by Lucy Score
Oh, Lordy.
21
Cassidy
As it turned out, every damn body in the barn had a plan. Otto Holt and Jimmy Bob Prosser wanted to confine the press to a paddock-like area. Old Judge Carwell suggested enacting Title 57 in the town’s charter that allowed a majority of white, land-owning males to ban groups of people from Bootleg Springs boundaries. It was completely illegal, but no one had gotten around to scrubbing the law from the books.
I made a mental note to talk to Devlin about that one.
Clarabell, the beloved owner of Moonshine Diner, showed her frustrations by suggesting that some food poisoning might encourage the undesirables to go the hell home.
I was about ready to announce my presence and put an end to the foolishness when Bowie put his hand on my leg.
“Hang on a second,” he told me quietly.
I was too busy reeling from the physicality to remember to jump to my feet and call my fellow townsfolk dumbasses. I suddenly wished I’d just gone on home to George and Eddie.
“Y’all, my daughter has an idea that I think would work fine.”
“Is that my mother?” I hissed.
Bowie squeezed my thigh again.
Yep. Sure enough, Nadine Tucker stood up in the third row and hauled my sneaky-ass sister to her feet.
“Go ahead, June,” my mom said encouragingly.
My sister shoved her hands in her jeans. “A reporter’s primary responsibility is to search out and disseminate facts from fallacies,” she began.
“English, Juney,” Cheyenne Hastings called out from across the aisle.
I could feel my sister rolling her eyes. “If a reporter is only divulging easily refutable lies, their perceived usefulness would come to a swift and unceremonious end.” As usual, June’s dumbing it down had the opposite effect.
I could hear crickets chirping in the barn while Bootleg Springs tried to translate.
“What she’s saying is if we use these reporters to spread absolute bullshit, they’ll get recalled to whatever rock they crawled out from under,” my mom translated.
The crowd began to murmur, and the enthusiasm warmed.
“It’s a misinformation campaign. Just like Jedidiah Bodine did during the ‘shine running years,” Mrs. Varney cackled.
Mayor Hornsbladt stroked his silver beard like a cartoon villain. “Why, June Tucker. I think that’s a mighty fine idea.”
“Yes. I know that,” June stated.
Mom elbowed her in the side.
“I mean, thank you,” June reluctantly corrected herself.
The buzzing of the crowd hit deafening levels, and the mayor had to smack a clawfoot hammer on the crate under his feet. He hit it too hard and it collapsed, spilling him onto the floor.
He sprang back up and hammered the wall for a minute until everyone quieted down again. “Y’all, we gotta keep this orderly. Now, let’s strategize all strategic-like. Who’s got an idea?”
Hands shot up all over the barn, and the chatter returned.
“I can’t sit here and let them obstruct a police investigation,” I told Bowie. His hand was still on my knee.
“They’re not obstructing the police. They’re obstructing a bunch of disrespectful outsiders who think we’re all stupid, toothless hillbillies. There’s nothing illegal about not being truthful to a reporter,” he insisted.
I gritted my teeth. This whole thing was chapping my procedural ass. “How often do y’all call secret meetings?” I asked him.
“Only when absolutely necessary,” he said evasively.
“And are my mom and sister usually in attendance?”
He smirked at me. “They’re usually the ones callin’ the meetings.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Remember when your dad couldn’t prove that Donna Tarper’s husband was knocking her around?” Bowie asked.
My eyes narrowed. “Yeah.” My dad had a big, squishy heart. He couldn’t stand to see anyone or anything hurt. Knowing that one of his citizens was getting the crap beat out of her on the regular never sat well with him. But Donna had refused to press charges.
“Remember how the husband suddenly attacked his neighbor Pete? And that mysterious video footage of the fight just happened to show up at the station?”
I closed my eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
Bowie nodded solemnly. “Your mama called that meeting and made us put our heads together to figure out how to catch the sonofabitch and make sure he got locked up.”
I rubbed a finger between my eyebrows where a headache was sprouting.
“Feelin’ left out?” Bowie asked.
“Yeah. A little.”
“Now you know how it feels,” he said smugly.
“Are we back to that again?” I was starting to get my hackles up.
“No, Cass. We’re not. But there are some things it’s better if law enforcement doesn’t know about. Who’s gonna get hurt if we run these idiots out of town by telling them a couple of tall tales?”
“That’s not the point, Bowie. Right is right and wrong is wrong.”
“Honey, sometimes there’s a whole lot of something in between right and wrong.”
I didn’t like that one bit. Law and order kept people safe. It defined exactly what was good and what was bad. It gave people answers, truthful ones. The law made the consequences of our actions clear.
If you stole your neighbor’s cable, you paid a $500 fine. You laundered money, you spent up to a year in jail. Blowing up shit that’s not yours on the 4th of July could have you serving up to two years and shelling out a cool $10,000.
We had rules.
“You know I have to tell my dad about this,” I told him.
“No, you don’t,” Bowie countered. He pointed up to where my mom was sitting. “That’s on her. Not you.”
I opened my mouth and then closed it again. He may have a point.
“Look, if it’s bothering you, I can tell you that nothing real illegal has ever come out of any of these meetings,” he told me.
“Define ‘real illegal.’”
“I’d prefer not to.” He winked at me.
“Imma tell that shithead in the corduroy pants that I have evidence that Big Foot took Callie Kendall,” Wade Zirkel called out, catching my attention.
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. The idea of Wade Zirkel strutting up to The Charlottesburg Post claiming a sasquatch had carried off Callie was laughable.
“Hang on, y’all. We gotta be careful and make sure that definitely we’re spreading bad info,” Sonny Fullson, the shaggy-haired owner of Build a Shine—Bootleg’s answer to the popular Build A Bear chain—said, coming to his feet.
“Are you saying you think it’s possible that Harry from Harry and the Hendersons walked on into Bootleg and carried a girl off?” the mayor asked, appalled.
Sonny shook his head. “No, sir. I’m asking whether we’re leading them to or away from Jonah Bodine, Sr.? May he rest in peace.”
It was Bowie’s turn to scowl. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked like he wanted to hit Sonny with Mayor Hornsbladt’s hammer.
“My daddy, may he rest in peace, did not have anything to do with Callie Kendall’s disappearance,” Scarlett said, climbing up on her bench and glaring daggers at the crowd.
“How’d he end up with her bloody sweater then? May he rest in peace,” someone yelled.
I slapped my hand on Bowie’s leg when I felt him tense next to me. He was coiled to strike.
“Easy, tiger,” I said quietly.
“Y’all know she’s not dead. She ran off with some guy.”
“If she were still alive why ain’t no one heard from her since?”
“She’s definitely dead.”
“But do we know that Jonah Bodine did it? I mean, the man was a drunk, but does that mean he’s a murderer? May he rest in peace.”
Devlin plucked Scarlett off the bench and motioned for the mayor’s microphone. “I think it’s
important that everyone understands that this plan can only move forward if it doesn’t interfere with the ongoing police investigation.”
Finally. A voice of reason.
Bowie was still vibrating with pissed-offness next to me.
“We can come up with a solution that doesn’t require us to try Jonah Bodine, Sr.—uh, may he rest in peace—in the court of popular opinion,” Devlin answered.
“Huh?” someone grunted nearby.
Devlin straightened his tie. “What I’m saying is let’s come up with a story or stories that won’t derail the police investigation. It’s their job to find out who did what. So let’s make it our job to get these loafer-wearing, name-calling vultures out of our town.”
It started as a slow clap and built until people were stomping their boots and whistling through their fingers. Devlin McCallister didn’t know it, but he’d just given his first campaign speech.
At least I could count on him to keep things as legal as possible.
Now was a good time to leave, before I learned anything that definitely had to end up on my dad’s desk. “Looks like you all have things under control around here. I’m gonna get back to town and make sure no one else is undermining the legal community’s authority.”
I half-rose, half-scurried around Bowie into the aisle, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself. I for sure didn’t want my mom and June to see me. That was a conversation I wasn’t eager to have.
Gee, Mom, how long have you been running secret operations behind Dad’s back?
And June? How could my own sister keep this shit from me?
That headache was blooming like a damn fried onion at a steak place.
I ducked out the door and back into the crisp night, leaving the warmth of community at my back.
Looking around at the army of parked cars, I shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat. I sighed long and hard, watching my breath cloud up the ink-black sky above me. Their methods might be insane. But one thing I was sure of, Bootleg Springs was the best place in the whole wide world to live.
“You’re not telling your daddy, are you?” Bowie’s voice was quiet behind me.
I kicked at the frosted grass under my feet. “No. I won’t tell him,” I said finally.
He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. When he turned me around to face him, I thought that it was finally happening. That Bowie Bodine was going to kiss the cold out of me under this sliver of moon.
And then he did.
His lips brushed my cheek. And then his thumb brushed the spot where his mouth had touched. “Thanks, Cass.”
I was still standing there when he went back inside.
Police overlook suspect in Bootleg Springs disappearance
Who is Bartholomew Jaques?
Local police a laughing stock when new suspect identified in Kendall disappearance
22
Bowie
Bartholomew—after Mrs. McClintock’s no-good nephew—Jacques—for the Parisian hotel clerk that had been quite rude to Nash Larabee’s mama—was a suspected murderer.
Specifically of Callie Kendall. But Bootleg Springs was open to giving him credit for more.
Yep. Ol’ Bartholomew had drifted into town in a disreputable rusted out pickup truck and stirred up trouble for the six months he’d been in town. He bounced around from job to job, with his gold tooth—courtesy of Trent McCulty—and his scraggly hair, credit to Millie Waggle.
Rhett Ginsler suggested that Bartholomew walked with a limp from a bar fight he’d started in his younger days. Those reporters ate it up.
His alleged ties to the Indiana mafia—also a work of fiction—made him untouchable by local law enforcement. And that’s how the squirrely, slimy, no-good Bartholomew escaped prosecution.
I enjoyed the hell out of watching the manufactured drama play out. On Monday, Maribel reported seeing Mrs. Varney cozied up with a blogger from West Virginia Needs to Know at the Pop In. This particular blogger had artlessly referred to us Bootleggers as “the grammatically incorrect, poor cousins of respectable hillbillies”.
On Tuesday, Mayor Hornsbladt invited the reporter from The Middlebury Courier into his office for a one-on-one.
Wednesday, when the crowd of press at the foot of my driveway asked, I told them I had no comment on Bartholomew Jacques.
Everyone who spoke to the press did so on the condition of anonymity.
By Thursday, there were headlines all across the state from media outlets that were too busy to do any real fact-checking questioning why law enforcement was ignoring a suspect. It was a real treat to see the pictures of Wade Zirkel in a Halloween costume circulating as the mysterious and potentially dangerous Bartholomew. Sierra Hayes had hit the fake social media profiles out of the park.
State police ignore vital lead in Kendall disappearance
Small town too scared to pursue murder suspect
Tiny town faces mob retaliation in Kendall killing
Hillbillies vs. The Mob: Who killed Callie Kendall?
Clarabell slid a plate of scrambled eggs with a small mountain of bacon in front of me and an egg white omelet with tomatoes and peppers in front of Jonah. We were celebrating the ridding of our town with a pre-work breakfast at Moonshine Diner.
“Ya see, everyone’s been scared to death of mob retaliation,” Clarabell recited to me as she topped off our coffees. “That’s exactly what I told the dumbass from the Perrinville Times.”
My driveway and the street in front of my house were blissfully empty this morning thanks to the backlash that had been just as swift as the viral spread of Bartholomew Jacques.
It was their own damn fault. Jonah handed his phone over, cueing up another video of a disgraced journalist jogging down the street with a crowd of his peers shoving cameras and phones in his face. The harassers had become the harassees. “How did an entire West Virginian town concoct a fake murder suspect and convince you to write about it?” the reporters wanted to know.
“No comment,” the man in question snapped, pulling the hood of his coat up and speeding his jog to a near sprint.
Detective Connelly’s derisive press conference questioning the irresponsibility of the press had been toasted by half the town watching at The Lookout. We’d all also shot the TV the middle finger when the asshole called us out for making a mockery of his investigation. Callie Kendall was ours more than she’d ever be his. The only thing we’d made a mockery of was a few dozen morons too aggressive to do their jobs properly.
Yep. We Bootleggers considered the entire situation a win. Nicolette had doled out shots of whiskey like it was a holiday when the news vans packed up. And June was quietly being lauded a town hero.
“Mornin’, Bowie. Jonah.”
I glanced up from the phone to see Sheriff Harlan Tucker sliding into the booth next to Jonah.
“Morning, sheriff,” I greeted him warily, feeling the familiar knots tie themselves together in my stomach. We’d been close once. He’d taken me to get my driver’s license, and I’d spent every Thanksgiving at his table since I could remember. Still did. But it was different now.
Clarabell reappeared with a mug and a coffee pot. “Breakfast today, sheriff?” She was all business now. None of us were keen on the idea of letting him know about our involvement. Our lips were zipped.
“Just coffee. Thanks,” he told Clarabell.
The sheriff took a sip, taking his time to warm up to his point.
“Cold one today,” he said.
“Yessir,” I agreed. Winter had indeed gotten her hooks into Bootleg early this year.
“Sure is,” Jonah said, shooting what the fuck eye daggers in my direction.
“You boys know anything about this Bartholomew Jacques business?” Sheriff Tucker asked real casual like. As if all he were after was a little early morning conversation.
We knew better.
“I always count on you to be honest with me, son,” he told me.
Ah, hell.
That knife twisted nice and neat in my chest, exactly like he’d meant it to.
Jonah shoved a huge bite of omelet into his face so he couldn’t be counted on to reply.
Sheriff Tucker brushed his fingers over his mustache. It was whiter now than it had been during our last serious conversation. We were all getting older. Yet I still felt like a No-Good Bodine Boy around him.
“Seems like the Bartholomew business cleared up our little infestation problem,” I observed, not answering his question directly.
The mustache twitched.
“Seems like,” he agreed. “How about you, Jonah? You settling in all right?”
Jonah had just shoveled another forkful into his mouth. “Yesh-her,” he said.
Sheriff Tucker grunted. He was watching me like he was expecting me to spill my guts.
“Hey, sheriff. You hear about that armed robbery in Perrinville?” Clarabell appeared at our table, swooping in to save the day.
Jonah and I shared a look across the table. I didn’t much like lying. Even if it was only by omission. But there was no way in hell that I was telling the man that his daughter was the diabolical genius behind scaring off the press.
Clarabell and the sheriff shot the shit for a few minutes before she puttered off to serve up carbs and gossip for the rest of the breakfast crowd.
“Well, boys. I’d better be on my way,” he told us, sliding back out of the booth.
“Have a good one,” I said, giving him a nod that I hoped didn’t say sorry about helping orchestrate a town-wide mutiny.
Jonah slumped back against the booth when the front door jingled, signaling his departure.
“I feel like I just narrowly avoided getting called to the principal’s office,” he said. “No offense.”
Grimly I pushed my plate aside and pulled out my phone.
Me: Your daddy’s on a fishin expedition.