a minute and then said, impatiently, “And? What did he say?”
Flossie winced as if she found what she was about to say painful in the extreme. “I don’t mean to be indelicate,” she said, “but his exact words were, ‘Baby, I want to see you in a bikini dancing like that Goldie Hawn on Laugh In.’”
Mae Ella sat back as if she’d been slapped. “Dear God,” she finally managed to say. “That is just disgusting. Is he some kind of sexual pervert or something?”
“I do not know,” Flossie said, shaking her head. “But as you can well imagine, I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. I guess he must have heard me because his boots hit the ground right quick and he said into the phone, ‘Thank you for the report, ma’am. We’ll get that possum taken care of right away.’ He was red as a beet when he hung up and started stammering just like Mel Tillis. Have you heard that new song of his, by the way? It’s called ‘Who’s Julie?” and it’s real catchy. Kind of a little two-step.”
“No, I haven’t heard it,” Mae Ella said absently, mulling over this latest bit of information. “So you think Hank was talking to Maybelline about Goldie Hawn and the bikini?”
“Well, Lord God,” Flossie said, “as much as I even hate to think about what Maybelline Trinkle would look like in one of those skimpy little bathing suits, yes, I think it was her on the other end of the line. And if he wasn’t talking to her, I certainly hope he was talking to some woman, because if he was talking to some ole boy, we’ve got a bigger problem.”
“I have heard more talk about homo-sexuality in the last two days than I ever want to hear again in my life,” Mae Ella muttered.
“Excuse me?” Flossie said with a startled expression.
“Nothing. Never mind,” Mae Ella said. “Now, why exactly was it that Lester let Hank investigate the fire up at the hardware store all by himself?”
Flossie scowled and let out a disapproving gust of air. “If you ask me,” she said, “Lester lets Hank do too many things by himself. But Hank’s more than willing to look like a big shot and all Lester wants to do is fish. Hank went and took this course on fire investigation so he could take over and be the fire marshal. He had just finished the course before the hardware store burned, so that’s why Lester let him work the case. John Powell was fit to be tied when Hank said the cause of the fire was owner negligence. John came down here and bowed up at Lester, and Lester stood right here in this office and told him, ‘John, the boy went to school on this. He knows what he’s doing.’ And then there’s the thing about the business card.”
“What thing about the business card?” Mae Ella asked.
“Two days after the hardware store burned, I was straightening up the office,” Flossie said, “and there it was, laying right under Hank’s desk where he dropped it, a business card from the insurance company that wrote the policy on John’s store. Big as life. Right there on the floor.”
“What did you do with it?” Mae Ella asked.
“I picked it up and put it on Hank’s desk,” Flossie said. “And when he came in I told him, ‘You dropped a business card on the floor under your desk and I put it on your desk.’”
“And what did he say?”
“He thanked me and said the insurance company was anxious to get the report on the fire.”
Grudgingly, Mae Ella said, “Well, that could be true.”
“Yes,” Flossie said, “it could. But then that next Monday, Hank came to work wearing that diamond horseshoe ring.”
“Are you saying Hank took some kind of bribe from the insurance company to falsify the report?” Mae Ella asked.
“I’m just saying diamond rings don’t grow on trees,” Flossie answered. “Leastwise not any tree I ever saw.”
Chapter 18
Sugar flinched as Rolene Jackson popped her gum for what must have been the 10,000th time in the last half hour. There was something about a woman chewing gum in the beauty parlor that she simply could not stand.
Every day Sugar swept up mountains of cut hair off the floor in the Style and Spray and the idea of hairy Juicy Fruit just about sent her over the edge. So the fact that Rolene plopped down in Sugar’s chair bright and early Monday morning and unwrapped not one, but two pieces of Super Bubble had Sugar reaching for her Camels at an even faster than usual rate.
When Wanda Jean showed up with those gift certificates for the full treatment at the salon, both of her sisters reacted with that predictable get-something-for-nothing Bodine attitude that had long given the family a bad name in the county.
As Sugar watched Rolene rhythmically chewing her cud, all she could think was, “Poor Wanda Jean.” She was the only Bodine making a real effort to rise above her raising, and her trashy family was not helping.
Yes, Earl Dean was doing a fine job with the football team and he did grow pretty roses for a man who kept a pet hog. But the sisters?
Rolene was the over-permed, bleached blonde proprietress of a liquor store and Maybelline made Anne Bancroft in The Graduate look like a nun. Then, to top
it all off, Hilton had to be inconsiderate enough to get himself killed on the new shag carpet.
Sugar had done a good job so far of keeping her mouth shut. Mae Ella and Flowers were dispensing plenty of unsolicited color commentary on the whole situation. But Sugar was just boiling mad at Hilton for the things he made Wanda Jean deal with. The cross-dressing was more than any woman should have been asked to stand, but he and Wanda Jean managed to keep that nonsense between themselves.
Now Wanda Jean was by herself and she was finding out about his pot and growing flowers with a Yankee and Hilton’s liberal political leanings. Don’t men ever stop to think it’s their wives that pay for such shenanigans? Sugar had given Slim a good earful about it yesterday when she came home from the shop.
“Slim Watson,” she declared, standing in front of her befuddled husband who was still half asleep on the couch, “if I ever find out that you voted for a Kennedy, I will divorce your ass.”
Blinking up at her in complete confusion, Slim said, “But, honey, I voted for Barry Goldwater.”
This morning at the breakfast table Slim made a point of showing Sugar an article in the paper about how Dick Nixon would likely be the Republican nominee in this year’s presidential election. Sugar had turned back to scrambling Slim’s eggs and smiled.
Maybe those Bodine girls had problems keeping their men in line, but that kind of thing was not going to be happening in Sugar Watson’s house, and she was dang sure gonna keep a close eye on her pantyhose drawer from now on.
To Sugar’s way of thinking, that was where Wanda Jean went wrong, buying those extra-large Hanes pantyhose for Hilton. Clearly it just encouraged the man, and God only knows what would have happened if he had been able to get into those white go-go boots.
Sugar’s thoughts were interrupted by yet another loud pop from Rolene. Resisting the urge to deliver her own pop right to the back of Rolene’s head with the brush in her hand, Sugar said, “You did a real nice job keeping up with all the food for the service, Rolene. I know Wanda Jean really appreciates everything you did to help with the funeral.”
“Well,” Rolene drawled between smacks, “it sure as hell wasn’t because I wanted to. I’d like to give Hilton Milton a piece of my mind for going and getting himself killed.”
“I don’t think Hilton did that on purpose,” Sugar said delicately. “You want me to do these roots for you, honey?”
Rolene stared at herself in the mirror, appraising the state of the black stripe that ran down the part in her otherwise glowing yellow hair. “Do you have my color?” she asked in a discriminating tone, as if any contrast could be worse than the one she was already sporting.
Sugar plastered on her best professional smile and said, “Oh, I’m sure I can match it. What exactly do you use?”
“Whatever blonde Miss Clairol color is on sale,” Rolene said. “That way it’s a custom blend.”
Sugar bit her lip not to say, “You look like an on-sale blonde alright,” and instead purred, “Well, I know it’s a unique look, honey, but I’m sure we can match it.”
“Is that included in the gift certificate?” Rolene asked suspiciously.
“Of course,” Sugar said, reaching for her Camels. “No extra charge.”
“Well, okay then,” Rolene said, as if she’d just wrestled with a weighty decision. “Go ahead and give me a root job. You’ll save me some money this month. Did you know that Miss Clairol has gone up to $2.61 a box?”
Sugar shook her head, which Rolene took as commiseration and encouragement to continue talking. “You know, Sugar,” she said, “the two of us, we’re good businesswomen.”
“Why do you say that, Rolene?” Sugar said, mixing the chemicals for Rolene’s roots.
“Our line of work is never gonna go away,” Rolene said philosophically. “Women are always gonna want bouffants and bourbon. Really, the two lines of work compliment each other.”
“How do you figure that?” Sugar asked.
“No self-respecting woman I know is gonna take a drink on a Saturday night unless her hair’s looking good,” Rolene said. “You go to getting drunk with a bad hairdo and Lord only knows who you’ll wake up with the next day.”
“Put this over your face,” Sugar said, handing Rolene a towel. “I don’t want any of these chemicals to run down and get in your eyes.”
Rolene did as she was told. The instant her face was covered, Sugar’s expression melted into an exhausted scowl. Her cheeks actually hurt from all the fake smiling. She drew in a recuperative lung full of nicotine, held her breath for a second to get the full soothing effect, and then went back to work as the cloud of exhaled smoke circled around her head.
“Well,” she said, as she began to apply the color solution on Rolene’s hair, “I know you all will be relieved for things to settle down again. These last few months have just been awful for your family, what with Blake dying right there at Christmastime.”
A muffled cackle emerged from the depths of the towel covering Rolene’s face. “I told Cooter he better start sleeping with one eye open. Bodine husbands are dropping like flies these days. He’s next in line.”
Sugar joined in the laughter, but thought to herself that Cooter Jackson might do well to follow that particular piece of advice. “At least you all have the comfort of knowing that Blake died of natural causes,” Sugar said.
She was rewarded with a long moment of silence from beneath the towel, and then Rolene said with entirely fake sincerity, “God called Blake home early even if he was reading a girly magazine with his pants down. That just shows that Jesus really does love us.”
“That’s real Christian of you to say, Rolene,” Sugar said. “Okay. Now, this needs to sit for just a few minutes before we rinse it off. I’m gonna go get a cup of coffee in the back. Can I get you anything?”
Rolene smacked her gum and blew a bubble. “Nope,” she said. “I’m good.”
As Sugar passed through the main room and headed into the back, she gave Flowers a look that said, “We need to talk.”
Flowers, who had just started giving Maybelline a manicure, stubbed out her cigarette and said, “Keep your fingers in this water, Maybelline. I’ll be right back.”
Maybelline, who was engrossed in the copy of Redbook on her lap mumbled an acknowledgement without looking up. Across the room, Wanda Jean sat under the dryer, equally preoccupied with a copy of Cosmopolitan with Jackie Kennedy on the cover.
“You and your bright ideas,” Flowers hissed, moving to stand beside Sugar at the coffee pot. “If Maybelline Trinkle had two brain cells she’d take’em out of her head and use’em for earrings.”
“You think Rolene is much better?” Sugar snapped back. “She is sitting in there in my chair smacking and popping chewing gum.”
“Did you find out anything?” Flowers asked.
“She uses whatever blonde Miss Clairol is on sale to get a custom- blend dye job,” Sugar said crossly, pouring her coffee. “And she got real quiet and started talking about God and Jesus when I mentioned Blake dying at Christmastime.”
“I have to get back,” Flowers said. “Now that Wanda Jean is under the dryer, I’ve got Maybelline to myself.”
When Flowers sat back down at her table, Maybelline said, “Thank God, I need to turn the page.”
“Sorry,” Flowers said. “I had to go to the little girls’ room. You can take your hands out now.”
After Flowers dried Maybelline’s fingers, she started to work on the cuticles on her left hand, leaving Maybelline free to turn the page in her magazine. “Good article?” Flowers asked.
“It’s about a priest who gets married,” Maybelline said. “I just don’t know how the Catholic Church expects priests not to want sex. Just putting on that little white collar doesn’t mean they’re not men anymore.”
“Which is why I have never wanted to keep a man underfoot,” Flowers said.
Maybelline looked up as if she was really seeing Flowers for the first time. “You’ve nev
er been married?” she asked.
“Nope,” Flowers said, the word making the Lucky Strike dangling from her lips bob up and down.
“Don’t you ever get lonesome?” Maybelline asked curiously.
“Sure,” Flowers said, purposefully letting the statement hang in the air.
“Well, what do you do about that?” Maybelline asked, her magazine forgotten.
“I get in the car and go to the city for the weekend,” Flowers said. “You can’t live in a little ole town like this and screw around without getting caught, Maybelline.”
Flowers didn’t look up from her work, but she felt Maybelline’s hands tense. “You don’t think people in this town can be discreet?” she asked.
“Honey,” Flowers said, removing her cigarette from her mouth long enough to tap the ash out in the tray, “I don’t think people in this town can spell discreet.”
Maybelline shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “How do you think people get caught doing something they’re not supposed to be doing?” she asked.
“Generally by running their mouths,” Flowers said, as if they were just talking about the weather. “Or they start doing something out of the ordinary that make folks take notice.”
“Like what?”
“Oh,” Flowers said, “you know, changing their routine for no good reason. Going out all dressed up. Wearing new jewelry. Getting overheard talking on the phone.” At that, Flowers glanced up just long enough to see Maybelline’s face turn a faint shade of green.
“You really think people notice that kind of thing?” she asked.
“Sure they do,” Flowers said. “Why, I was just talking to Mae Ella Gormley on the telephone before you came in and she was telling me that the Sheriff’s dispatcher, you know, Flossie Henderson? Well, she was noticing that Hank Howard got himself a brand new diamond ring recently.”
You Can't Get Blood Out of Shag Carpet: A Study Club Cozy Murder Mystery (The Study Club Mysteries Book 1) Page 13