Marriage and Murder

by Penny Reid

  “Hmm? What’s that?”

  “Your rag. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  I reached around and, sure enough, the rag was there. “Ah. Yes. Thank you.”

  His eyes narrowed as they inspected me. “Well, clean up. Dinner is in an hour.”

  Using a clean portion of the rag to rub at the grease on my fingertips, I grumbled, “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “You know what I mean. Go change.”

  Now I scowled. “And you know I don't like changing. I got zero changes left today.”

  “You’re not going to change for bed?”

  “’No. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Jethro crossed his arms, giving me a flat look. “So you’re telling me that you wear greasy coveralls to bed?”

  “’Course not. I have clean pants and a clean shirt beneath these clothes, which I shall wear to the family dinner. After which, I shall remove all my clothes and take a shower before bed. Would you like to know what I’ll wear to bed tonight? I’ll give you a hint, it doesn’t require me to change after the shower.”

  “You know what, never mind.” He started to roll his eyes but caught himself just in time. “I’m not arguing with you about whether removing clothes or putting on clothes counts as changing. Whatever. Sienna is making her special roast. Jenn is supposed to be bringing the dessert. What time can we expect y’all?”

  “Uh—” I glanced at the wall clock “—you said one hour, right? We’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Good. Are you picking her up or is she meeting you there?”

  “Why so many questions?” I rubbed harder at a stubborn patch of grease.

  “Because you’ve been distracted lately, and late.”

  “He’s picking her up from the bakery after work,” Shelly—somewhere unseen—supplied the answer. And then I heard a baby giggle and my foul mood was eclipsed by this new data point.

  “Wait. You brought Ben?” I craned my neck, looking for him.

  “Yep. Shelly has him. Her hands were clean.”

  My frown deepened. Benjamin was in the building. Jethro had brought Benjamin, and here I was not holding my nephew. See? This is what fretting got me: A) telling lies about gastrointestinal distress, and B) lack of baby awareness.

  “Are you okay, Cletus?” Jethro stepped closer, his eyes moving over me.

  “I’m perfectly adequate. And also, to answer your earlier question, I am looking forward to George’s act with the breathless anticipation that only a senior citizen former Navy SEAL turned stripper can inspire.”

  His gaze flickered over me again. “You sure? ’Cause you don’t look excited.”

  I scratched my neck, wondering if he wanted me to be upset. If he wanted me to feign discomfort, I could do that. “When is it again?”

  “Tomorrow.” He shuffled a half step closer. “You remember we decided to have the party this week instead of next? So it wouldn’t interfere with the rehearsal dinner.”

  “I remember, thank you.”

  He continued peering at me searchingly. “Are you nervous about the wedding?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re upset the groomsmen aren’t wearing Dickies?”

  That drew a small, unbidden smile on my face. “Actually, no. I’ve made my peace with it.” Drew had innocently informed Ashley that not only had I asked Roscoe, Drew, Beau, and Duane to be groomsmen via text message, but I’d also arranged for them to be measured for Dickies coveralls. I’d originally meant it as a joke, but the more I’d considered the matter, the more I’d warmed to it. Wearing coveralls meant I could ask them to do messy deeds. What good were groomsmen if they couldn’t do messy deeds?

  Ash had uniformly—pun intended—put her foot down and scheduled tux fittings for any of my brothers who required updates to the suits they’d worn for Jethro’s nuptials. Billy, of course, didn’t need a new suit. He already owned eleventy thousand. The dandy coxcomb.

  What Ash didn’t know, however, was that the Dickies coveralls had arrived, all custom cut and tailored, tucked safely in the back of my Ford. Perhaps the groomsmen would wear them to the service, perhaps not. But they’d definitely wear them to the reception. Otherwise, the dirty deeds I had planned would undoubtedly besmirch their formal attire.

  But I digress.

  “Then what’s the problem? Something has you feeling low.” His voice hushed, he dipped his chin to catch my eye. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”

  I stared at my brother. I stared and stared and debated and an idea formed. “Come with me.”

  Turning, I crossed to the stairs leading up to the second floor office. I walked up the stairs. I opened the door, leaving it ajar just long enough for him to enter. I closed it behind him and said, “Remember when you were a horrible, soulless, evil dumpster fire of a human? Or, at least, when you acted like one?”

  Jethro’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Yes, Cletus. I remember.”

  “And then you weren't?”

  “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “What made you change your ways?” I stroked my beard, inspecting him. “What inspired you to become a better person?

  Jethro inhaled slowly, his jaw relaxing, and his eyes moving up and to the left. “Well. . . Honestly, it was Ben’s death. Or rather all the stuff that happened after Ben died.”

  “Really? Tell me more.” Maybe if I could gain some insight as to what prompted Jethro to change his ways, I could work toward a similar aim with Isaac. Jenn believed people could change for the better. Jethro was a living example, proof that her belief was possible.

  “I got news that Ben died, and . . .” he sighed, his eyes still up and to the left. “As you know, he was somebody who always believed in me. Even though I would do stupid, selfish, horrible things, he was always that one person who told me it wasn’t too late to be better. That deep down, I was a good person.” His eyes came back to me. “And don't take this as an insult or anything other than a reflection of my own insanity and selfishness at the time, but it was like everybody else had already written me off. Expected me to live down to their expectations.” He chuckled, looking away again and mumbling, “Billy in particular.”

  I nodded, swallowing around some thickness I wasn’t in the mood to contemplate. “And Ben’s belief in you made all the difference?”

  “No. Not at all. I never believed him, truth be told. I thought of myself as irredeemable. Ben dying made the difference. It felt like, you know, that was it. Everyone else—even me—thought I was an asshole and got what I deserved. If I went to prison, if I died, well then, I’d asked for it. Oh well, good riddance.”

  Swallowing became even more difficult. “Jet—”

  “No, just listen. You asked, so I’m telling you.” He lifted a scolding finger. “But this isn’t about feeling sorry for me. I don’t feel sorry for me, so you shouldn’t either. My point is, the day he died, I felt like the last person on earth who loved me died.”

  I nodded, absorbing this but not contradicting him. We loved him then. But we were so tired of being disappointed. Our love was tough love, not the accepting—and in my opinion, enabling—love of Ben McClure.

  “And you know what happened next.” Jethro gave me a half smile, rolling his eyes at himself.

  “You tried to steal Drew’s motorcycle.” I tried not to laugh, and failed. “I remember. He beat the shit out of you.”

  “Yes.” Jethro also laughed, his eyes unfocused with memory. “He wouldn’t press charges, and neither would I. But he drove me to the hospital so I could get checked out. I was so mad.” Jet shook his head, a smile lingering on his lips. “Here was this guy who’d been accepted into my family, like he belonged there, whereas I was always left out in the cold. I hated him. And you know what he said to me? Before I got discharged? After staying with me all night and meeting with the doctor, asking questions about my recovery and medication, you know what he said?”

  “No, what?”


  Jethro held my gaze for two beats of my heart before saying, “‘Don't you want something better for yourself?’”

  I felt my brows pull together, and I thought about Drew’s words, picking them apart, putting them back together.

  Don’t you want something better for yourself?

  “I reckon I can’t explain why that—that struck some kind of chord, a note I hadn’t heard in—” Jethro’s bottom lip pushed out, and he shrugged “—maybe ever? He didn’t tell me I could change, that I should think of my mother, my family, all the trouble and pain I had caused. He didn’t say he loved me, that he believed in me, that I was still good. Hell, he probably thought I was a little shit, dirt on the bottom of his shoe. What he was really saying was, ‘Love yourself, man. ’Cause no one else is going to take the wheel and make it happen. Don’t you want better for you?’”

  Jethro—my dumbass, sweet, considerate, repentant brother—dropped his eyes to the floor and grinned. “With those words in mind, I asked myself that night what I needed, what I really wanted.”

  “What did you want?”

  “That particular night? Comfort,” he said plainly, his gaze stark. “So I went to Claire’s and spent the night with her, holding her, letting her cry. And I cried too. And you know what, it felt right. It felt so right. Doing what was right for me was ultimately my path back to y’all.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I wanted my family. That’s what I really wanted, and had wanted, for years. I decided I’d do whatever it took to be a better man, to be the brother you, Ash, Duane, Beau, Roscoe, and—yeah—even Billy’s stubborn ass, be the brother y’all deserved. Be the son Momma deserved. Make amends. That’s what I wanted for me.”

  I wrinkled my nose and squinted at him, my voice a tad higher than my typical baritone. “So you became a park ranger and took up knitting?”

  He laughed at that, and so did I, dispelling much of the solemnity that hung heavy in the air. “I suppose, when I thought about it, I didn’t know anyone who was better people than Ben and Drew. So, yeah. Being a ranger was always Ben’s dream. And Drew, well, I wanted to work with him. He had y’all’s respect, and that’s what I wanted. So that’s what I did.”

  “And the knitting?”

  “I knew Ash knit. I’d always had trouble connecting with her, so I figured. . .” He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged again, giving me a lopsided grin. “Plus, what else was I going to do? I never left the house in those days. Momma and I sat and talked, watched TV, but I didn’t like being idle.”

  Jethro and I studied each other for a good long minute. These outstanding questions about Jethro and his motivations, ones I hadn’t realized bothered me, had just resolved themselves in a satisfactory manner. Jethro was my brother. I’d always loved him, but I hadn’t always respected him, not when he couldn’t be bothered to respect himself. But now he did, and now I did, and here we were.

  I was proud of him. And satisfactory resolutions always put me in a better mood.

  Naturally, my mind turned to Drew, the quiet mountain of a man, and all the ways he’d changed our lives for the better. Helping us open the auto shop, helping our momma with Darrell, helping Jethro, helping Ash—and all of us—through our mother’s death, and I wished, just once, I could do something for him in return.

  Note to self: force Drew to accept some ostentatious offering of gratitude. Ensure it is grandiose in magnitude and cannot be returned nor exchanged.

  “Why are you asking me about this?” Jethro tilted his head an inch to one side, as though to inspect me from a new angle.

  “What do you think of Isaac Sylvester?” I posed the question before I could give myself an opportunity to think better of it because, dammit, I needed input.

  Jenn needed—deserved—to know about my suspicions. But I needed to break them to her in such a way that wouldn’t leave her broken if they turned out to be true.

  Jethro wouldn’t go to the police, he’d done shady shit in his past, he knew the Wraiths, the hold they had on their members. Furthermore, he’d abandoned his mother and siblings once upon a time. Who better to consult than Jethro?

  “Isaac Sylvester?” he asked, looking confused by my apparent subject change.

  “That’s right. Jenn’s brother.”

  “I don’t know that I ever think of Isaac Sylvester.”

  “But remember when you and I met with him and Repo, while Jenn was in custody? What did you think about him then? What was your impression?”

  Jethro scratched his jaw. “Well, he—uh—I guess he seemed reserved. Careful.”

  “Reserved and careful? Expand on that.”

  “He said very little, even when he did speak. Almost like he’d originally planned to just listen and let Repo do all the talking. And he hesitated each time he had to talk, like when you asked if he thought Jennifer had killed Kip. It took him forever to answer. And when he did, it wasn’t really an answer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you asked him, point blank, something like, ‘Do you think Jenn killed Kip?’ And what did he say? Some double-talk, right?”

  “He said yes, didn’t he?” I searched my memory, trying to recall Isaac’s exact words. I thought for sure he’d said yes.

  “No. He said something like, ‘It is a possibility I’d considered,’ or ‘I’d considered it because it seemed likely’ or something like that. He never just out and said, ‘Yes.’ He kinda skirted the question. You would ask questions and he would answer a different one.”

  Now I was back to frowning, staring at nothing, and realizing—belatedly—that Jethro was absolutely correct. And, dammit all to hell, I’d been so distracted by Jenn being in custody, agitated and desperate, I hadn’t been thinking clearly during the meeting.

  Furthermore, the worst part was, Isaac hadn’t lied. Everything he’d said was the truth.

  Jenn isn’t in danger.

  They were always going to arrest Jenn right after the reading of the will, using her surprise inheritance as motive.

  Those devices in your house, listening, watching, those are mine. I needed to know what y’all were up to.

  I needed to know what you and Jenn were saying. I wanted to know before anybody else.

  “Fuck,” I said on a breath, my fingers pushing into my hair as my suspicions matured into an undeniable fact. “Fucking fuck fuck.”

  Burro had told me Isaac had been there, at the lodge, at the slope north of the woods, but I’d dismissed it as irrelevant, a son driving to the scene of his father’s demise. But no. Isaac had been there the whole time.

  And then Burro arranged the meeting with Isaac, Repo, me, and Jethro. Isaac wanted to know what I knew because he’d shot Kip.

  Isaac was the shooter.

  “Cletus?”

  I waved away Jethro, still thinking, still arranging the puzzle pieces I’d had all along.

  If I’d been paying attention during the meeting with Isaac and Repo, I would’ve seen it then instead of a month later when Diane told her side of the story. If I’d been able to focus, take my time, if I hadn’t been frantic, maybe Diane wouldn’t have had to leave Green Valley. Maybe Jenn would still have her mother.

  But Isaac had taken advantage of my disheveled mind. He’d taken what he wanted. And I’d played right into his hands.

  He’d even admitted it. He’d told me, he’d told us! He’d said the words and I wasn’t listening,

  Because I’d kill him.

  I had to get out. If I hadn’t, I would’ve killed him years ago.

  “How could I be so stupid?”

  “What?” I heard Jethro’s shoes shuffling on the linoleum floor, moving him a little closer, real alarm in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “I am what’s wrong.” I shook my head, laughing bitterly.

  I didn’t think it was possible for me to despise Isaac any more than I already did. I’d been wrong. The details of precisely how were still fuzzy, but Isaac’s motives were a
ll so clear now.

  Aren’t you worried? Leaving the Wraiths without a money man?

  I have an apprentice.

  Who?

  Someone you think is smart.

  At that point in the conversation I’d just called Isaac smart, hadn’t I? I’d just praised him for suggesting his mother not leave her house so as to thwart the police taking her prints.

  Isaac was the smart apprentice.

  He’d killed his father, set up his mother, threatened his sister, all to get Repo out of the way.

  And now there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  “Cletus.”

  “Not now, Jet.” I waved my brother off again, gritting my teeth. Repo couldn’t ever come back, and of course Diane would never let her son take the fall—

  “Your phone is ringing,” Jethro said, reaching into my side pocket, withdrawing it, and smacking it against my chest. “Looks like it’s the bakery.”

  I swallowed though my mouth was dry and accepted the call, my mind not actually engaged with the action. “Hello?”

  “Cletus? It’s Blythe. Hey, so, listen. We called the police, but—”

  “What’s wrong?” Unsurprisingly, the words called and the and police shoved me out of my epic brain implosion. “Where’s Jenn?”

  “That’s the thing . . .” Her voice wavered. “Cletus, someone took her.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  *Jenn*

  “When a strong woman recklessly throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never any strength to throw away.

  Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd

  It was my fault. I had no one to blame but myself for getting in Cletus’s Geo.

  I should’ve known better. I should’ve known!

  Cletus rarely picked me up in the Geo. It was too small, he’d always said, and he liked the bench seat in the Buick. He liked me cuddled up next to him. He liked holding my hand. He liked placing kisses on my head or on my mouth when we stopped at a light or stop sign.

  Maybe if I’d been feeling less sorry for myself, or maybe if I’d been feeling less frustrated and cheated by life, or maybe if the banana cake I’d baked for Mrs. Lavery’s tea luncheon tomorrow hadn’t fallen like a skydiver with no parachute, I would’ve taken notice. The illegally dark tint to the windows meant, no matter what, I wouldn’t have observed the lack of a person in the driver’s seat as I approached.