Chapter 8 #2
Mayrene was still in jail with three more months to serve, and her reputation as a badass in the county jail had become legend.
They called her the little chihuahua because those dog breeds were always yipping and nipping at people’s heels, and Mayrene always had an opinion.
Inmates talked quietly among themselves about the woman who tried to feed her ex to a python and wondered if she’d ever done that before, or if she was capable of doing it again.
Then one day, to her surprise, she’d received a letter.
It was a ghost from her past. She didn’t know how he’d found her again, but he’d seen enough local news stories to find out what she’d done.
In the letter, he told her in the grand scheme of things, letting a snake named Elvis out of his tank was hardly hanging worthy.
It made her laugh, but she didn’t answer, because the damage she’d caused from doing that very thing was what she was most ashamed of.
But then a second letter came, and she replied. The mailbox reunion became something to hold on to. She was beginning to believe there was hope for her yet.
Up on the mountain, Quilla Schultz was stacking cords of firewood against the back of her house for her wood-burning fireplace and canning everything from her garden that she hadn’t already eaten.
She was storing up for winter and preparing for her daughter’s release with the confidence of a woman who still believed she was right.
It was the week before Halloween when Floy drove into Blackjack.
He had been in sore need of warmer socks for weeks, and the weather was only going to get colder.
He went straight to the farm and ranch store, knowing they’d have exactly the things he needed, and grabbed a cart as he walked in.
He headed straight for a small section of the store where sweatshirts, work coats, overalls, and work gear were displayed.
He’d already added a dozen pairs of heavy socks to the cart when he spied a rack of Carhartt brand work coats.
He thought of his old one, missing one pocket and with a hand-sewn rip on a patch coming undone, and chose a coat to try on.
It snapped up the front and had a flannel-lined hood.
It was the right size and felt good as he slid his arms into the sleeves.
As soon as he took it off, he added it to his cart and turned up another aisle where heavy-duty work gloves hung on racks by the pair.
He added a dozen pairs of extra-large ones to the shopping cart, then tossed a bag of lemon drops into the cart as he went up front to pay.
Without knowing it, a young woman, with three kids circling her feet like puppies, had gotten in line behind him. He heard the children’s giggles and turned around to smile at them, but saw their mother instead.
Dory Eldridge. He’d gone to school with her, but she’d been Dory Ritter then.
“Hey, girl. How’s it going?”
She smiled. “Hey, Floy. Oh . . . you know . . . busy.” Then she leaned down, gripped the arm of her oldest boy, and gave him a look that melted the silly right off him without so much as a word.
“Sorry, Mama,” he whispered.
“Manners, son,” Dory said, then stroked her hand down the side of his cheek to take away the rebuke.
Floy knew her husband had walked out on them last year, and he guessed she was having a hard time making ends meet. “I guess Trick or Treating is likely to happen in your world.”
She nodded. “Whether I’m ready for it or not.”
The oldest boy, Robert, who went by Robby, was now leaning against her shoulder. “I broke a window. Mama’s getting some plastic to cover the hole,” he said.
Floy’s eyes caught the flash of shame on Dory’s face. “A big window or a single pane in the window?” he asked.
“A pane. This sheeting will fix it,” she said.
“I have dozens of leftover pieces of window glass in my shop up at the house. It wouldn’t take me thirty minutes to replace it.”
“Thanks, but I don’t have the money to—”
“Dory . . . leftover stuff costs me nothing, and neither does helping a friend. Will you let me?”
She sighed. “Yes, with thanks.” Then she laid the roll of sheeting on a nearby shelf. “Do you know where we live?”
“I’m like the postman. Floy’s Fix-It knows where everybody lives. Do you know the measurements for the broken pane?”
“Ten by twelve,” Robby offered. “I’m good at math. I measured.”
“Got it,” Floy said, then looked at Dory. “I’ll be there within the hour.”
Dory Eldridge picked up her youngest boy, then herded the two older ones out of the store and drove away as Floy paid for his purchases.
He ran a credit card through the reader, waited for it to clear, then grabbed the bags in both arms and headed out the door, ducking his head slightly against the cold blast of wind as he put his purchases in the back seat.
The wind whistled down his neck as he turned to open the driver’s side door and then stopped.
Lowell Arnold stood in Floy’s personal space, preventing him from getting in the truck.
“Floy. We need to talk,” Arnold said loudly, unaware that people on the sidewalk had heard the challenge in the chief’s voice and had begun purposefully slowing down to listen.
Floy jangled the ring of keys he held and took a step forward. “About what?” he said.
The hair crawled on the back of Arnold’s neck. He hadn’t expected that intentional step forward but held his ground. “Your refusal to help the police department when needed. I’m not asking for me, personally. I’m speaking on behalf of the townspeople.”
Floy flipped the ring of keys into his palm, slowly closing his fingers into a fist around them.
Arnold’s eyes widened slightly, realizing Beaudine was now holding a poor boy’s version of brass knuckles. He hadn’t expected a fight, and Floy had taken a second step closer.
“So, Lowell, exactly which townspeople are you referring to? Would that be the ones who took your word like it was delivered from God when you decided I was a killer? Are you talking about the herd of do-gooders who were immediately convinced I’d murdered my wife and hid the body just because you said so without a single piece of evidence to support that? Those people? In this town?”
A larger crowd grew, swallowing the guilt of the accusations they heard. Townsfolk watched two men with an unsettled grudge between them standing between their vehicles on Main Street, on a cold-ass day with a thirty-four-degree wind blowing down their necks, within inches of trading blows.
Arnold threw up his hands in frustration. “Damnit, Floy! I can’t control gossip.”
Floy moved. Suddenly, he was in Arnold’s personal space—so close he could smell coffee breath every time the chief exhaled.
“Actually, big shot, that’s not true, because you’re the one who started it.
You pointed the first finger. The herd that is the population of Blackjack just bellowed, eating the feed of lies you fed them, and followed your lead.
But here’s the best part of your so-called murder investigation.
The moment you realized your mistake, you had your officers use back streets to dump me off at the hospital like a calf with no mama and left me dangling.
You didn’t apologize to me. You didn’t admit your blunder to the town.
Instead, to rectify your egregious error, you got all fired up about going after Mayrene and Quilla, didn’t you? ”
Arnold blinked, struggling for an answer that never came as Floy lit into him again.
“And, just for the record, Lowell, you wouldn’t have had one freaking piece of evidence against them if it hadn’t been for me.
I’m the one who had the security footage.
I’m the one who gave it to you, and you never admitted that to the people, either.
I don’t owe you anything, and this is beginning to smell like harassment.
Get. Out. Of. My. Way. I have a broken window to fix for a single mother with three kids before it gets dark. ”
Arnold had swallowed so many unspoken retorts in the last few minutes that the words were sitting heavy at the bottom of his gut.
He’d never been afraid of a man before, but there was a look in Beaudine’s cold green eyes that made him regret every choice he’d ever made about how he’d treated this man.
He stepped back.
Floy was reaching for the door handle when he glanced at the chief’s cruiser parked next to him. “You’re getting a flat tire.”
Arnold looked down, then up at Floy in sudden anger.
“Get over yourself, Lowell,” Floy drawled. “I was in the store buying socks and gloves when you drove up, and you know it.” He got in his truck, backed away from the curb, then headed home to get what he needed to shut out the cold coming into Dory’s house.
Arnold saw the tire and the crowd that had witnessed the entire confrontation, then ducked his head against the wind and circled the cruiser to get inside.
Being called by his given name instead of his title was disrespect.
Having every fault that he’d made in the investigation pointed out in a public forum was even worse, and the tire was still going flat.
He started the car and made a mad dash to the gas station to get it fixed before it went down to the rim.
When Floy arrived at Dory Eldridge’s house, he backed into the driveway, leaving a few feet between his tailgate and the back of Dory’s car, which was parked beneath the carport.
That’s when he realized the broken glass was at the front of the house, facing the street.
He tucked a small cardboard box under his arm, picked up his toolbox in the other hand, and was going up the steps when Dory opened the door.
“I saw you drive up,” she said, and stepped aside for him to enter.
Three little boys were lined up on the sofa like fans at a football game. Floy glanced at Dory.
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t leave you alone with them. They just want to watch.”