by Maggie King
Vince sighed. “Be careful. He could be a loose cannon. I hope you have your phone with you at all times. Charged. And on.”
“Of course I do. It’s our phone.” We’d ditched our landline in 2008 and relied on our cell phones and Skype. “I’d love to question Brad. Wouldn’t that be a coup?”
I ignored Vince’s warning look and went on. “Maybe I could woo him with flowers, chocolates, or a subscription to Omaha steaks.”
“Forget your coups and wooing. Brad’s the top suspect. Consider yourself lucky that he wants nothing to do with you. Let’s hope he continues to feel that way.”
“I’m just thinking out loud,” I said to placate my husband.
After lunch I worked on my next baby-boomer adventure. I heard Vince guffawing with Dennis Mulligan, his former partner on the Richmond police force. When he appeared in the hallway outside my den, Vince said, “Evangeline Goudreau was indeed a disgruntled ex-employee of the Hamlin Group and she was questioned. Her mother, Harriett Goudreau, corroborated her daughter’s alibi. Dennis knows nothing about a lunatic, but I think we need something more specific than ‘lunatic’.”
“Well, yes, we do. Any ideas on how we run him down?”
Vince shrugged. “Maybe Rox’s boozer neighbors can help with that one.”
“Hmm. Hope so. I’ll tell Eileen about Evangeline. She’s going to research her. Is Goudreau spelled the French way?”
“Uh, yes, it is. One of those ‘eau’ endings.” Vince spelled out the name.
I sent an e-mail to Eileen with Evangeline’s name. But I wasn’t content to wait for her and so I tried Googling. I could see that this investigation would curtail my writing, and I already had enough challenges resisting the draw of social media and e-mail. It was a good thing I was more or less on a break.
The only results for Evangeline Goudreau showed a LinkedIn entry without benefit of a photo. Her profile indicated current employment as an accountant with the Hamlin Group. Any other mention of the woman appeared on a host of sites offering people searches and background check services—for a fee. Maybe Eileen could do better with library resources. When Eileen eventually got back to me, she had found pretty much the same information I had, but she was at home and could learn more the next day at the library with its better resources.
•••
After dinner, Vince and I got ready for our field trip to the Moonshine Inn. It took me half an hour to achieve a passable redneck look. When I emerged from the bathroom, Vince and I surveyed each other.
“Wow!” His appreciative look said he liked the redneck me.
“It’s just for tonight. This is way too much work.”
“It’s the top I like. Hair’s for the birds. Literally.”
Vince referred to my Harley Davidson two-sizes-too-small tank top that revealed an impressive display of cleavage. I had a Victoria’s Secret contraption that I employed for the thankfully few occasions when I wanted to play up my assets. The jeans that I’d slashed in strategic places molded my bottom half, and Eileen’s boots fit well with the help of thick, albeit unsexy, socks. As for the hair, I may have gone overboard with teasing and spraying my chestnut waves into something like an exploded mushroom—or a birdnest. But, as long as I fit in, that was the main thing: frosted blue eye shadow and plenty of it streaked across my eyelids, and my nails sparkled with scarlet polish.
“You look pretty good yourself!” I countered. Vince’s tight jeans and Confederate T-shirt attested to his frequent gym attendance. His scuffed cowboy boots almost matched mine. An old pair of plastic-framed glasses and a baseball cap finished the look.
I hoped we were unrecognizable. If pressed by an observant neighbor, we could say we were invited to a summer Halloween party. We drove down Forest Hill Avenue, and passed the usual shopping centers alternating with residential areas. After turning on to Westover Hills Boulevard we came to the Moonshine Inn.
“Okay, before we go in, let’s review some grammar. I checked this website and—”
Vince waved his hand, dismissing my preparation attempts. “It’ll all come naturally. Just leave the gs off words that end in ing.”
“Yes, but there’s more. Time is tahm, fine is fahn, and for is fer.”
“Fahn,” Vince said. “The men will all be looking at your lovely assets and won’t notice if you talk like a Harvard professor. Let’s go in and get this show on the road.”
I gave my husband—rather, my old man in redneck parlance—a look and got out of the car.
When casing the place the day before, I’d seen few vehicles in the parking lot, but tonight the sizable lot was full. A large white sign warned that parking places were only for customers of the Moonshine Inn, Jeremiah’s restaurant, or Buck’s Bar.
The Moonshine Inn was hopping when we walked in. The establishment served food as well as drink, and a waitperson with a name tag id-ing her as “Elvira” bustled about with plates laden with hamburgers and something that might have been chicken-fried steak. Elvira wore her straight blonde hair parted in the middle and anchored behind her ears with bobby pins. An inch-wide band of black roots showed at the part. Her half-opened eyes suggested an insomnia battle. Elvira’s short, round figure was encased in snug-fitting jeans and her tiny feet shod in sneakers. Her T-shirt invited one and all to “Do It at the Moonshine Inn.”
Black-and-white tiles covered the floor, and dark leather booths lined the perimeter of the space. Grime streaked the windows. The ceiling came up short on its allotment of tiles. Apparently the Moonshine Inn had a special dispensation to allow smoking, as a thick fog made the TVs positioned throughout the bar hard to see. I saw a Florida room, all white with ceiling fans and clean windows, attached to the front of the building. A prominent sign proclaimed it a non-smoking section. I looked at it longingly but, as not a soul populated the space, I figured I’d best sit elsewhere so I could get information.
The patrons caught up on the news via ESPN and Fox News amid much yelling and derogatory jokes about Obamacare. For those disinclined to watch the news, one TV offered T.J. Hooker reruns. But we weren’t there to catch up on the news or ‘80s-era cop shows.
A pony-tailed man wearing flip-flops stood and stuck his half-smoked cigarette in his mouth as he collected the change that Elvira slapped down on the table.
“See ya later, hon,” Elvira called to him in a smoky voice.
“That a promise?” he bantered as he walked towards the door.
I perched on a barstool. A man with a buzz cut, who was the size and general shape of a refrigerator, stood behind the bar holding a cigarette between his thumb and index finger. I guessed he doubled as the establishment’s bouncer.
“What kin I git fer y’all?”
I ordered a Budweiser. Vince echoed my choice. I got some appreciative looks, or rather, my bosom did. I’d gotten carried away with slashing my jeans and hoped the snug fit didn’t cause further ripping. Tiny shaded lamps on the wood-paneled wall provided little light, and they obscured my age so I could get away with the giggly and ditzy bit I’d decided was my best bet. Vince pulled his cap lower, in case someone recognized him from his days on the police force.
The female clientele had that same blowsy, hard-bitten look I’d seen in photos of Rox. A few had big hair, but I felt a bizarre sense of pride that my own blown-up tresses could win hands down in a big-hair contest. Baseball caps were the number-one fashion accessory for the male contingent with Confederate bandannas running a close second. Beer bellies predominated. Even in our getups, Vince and I looked way too healthy to be in this place.
A woman with platinum blonde hair took the stool next to mine. Her leather mini-skirt rode up her thighs.
The bartender said, “Usual, Susie?”
“Usual, hon.” Her voice told a tale of a longstanding tobacco habit.
Susie glanced at me and behind me at Vince. “Ain’t seen you two here before.”
“We’re here visitin’ in-laws. Had to get away fer a little bit, ya kno
w how that goes.” I giggled and rolled my eyes, happy that I was already getting into the swing of the jargon.
“Yeah, know just whatcha mean.” She extended a ringed hand. Her short nails sported dark, chipped polish. “Susie McCool.”
Good redneck name, I thought. “Nice to meetcha, Susie,” I shook her hand and added a giggle. “Ahm Shelby Austin and this here’s my husband, Ricky.” As Vince had been so anxious to get out of the car, I hadn’t had a chance to brief him on the names I’d chosen for us from an online database devoted to redneck baby names. So I said “Ricky” distinctly enough for him to hear and get the message that he was to use the name as his alias during his time as a customer at the Moonshine.
“Chahmed,” Vince assured Susie as he in turn shook her hand. Apparently he chose a strong, silent demeanor to counter my “golly-gee” one. Susie gave him an admiring up-and-down look.
“This here’s Duane,” Susie pointed to the bartender. We repeated the handshaking using our pseudonyms. Duane placed three Mason jars full of beer on the counter. Foam slopped over on the scarred wooden surface. Susie, Vince, and I claimed our jars.
I started: “My sister-in-law tells me a woman got herself killed here, right out in the pahkin’ lot. Maylene, that’s my sister-in-law, she don’t ‘member if the woman was here or at that restaurant next door.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Vince, beer in hand, moving toward the pool tables.
The bartender said with a wry tone, “She’d been here. Miss Roxanne.”
“Yeah, Roxanne come in here all the tahm,” Susie said.
“All the tahm,” Duane said with a grimace. He wiped down the counter with a sopping wet cloth, splashing a few drops down my cleavage. “Sometahms she’d be gone fer a while and then, like a bad penny, she’d turn up agin.”
Susie said, “She’d get herself a DUI and have to go to AA meetins.” Duane lit Susie’s cigarette. After exhaling an impressive plume of smoke, she went on. “The courts sent her. Didn’t do much good, though.”
“Like we said, she come in here a lot, usually alone.” Duane took a drag on his cigarette. “Even after she got herself hitched, she come here by herself.”
I kept my wide-eyed look. “I bet her old man didn’t like that.”
Susie said, “Don’t think so. They had a lot of loud fights on the phone. Usually he’d come pick her up, but sometahms her sister did. Guess she’d come back fer the car next mornin’.”
Duane sniggered. “All we heard was ‘Brad Jones, don’t you tell me what to do. Don’t try to run my life. I won’t have it. I’ll call Nina.’ She’d get off the phone and complain to anyone who’d listen, usually me. ‘Jerk thinks Ahm the “little woman.” Thinks he can boss me around.’”
Duane looked like he had more to add, but only managed, “Dang broad was a pain in the butt.”
Susie said, “Well, yes, she was. But she didn’t deserve to be murdered.” Duane said nothing but his smirk suggested disagreement. Susie tossed a napkin at him. A woman inked up with tattoos draped herself across the bar, an empty Mason jar in her hand. She groaned, “Duane, Duane.”
Susie said, “You must think we’re turrible. But she wasn’t the nicest woman in the world. Drunk or sober.”
Duane said, “Come in here all decked out in high-dollar suits and heels. Dunno what she was doin’ in this dive.” He refilled the groaning customer’s jar. She treated us to an a capella rendition of Feelings.
“Come to think of it, both Brad and the sister, name was Nina—I think it was Nina—they both showed up the night she got killed. The cops questioned everyone here. The folks at Jeremiah’s and Buck’s got themselves grilled, too.”
“Did Roxanne get all flirty with the guys here?”
Susie stubbed out her cigarette in a black plastic ashtray that advertised a football team. Shrugging, she said, “She did, and left with quite a few. Not so much after she got herself hitched to that Brad. Most of the guys here wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with her. Too much trouble. But when a stranger come by—”
“You guys talkin’ ‘bout that broad who got herself stabbed to death?” The singer, now finished singing Feelings, interrupted. Her hair hung in limp strings to her shoulders—definitely not the “big” style. Her tank top revealed so many tattoos that I couldn’t pick out just one.
“Yeah, we are, Tanya honey.” Susie rolled her eyes at me, belying her affectionate tone. “Why doncha go on over and play pool with the guys?”
“Tanya honey” wandered away towards the pool tables. “Poor Tanya, she’s a bit off, bless her heart,” Susie explained with the “bless her heart” euphemism favored by Southerners to suggest that someone was an idiot, but without using such harsh words.
Duane said, “That night Rox got herself killed there was that one dude all innerested in her.”
“That’s right! That guy in the baseball cap and the glasses. Longish dark hair.” Susie placed a finger on her collarbone to measure the hair length. “I only noticed him ‘cause Rox did a double-take, then said, ‘Thought I knew you.’ He tried to flirt with her but she wasn’t havin’ it, kept rollin’ her eyes.”
“Yeah, guy had the hots fer her,” Duane said. “But she was too busy fightin’ with her old man.”
“Finally he left and Rox curled her lip.” Susie curled her own lip in demonstration. She stuck another cigarette in her mouth and the gentlemanly Duane lit it for her. The smoke was getting to me, but I resisted the urge to make fanning motions with my hand. I sipped my beer. It tasted like urine—rather, how I imagined urine would taste.
Nina had mentioned a guy in the parking lot with a baseball cap—a description that fit any number of males in the bar as well as the general population. I looked out at a sea of baseball caps. She’d also mentioned seeing a glint of metal on the same guy. That could have been from a belt buckle, a gun—or a knife. Likely guns served as a fashion accessory with this crowd.
Duane said, “You ask me, her old man did her in. She pushed the guy too far.”
“So you don’t think the flirty guy did it?”
“Dunno. Whoever did it deserves a medal.”
“Duane! Yer just awful.” Susie wadded up another napkin and tossed it at the bartender. I suspected that Duane and Susie’s sparring was a regular occurrence, not unlike in a marriage.
“Anyways,” Susie went on, “Rox had her usual fight with her old man, in fact worse than usual. She was madder than a wet hen. Then she called her sister and asked her to come pick her up. She said, ‘Well, Ahm goin’ out to wait fer Nina.’ She walked okay, a little off kilter. Last we saw of her.” Susie gazed into the distance, perhaps reflecting on the brevity of life.
Amid the growing din I heard the F-word interspersed with the cracking of pool balls. A commotion behind us made us turn around to see a man with one shoe off, hopping around on his other foot. In between screaming expletives, he informed one and all that he’d spilled his drink in his shoe.
“Hey, Dawn,” Susie bellowed in my ear. Dawn appeared, cascades of red frizz framing her round face. Her T-shirt offered a long message that started with “The problem with men . . .”
“Tell this nice lady—” Susie waved her cigarette at me. “What’s yer name agin?”
“Me? Oh, Ahm Shelby.” I added that inane giggle.
“Shelby here was askin’ ‘bout that woman who got herself killed here in the pahkin’ lot? You know, Roxanne somethin’? You was here that night. ‘Member that guy here at the bar who was tryin’ to get all friendly with her?”
“Yeah, he tried to get friendly with me, too. But Wade was givin’ me looks, so I brushed the guy off. Wade’s my old man,” she explained to me. Maybe Wade had inspired the T-shirt.
“Was this guy a regular?” I asked.
“No, but he come in another tahm, ‘bout a week later. He asked ‘bout Rox and I told him what happened. Haven’t seen him since. You might—Rodney!”
Rodney was a cheerful man with a fire-plug physique and beetle brows.
His lack of a baseball cap made him stand out. Susie and Dawn squealed with delight.
Susie swept her hand out, narrowly missing singeing my arm hair with her cigarette. “Rodney, this here’s our new friend, Shelby.” Her speech was slurring. “We was just tellin’ her ‘bout Miss Roxanne.”
“Oh, ho! Miss Roxanne. May she rest in peace.” He held his hand over his heart like he intended to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. That caused more giggling and yelps from the two women. “Miss Roxanne was a rose among many thorns,” he intoned like a preacher.
“She sher thought so.” Duane looked sour as he handed Rodney a long-necked bottle and Rodney slapped some bills on the counter.
“Gotta git back to the game, little ladies.” In a flash I was alone as Susie and Dawn left to cheer on the guys at the pool table. I turned back to my odious beer and looked around. Soon three men surrounded me, all seemingly impressed with my enhanced bosom. I kept up my ditzy act.
I spotted Vince by the pool table in conversation with a lanky man with hair falling to the middle of his back and, of course, a baseball cap. Tanya, the Feelings singer, lingered nearby.
We stayed for another hour. In the meantime, more beers appeared before me as I laughed and flirted with a bevy of admirers. When I left with Vince, they told me to ditch my old man and get myself back real soon.
Laughing, I assured them that I’d be back—real soon.
•••
At home, I pulled off my boots and socks. “Pew! I smell like I’ve smoked two packs of cigarettes.”
“Yes, we’re pretty aromatic.”
I told Vince about my barside conversations. “Did you find out anything interesting? What about that skinny guy with the long hair?”
“Yes, Wade.”
“Wade. That must be the guy with problems.” I explained about the T-shirt Dawn wore. “So go on.”
“I heard much the same as you did, but a little more. The guy said, ‘Tanya here says they’re yakkin’ over there ‘bout that woman who got herself killed.’”
When Vince started to explain who Tanya was, I stopped him. “I know Tanya.” I described her brief appearance at the bar. “By the way, you do redneck well.”