Chapter 11
Inavigate toward Cooter’s corner booth, my heels sticking to the floor with every step as if the bar itself is trying to keep me as a souvenir.
The neon beer signs cast a sickly yellow-green glow on his face, giving him the appeal of a zombie.
The sounds of Garth Brooks on eternal repeat mingles with pool balls cracking and Georgie’s distinctive cackle from somewhere near the dance floor.
The whole place reeks of cheap perfume, cheaper cologne, buffalo wings, and what I can only describe as beer-soaked confidence.
“Excuse me,” I say to the blonde draped over Cooter like a human blanket, and according to her nametag, it’s Sassy Shug herself. “I need to borrow your boyfriend for a minute. It won’t take long, and I promise to return him mostly intact.” I’d wink, but I mean it.
Sassy glares at me as if I just insulted her ancestors, her future children, and her hair extensions all at once.
“This booth is taken, Barbie,” she says, and I realize my hot pink sweater has made me an easy target.
Note to self: next time I go undercover at a biker bar, maybe skip the cotton candy color scheme.
Although let’s face it, with this skirt and these shoes, outside these walls, I could have scored some serious dough.
Cooter looks up from his beer, already three sheets to the wind and working on a fourth. His backward baseball cap sits at an angle that suggests either drunkenness or a complete misunderstanding of how hats work.
“Josie,” he slurs slightly. “Come to accuse me of murder, too? Get in line. Willow has already called, texted, and somehow sent a singing telegram.”
“A singing telegram?” I slide into the booth uninvited because social niceties went out the window about two corpses ago.
“It was a guy in a bear suit. Sang ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ It was very subtle.” He takes another swig of his beer.
“That woman is the devil in yoga pants. You know, she used to critique my breathing patterns? ‘Cooter, you’re exhaling too aggressively. It’s disrupting my chakras. ’” He lightens his voice to mimic her.
My phone buzzes.
Dexter: How is your night?
I type back quickly.
Josie: Sticky.
Dexter: ???
Josie: There’s a floor involved, a biker bar, and many mistakes.
Cooter is still ranting away. “Twenty years of psychological warfare disguised as marriage. She posted our divorce papers on Instagram before I was even served! Hashtag New Beginnings. Hashtag Blessed. Hashtag Finally Free. I found out our marriage was over from my dentist’s receptionist!”
Sassy pats his arm sympathetically while maintaining her death glare at me. It’s actually impressive multitasking.
“But enough about Satan’s life coach,” Cooter says, flagging the waitress for another beer. “Let’s talk about the actual corpse. Duffy Banks was a ratings vampire. That man would sell his mother for a Nielsen point. Heck, he probably did. I never met his mother.”
“You threatened him,” I point out, trying to stay focused as my phone buzzes again.
Dexter: Are you drunk?
Josie: No!
I’m not, am I?
Dexter: Are you in trouble?
Josie: Maybe
Dexter: Josie?
Josie: Definitely maybe
I never said I could hold my liquor.
“I did threaten him,” Cooter admits, surprisingly forthcoming for someone potentially guilty of murder.
“But threatening and killing are different tax brackets of crime. I threaten people all the time. The barista who gets my order wrong, the guy who cuts me off in traffic, and that woman at the dry cleaners who lost my lucky golf shirt.”
“Your lucky golf shirt?” Sassy asks, momentarily forgetting to hate me.
“It was lucky! I wore it once and didn’t get struck by lightning. That’s lucky in my book.” He turns back to me. “But Willow—geez, even saying her name makes me want to shower in holy water—she made vision boards about our divorce before we were married. BEFORE. Who does that?”
“Someone with foresight?” I suggest.
“Someone with witchcraft,” he counters. “Her book? It’s half lies, half exaggeration, and half delusion.”
Sassy frowns. “That’s three halves.”
“Exactly!” Cooter slams his hand on the table. “She defies math! Physics! And the basic rules of human decency!”
My phone goes off again.
Dexter: You’re interrogating a suspect, aren’t you?
Josie: Interrogating is a strong word
Dexter: Where are you?
Josie: Somewhere with excellent wings
Dexter: JOSIE
“The coffee cups,” I say, trying to get back on track while the opening notes of “Friends in Low Places” start for what must be the thousandth time tonight. “You were switching them around like a street magician.”
Cooter nods enthusiastically, nearly knocking over his beer. “Musical lattes! Everyone was playing! I thought Crystal was trying to poison Duffy. She had that look, you know? That perky killer look, like a cheerleader who just discovered arson.”
That’s surprisingly specific.
“She wanted that permanent host position like I wanted out of my marriage—desperately and at any cost. Duffy kept telling her she wasn’t ready, she wasn’t serious enough. You know what’s serious? Murder. That’s about as serious as it gets.”
He’s got a point, though I’m not sure it’s the one he thinks he’s making.
“So you think Crystal did it?” I ask, noting that everyone seems eager to point fingers at everyone else. It’s like the world’s most toxic game of dodgeball, except they’re all throwing blame.
“I think she’s got that dead-eyed ambition thing going on. Like a shark, but with better teeth and a YouTube channel.” He pauses, then adds, “Willow has the same look. Did I mention she once tried to trademark our divorce? Trademark it. Said it was a brand opportunity.”
Before I can unpack that psychological suitcase, a tremendous roar erupts from the main bar area. I turn to see something that makes me question my remaining sanity.
Georgie is on the mechanical bull. Backward. Somehow she’s procured a sequined cape, and it’s currently flying around her like she’s some sort of geriatric disco peacock. The bikers are cheering, money is changing hands, and someone is definitely filming this.
But that’s not even the weird part.
Ree—sensible, cardigan-wearing, librarian-personified Ree—is attempting to limbo under pool cues while maintaining what’s left of her dignity, but it looks more like she’s being electrocuted in slow motion. Her face is red from either exertion or embarrassment. My money is on both.
“Excuse me,” I shout over the sudden chaos. “I need to save my friends from themselves!”
“Good riddance, Barbie!” Sassy Shug calls after me as I stumble toward the disaster.
Savvy has somehow organized a conga line that’s morphed into something between a mosh pit and a square dance. She’s leading it while also doing shots, which explains why the line keeps crashing into furniture.
“JOSIE!” Georgie screams from atop the bull, which is now spinning at a speed that is more than mildly alarming. “THIS IS AMAZING! I FEEL LIKE A VERY OLD WONDER WOMAN!”
The bull bucks. Georgie flies. Her trajectory is actually impressive as she clears three tables and a leather-clad biker before landing in a group of very surprised, very tattooed men who catch her as if she’s crowd surfing at the world’s most chaotic concert.
Ree, meanwhile, has gotten stuck mid-limbo. She’s frozen in a position that suggests either remarkable core strength or complete muscular failure as the pool cues tremble above her.
“A little help?” she gasps.
I rush to assist, grabbing one end of the pool cue just as Savvy’s conga line crashes into us. The impact sends me stumbling backward, directly into the mechanical bull’s control panel.
There’s a spark. A grinding noise. Then the bull launches into overdrive, spinning like a tornado made of leather and rage.
The rider, some poor biker who looked confident ten seconds ago, goes flying into the crowd. This creates a domino effect. People fall into other people. Drinks fly. Someone’s toupee takes flight like a hairy bird seeking freedom.
The limbo setup collapses, taking Ree with it, and yet she somehow emerges wearing someone’s leather vest and an expression of profound confusion.
Georgie is being passed around the crowd like a very enthusiastic, sequined beach ball, collecting phone numbers with each pass.
“BEST NIGHT EVER!” Savvy screams, now somehow on top of the bar, leading the entire establishment in what might be the Macarena or might be a mass seizure.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Dexter: Do I need bail money?
Josie: Just a few ice packs.
As we finally extract ourselves from the chaos, with Georgie clutching seven phone numbers, Ree wearing leather she definitely didn’t come in with, and Savvy carrying someone’s boot for reasons unknown—I realize something important.
Despite the mechanical bull incident, the limbo disaster, and whatever that dance was supposed to be, I might actually have a lead.
Crystal Wigglebottom, perky morning show host and my ex-husband’s current mistake, is looking more suspicious by the minute.
Now I just have to figure out how to investigate her without ending up in another biker bar.
Or anywhere near another mechanical bull.
Or explaining to Dexter why I smell like a distillery had a baby with barbecue sauce.
“We should do this once a week!” Georgie shouts a little too loud as we limp toward the exit.
“We absolutely should not,” Ree says firmly, though she’s still wearing the leather vest with surprising confidence.
“Next time,” Savvy says dreamily, “we bring the cats.”
The mental image of Fish and Chip in a biker bar is enough to make me walk faster.
Some things are too dangerous even for amateur detectives with questionable judgment and a body count.