Silence continued to seem like the best course, so Stella merely nodded, and picked at a loose thread at the edge of her shorts.
“Well, she took off after six months, but I didn’t file the separation papers until I was sure she had a good job, one that could pay all her bills,” Goat said. “Call me a sucker, but—”
“Sucker.”
Goat stared at her for a minute, eyebrows raised, and then he laughed. Just a short laugh, but a heartfelt one, deep and rich and infectious, and Stella felt herself smiling for the first time in a long day.
“You know, Dusty,” Goat drawled, giving her a long, leisurely once-over with those big old blue eyes. “That’s what I just can’t seem to get over, about you. The way you give me a hard time every chance you get. I haven’t known too many women who are up for that particular challenge.”
“Well—” Stella didn’t know exactly quite what to say to that. “Huh.”
It would have been nice if he’d said that’s what he liked about her. Or what he couldn’t resist about her. Or something like that.
But get over … measles was something you got over. Bad breakups. Hell, even shaving rashes.
“You know,” she said as casually as she could, “that night, when we had the tornadoes—when you fixed me dinner—when Brandy showed up—”
“Yep.” Goat sighed, and the smile melted out of his face. Oh—so not a particularly good memory, then.
But Stella soldiered on. “The thing is, I know it ended up—well, a little confusing, and all. But—see, I never got around to thanking you.”
Goat shot her a glance—just a quick one, that met her gaze and then flashed away again. “Well, I don’t know that you had much to thank me for,” he said gruffly. “You barely got a glass of wine down—and as I recall, we managed to turn your dinner pretty much inedible—”
“It was delicious,” Stella said hastily. “I mean, once I got the pepper scraped off.”
“That’s nice of you. But I didn’t exactly show you the kind of time that … well, that I hoped to.”
There was a silence then, and Stella noticed that they’d left the Wallachs’ place far enough behind them that the dock was a mere smudge on the shore. She thought of and discarded a dozen different remarks. Try me again, was what she really wanted to say. Just give me another try.
It was dumb. It was pathetic. The woman she used to be, the one who was afraid to speak up, afraid to fight for what she wanted, that woman was dead—Stella’d buried that old self and replaced it with the new version, who said what needed saying and did what needed doing and slapped her own self on the back at the end of the day if there wasn’t anyone else around to tell her she done good. This new self didn’t sigh and whine when things needed to happen—she went out and made them happen.
And yet for all her grit, all her hard-won confidence, all her determination … here she was in a boat with the man who kept her up nights, and he couldn’t get away even if he wanted to, and she couldn’t seem to say the first thing about how much she wished he’d give them another chance.
Stella blinked hard and bit her bottom lip. Okay. No more. Time to be a big girl. She opened her eyes and drew a breath and fixed in her mind exactly what to say and said it—
“I’d like—”
“Would you—?”
And then they were laughing, both of them speaking at once, the tension of the moment released in the stumbled syllables, the fears and the hesitation lifting off them like dandelion fluffs carried away by the breeze.
“Go ahead,” Goat said. “What were you going to say?”
“No, it’s okay. You first.”
And then there was a ringing from Goat’s pocket, the shrill of a no-nonsense old-fashioned ringtone, and as Goat answered it, Stella thought shit, shit, shit, it figured cell phones worked just fine out here where only the ducks and the catfish were around to hear them, when she couldn’t get a signal on half the country roads where a person could have an honest-to-God emergency.
Goat said a few words, asked for clarification, and said a terse good-bye.
“Well.” He shouldered the oar again and got them turned around and headed back to the dock at an even faster clip than earlier. “Enough jawin’ for one day, I guess. Got a suspect on the loose.”
“They found out where Wil was?”
“Not hardly.” Goat refused to look at her as he plowed the oar into the water with what Stella had to think was a little more force than was strictly necessary. “Your boy Neb’s gone and busted out of jail.”
TWENTY-ONE
It was probably not to her credit, Stella reflected later, that her first thought had been There goes any chance of getting laid in this lifetime, and her second was that the Donovans would never be able to pay her now that Neb was on the lam.
At least it took Goat long enough to row them back to the dock that she got most of the story out of him.
“Un-fucking-believable,” he said, clearly disgusted, explaining that the HVAC system in the jail corridors had been making an annoying knocking sound, and when Neb heard the staff complaining that maintenance wouldn’t be in until Monday, he offered to track down the problem. Which worked great, with Halpern and a few other corrections officers handing him tools as he stood on a desk with his head up in the ceiling ductwork.
The problem came when Simmons heard about Neb’s capable handiwork and figured she might as well have Neb take a look at the phone problem, which had spread from the visitor booths to the line going into her office.
“‘He was right there under the desk,’” Goat quoted Simmons saying. “Well, guess he wasn’t, after all.”
“You mean he just walked out of there?”
“Evidently. Though Simmons says she never left her office for a minute.”
“Huh. I guess he must of went through the walls or something.”
The stony expression on Goat’s face conveyed his doubts, and they didn’t speak again until he glided the rowboat into the dock. After dragging the boat up on the shore, he helped Stella out with a curt nod and a steadying hand at her waist, which gave her a passing thrill as he picked his kayak up off the dock and upended it over his shoulder as though it weighed next to nothing. At least Goat offered up a fine view of his hard-muscled back and biceps as he lashed the kayak on top of his truck, before muttering a distracted good-bye and driving off with his flasher on.
Stella had a long solo drive back to Prosper, stuck behind a cement truck, to wonder where Neb had got to after his bold prison break. Donna answered her cell phone after a couple of rings, only to explain in a breathless voice that she couldn’t talk, because she had biscuits in the oven, an excuse so lame, Stella figured what her friend really had was a jailbird husband with an appetite for something special to take the edge off his prison experience.
Back in her own kitchen, Stella gave the four-layer dip—so sue her, she couldn’t find any guacamole or olives or green onions in the fridge, and who really needed seven layers anyway—a final sprinkling of Tabasco and carried it into the living room, where Jelloman had already set out a big platter of fried chicken and buttermilk slaw. He and Noelle and Sabine had been cooking since their poker marathon ended with Todd taking the entire haul. Todd was now lying on the couch with his feet dangling over the end, looking at a Journeys catalog and trying to figure out which ridiculous pair of overpriced skate shoes he was going to spend her New York money on.
So that was the good part. That, and Tucker careening through the house with yet another pair of Stella’s clogs—this one pistachio green, a fashion error, so she was thinking she’d just let him keep them—singing “lay-uh, lay-uh” at the top of his lungs. So what if he’d picked it up from Jelloman, who was a huge Clapton fan and had played that “Layla” tune once too often. Chrissy sang along, shimmying around the room, while Larry sat in Ollie’s old La-Z-Boy staring at her across the room like he couldn’t believe his luck.
Oh, and Sherilee had stopped by for a quic
k visit with her girls before they headed out for their special evening at the Fall Fest that was going on over at the Senior Center. That part was pretty good, too, when Jelloman bellowed, “Show her what I taught you, boy,” and Todd executed a perfect riffle shuffle on a deck of cards and his mom’s eyes went very wide and she looked like she was going to blow a gasket but instead she laughed, accepted a glass of wine, and quit admonishing the girls to stop climbing all over Mr. Nunn. Seeing as Mr. Nunn, a few Pabst Blue Ribbons into the evening, allowed as how he hoped his own daughter would provide him with a few grandkids as fuckin’ precious as these some day.
Stella paused in the entrance to the living room, dip balanced against her hip, and realized she wouldn’t trade a single soul here for anything. It would be nice to have her parents here to see their granddaughter all grown up, to see all the friends Stella had found to build a family. She was doing okay, right here in Prosper, with her motley collection of loved ones.
And to hell with Wil.
Well. Maybe not all the way to hell, because Brandy said he was innocent, and—Stella was getting a little fuzzy on all the details, but if she understood Irene correctly from earlier, Brandy was on her way over to Iowa to stay with a friend from her waitress days, Goat having convinced Daphne that there wasn’t really an upside to tossing his ex into the prison cell so recently vacated by Neb—she mostly believed the woman.
But she’d given the Wil hunt her best shot, at least from one thirty, when she polished off the last of a Personal Pan Pizza and a side of Buffalo Burnin’ Hot wings from Pizza Hut in a Goat-mortification-fueled binge, until six thirty when she finally had to admit to herself that she was out of ideas, and came back home to discover that the party had started without her.
Jelloman lumbered over, chewing delicately at the end of a celery stalk, and settled himself on the couch next to her. That didn’t leave a whole lot of leftover room, but the effect was cozy. Stella leaned on into the arm Jelloman flung around her. She breathed deep and detected a note of her dad’s old favorite Brut cologne, and snuggled in a little farther.
“Where’s Sabine?” she asked, yawning. The Crock-Pot was bubbling with the gal’s famous coq au vin wieners.
“Aw, she just had to go tie up a few things,” Jelloman said. “She’ll be along.”
Stella started to wonder if any of the things Sabine had to tie up included her side bets, the stable of younger guys who she kept around for amusement, but then her mind wandered back to her own closely held interests and she sighed.
“I spent the day runnin’ around after a medium-bad guy,” she murmured into Jelloman’s flannel shirt. He’d left the vest slung over one of her kitchen chairs, the better to roll up his sleeves and cook. “Or maybe a mostly bad guy. I mean, we got us a dead body, that’s got to be bad.”
“I’d sure think so,” Jelloman said. Mixed in with his cologne was a pleasant whiff of hemp smoke, like a top note of tobacco. “I don’t cotton to killin’. There’s got to be a better way. I mean, no offense, you did what you had to do and all.”
Jelloman had never given Stella any trouble about the few murders she had under her belt, the news coverage of which was vague about just who shot and sliced up whom in the mess by the lake, but naturally everyone had heard a version of the truth by now.
She thought about sharing the remainder of her frustrations, how she and Chrissy had visited every known hangout they could connect with Wil. They’d cruised along the few streets where a person could pick up a fix as easy as ordering takeout lo mein, anything from prescription painkillers to the homegrown that competed with Jelloman’s extra-fine custom hybrid weed. They’d contacted every motel and rooming house in Prosper, not to mention the neat little brick ranch where enterprising ladies entertained gentlemen callers for profit, in case their man Wil was cooling his heels locally while he threatened and stalked Brandy. They even checked in with the last few citizens who’d reported break-ins and thefts from their homes. But they came up empty-handed, and Stella just didn’t feel like talking about it.
She also considered telling Jelloman what she knew about Laura Cassel. The picture that Goat had painted for her in the bar, of a loved and carefree young woman, which Stella now couldn’t get out of her mind.
But it would all take so much explaining, and Stella couldn’t quite come up with the energy to share it with her old friend. Jelloman threw an arm around Stella and pulled her in close, and if she pretended, for a few moments, that she was six again and it was Uncle Horace who held her and made her feel like everything really would be all right, well, she figured Jelloman wouldn’t mind.
In the end, Stella spent a happy hour watching her daughter and Chrissy try to teach Melly and Glory how to do the Homey Twist, Sherilee getting in on the action and shaking her hips with a skill and style Stella would never have figured her for. Find Sherilee a man, Stella inscribed on her mental to-do list before letting her lids slide down until her world was reduced to a cozy cocoon that felt a little like having her daddy’s arms around her, carrying her when she fell asleep on the way home from the fair.
Thank you, Big Guy, she remembered to think, sending the sentiment spinning heavenward just before she gave up and let the dream team in for the night.
TWENTY-TWO
Stella had been down this particular path before, so she knew better than to fall for the lovely sensation of something cool and smooth prodding her in the temple.
It would be so easy to believe it was Goat, brushing her hair out of her face before he bent in for a firecrackin’ kiss, and go back to sleep with that little extra embellishment sparkling up her dreams, but there was the matter of her breath, bouncing off her nest of sheets and reminding her how she’d spent the night before.
You shouldn’t of had that last one, her breath announced, dry and cakey and just plain nasty as she inhaled it. And: Johnnie’s no substitute for six foot four inches of Sheriff Jones, as if she had any illusions on the matter, waking up for the bazillionth time in a bed long since vacated by a worthless and incompetent man, left wide open for any attentive and good-loving man who just happened to fall out of the sky.
The thing—water pistol, wooden locomotive, crayon, who the heck knew—jabbed a little harder against her cheek, and Stella rolled over in her bed.
“G’way, Tucker,” she sighed. “Auntie Stella’s very, very sleepy right now.”
“Auntie Stella better get her ass out of bed,” an unfamiliar voice whispered in her ear. “—Less she wants to spend the rest of the day splattered all over it.”
That got her attention. Stella jerked awake, her heart rate lurching into overtime. Slowly, cautiously, she rolled over in the pale light of a late September dawn. She licked her lips a few times to get the crust off, then forced her eyes open. Crouched down next to the bed, his face inches from hers, was a man who bore more than a passing resemblance to a young Wayne Newton, dark hair slicked back over a broad forehead, eyes just a little too squinty and small, square white teeth showing in a grin that didn’t look all too friendly.
Bad news come calling, and as her blood coursed hot through her veins, Stella got an eyeful of a second visitor standing behind him, someone she hadn’t planned on ever seeing again—Brandy, dressed to the nines in a tight minty-green sweater with her hair restored to its fluffy glory.
“You must be Wil,” Stella managed to croak out. “Well, go ahead. Might as well get it over with.”
“I ain’t shootin’ you yet,” the smooth-as-honey voice drawled. “We ain’t even been properly introduced.”
Wil Gave Stella three minutes in the bathroom, enough time for her to brush her teeth while she was peeing and splash water on her face and generally try to get herself calmed down and under control.
When she came out of the bathroom, Noelle was standing in the hall in an old baseball shirt and shorts, and it was all Stella could do to keep from throwing herself on top of her baby girl to protect her.
“Good morning, Mama,” N
oelle said in a wobbly but brave voice. Stella could see the fear in her daughter’s pretty violet eyes, but the girl kept her chin high and even managed a fleeting little smile.
“Oh, sugar,” she said, gathering Noelle into a fierce hug.
Over her daughter’s shoulder, Stella saw that Wil was pointing his stupid little .38—a match for the one Stella had taken off Brandy and, unfortunately, locked into the steel box bolted to the floor of her Jeep—at both of them, looking faintly amused.
“Your daughter’s awfully cute,” Brandy called from the kitchen. “She don’t take after you much, though.”
“What a bitch,” Noelle muttered, easing past her into the bathroom. “I won’t be but a minute. It’s going to be okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is,” Stella promised.
When Noelle shut the door, Stella turned on Wil, nearly overcome with fury. “You fucking waste,” she stammered. “You do not involve my daughter in your stupid-assed problems—do you understand?”
Wil merely chuckled. “Oh, calm down, Stella, ain’t nothin’ bad going to happen to no one if y’all behave. ’Sides, she’s got sass. I like ’er.”
Stella started to explain all the ways she’d make Wil pay for that comment, when she detected a lack of focus in his reddened eyes, a twitchiness in his movements, which made her think twice. She’d bet good money the man was hopped up on something, maybe PCP, and in her experience, an unpredictable and high person was not a person you wanted to go around threatening.
Noelle came out of the bathroom and Brandy handed each of them a package of Ho Hos and one of the juice boxes Stella kept in the fridge for Tucker.
“Eat up,” she said. “Gotta start the day right.”
Then she gathered up their purses, along with her own, and slung them all over an arm.
“Brandy, honey, what are you thinkin’?” Wil demanded.
“A girl’s gotta have her things,” Brandy said, and Stella’s irritation with her slipped just a little. “I went through ’em, baby, there wasn’t nothin’ bad in there, just makeup and what-all.”
A Bad Day for Pretty Page 21