Chapter 34 Ben
Ben
Cypress Creek, Texas
Sunday morning
The Gator rattles up to the ranch house, a plume of dust trailing behind us as Cybil pulls up to the barn and parks. She’s
out of the UTV and inside the house before I can get a word in. If I weren’t picturing my grandmother knee-deep in trash with
a flare gun and an itchy trigger finger, I’d chase after her.
The ride back was quiet and quick. I know at least twice, Cybil hit the ruts in the road extra hard, causing me to tighten
my grip on my seat. “You think you know me, but you absolutely don’t.”
And maybe she’s right. Mostly. We’ve both grown up and changed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see the girl I once knew. The
way she dodged my questions wasn’t just clever; it was impressive. A two-step of lies that made me respect the game—if only
that’s what it was.
Unfortunately, it got me no closer to knowing the truth about who she’s really working for and what her interest is in Ramirez’s
deal.
And now I have to deal with my grandmother and—I’m halfway to my truck when I hear it.
A low, menacing cluck from inside the cab.
I swing open my truck door and freeze.
There, strutting across the bench seat like he owns the place, is Kentucky Fried. His beady eye turns on me. I don’t blink. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.
Good play, Cybil.
Behind me, a low chuckle rumbles. I glance over to see Buddy standing near the porch with one of his ranch hands, arms crossed,
his Stetson low against the morning sun.
“What’s going on?” Cybil strolls out of the house, already dressed, eyes locking onto the standoff between me and the demon
rooster.
“Like you don’t know,” I hiss.
Kentucky Fried swivels his head and lets out a growl. I slam the door shut and jump back. He puffs out his chest and crows
like he just won a turf war.
I whirl around and point at Cybil. “Nice payback.”
Her eyes widen. “I didn’t do that. You think I’d touch that deranged menace?”
“You?” I ask, turning to Buddy.
He shrugs and wraps a protective arm around Cybil. “No idea how he got in there.”
Cybil kisses her uncle on the cheek. “Need anything else at the store while I’m gone?”
“I’m good, honey.” Buddy and the ranch hand head over to his truck.
“Wait—I need someone to help me get this rooster out of my truck. Gran’s gotten herself in trouble again.”
Buddy squints. “She safe?”
“She’s . . . in a dumpster, sir. With a flare gun.”
He just nods. “You’d better get that rooster outta your truck, son. You don’t want Dorothy Bradley on the evening news.”
“That’s the last thing I want,” I mutter, then call out louder, “Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, Craig,” Cybil says as she walks past me toward her car.
I step into her path. “I need your help.”
“I’m not going anywhere near that rooster.”
“Just take me into town. Let me get to Gran before she causes a literal dumpster fire. She’s old. And feeble.”
Cybil glances at my truck. Kentucky Fried pecks at the window like a dementor. She sighs. “Fine.”
I give the rooster one last look, unsure if I should thank him for giving me the perfect excuse to spend more time with Cybil
or worry that he’s going to turn the interior of my truck into shredded cheese.
I climb into the passenger seat of her car and force myself not to examine everything too closely. At the academy, they taught
us a vehicle can tell you a lot about a person. And being in hers feels . . . personal.
An air freshener shaped like a chocolate bar is attached to her vent.
“I thought you didn’t like chocolate.”
She snatches it and tosses it into the door pocket. “It was a gift.” Then, side-eyeing me, adds, “Stop assessing my car.”
“I’m not,” I lie, hands raised.
Glancing over my shoulder at the back seat, I fight a grin. Imagining Seth knocked out back there . . . It’s not funny, I
know. But the look on her face when she discovered him must’ve been priceless.
“Nice back seat space. Looks roomy.”
Her eyes flash to mine. “How about we don’t talk.”
I let a few seconds pass and then turn in my seat. “Don’t you want to ask me a question? You did best me—even if it was a
hustle.”
“It wasn’t a hustle.”
“You didn’t shoot like that when we were kids.”
“We’re not kids anymore.”
“No, we’re not,” I say quietly.
Cybil’s gaze slides to me and then back to the country road leading us into town.
“Come on, Billy. Don’t you want to know something? Curious about my souvenir spoon collection? Where I get my Bond tuxedos?
What shampoo brand I use to keep my hair so shiny?” I run a hand through my hair. “My dating life?”
“What?” She jerks her head toward me. “No. I don’t care about your dating life.”
I grin. “Good. Because I don’t have one.”
“Not surprising.”
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest. “What about you?”
“I don’t collect spoons, and I use whatever shampoo is on sale.”
“And your dating life?”
“None of your business.”
“Right, just like you sneaking around on the ledge outside of my room in Italy wasn’t my business?”
Cybil remains focused on the road. “I wasn’t sneaking around.”
“No?”
“There was a cat.”
She hits a pothole—definitely on purpose. My seat belt digs into my hips.
“You’ll ruin your struts like that. Not good if you need to haul anything . . . unusual.”
She shoots me a look but doesn’t take the bait. “Where’s your grandmother at?”
“Butter My Biscuits.”
Five silent minutes later, we arrive at the breakfast joint. We walk around back and take a quick peek into the dumpster,
but all I find is enough bacon grease to summon Paula Deen.
“She’s not here.” I pull out my phone and dial Gran’s number. No answer. “Maybe we should check the police station.”
Cybil scoffs. “She’s your grandmother, not a fugitive.”
“You haven’t met my Gran.”
We’re crossing the parking lot back to Cybil’s car when something catches my attention. Across the street, I spot a small
hedge bordering the Baptist church. Behind it, in a folding chair under a sign that reads “Jesus Sees You—Smile!” sits my
grandmother in a pink track suit with binoculars pressed to her face. Beside her, Bernie—her seventy-something partner in
crime—is perched on her walker, holding a notepad and a walkie-talkie.
“Oh, good grief.”
I cross the street with Cybil close behind. Not until my shadow falls over Gran does she look up and grin. “Took you long
enough, Benny.”
Cybil snorts.
Gran’s eyes brighten when she sees her. “You brought a friend?”
I make a quick introduction. “This is Cybil. Buddy’s granddaughter. Cybil, this is my gran and her friend Bernice.”
Gran squints up at me, lips pursing. “Benny, who’d you get in a scrap with? Your nose looks like it lost a bet.”
Beside her, Bernie hums. “Lip’s puffy too. Did you deserve it?”
Cybil doesn’t bother to hide her smirk.
“Long story,” I mutter and then redirect my grandmother. “You told me you were in a dumpster.”
“Imagine if I was!” Gran looks offended. “Long as it took you to come to my rescue, I might’ve had raccoons for roommates.”
“Better than cellmates,” I mutter. “Which is where you’re headed if you keep spying on people.”
Bernie shushes me and speaks into her walkie-talkie. “Subject exiting front door. Still has the black bag. Looks smug.”
“Copy that,” Gran replies, despite both devices being off. She yanks at my T-shirt to pull me down just as the pastor peeks
from a church window. He waves. I wave back. Yep. Real covert.
The “subject” in question is a man wearing gym clothes and, indeed, carrying a duffel bag.
“Gran—”
Cybil squats beside her. “What are we watching him for?”
“Do not encourage—”
“We think he’s tampering with the tapioca,” Gran says proudly, handing Cybil the binoculars. “He started working at the restaurant
and, suddenly, no more tapioca.”
“Gran,” I sigh. “Why would he be tampering with the pudding?”
“Maybe he’s juicing it. Putting the ’roids in it.”
I blink. “What?”
“Mm-hmm,” Bernie fans herself with her notebook. “He does have nice calves.”
“You’re right.” Cybil hands the binoculars back. “He does have nice calves.”
Before I can respond, the man notices us.
Gran hisses, “Abort mission, Bernie. Code peach cobbler. Code peach cobbler!”
“Wait—I thought peach cobbler meant he’s got a weapon,” Bernie whispers urgently, wobbling as she tries to stand. I remember
she’s recently had hip surgery and help her.
“No, that’s banana pudding.”
The man crosses the parking lot. “Dorothy? Bernice? Everything okay?”
“We’re just enjoying the weather,” Gran says sweetly.
“With binoculars?”
“Bird-watching,” Cybil chimes in. She stretches a hand to him. “I’m Cybil.”
He smiles and it lingers too long for my liking. “Chad Wexler.”
Bernie squints at Chad. “What’d you do with our tapioca pudding?”
“Bernie!” Gran shakes her head. “Way to be discreet!”
Chad looks between them, utterly baffled. “Tapioca pudding?” Something dawns in his expression. “Wait . . . are you the one
who keeps leaving the anonymous notes in my locker?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Gran shoots back.
“You wrote, ‘We know what you did,’ with letters clipped from a magazine.”
Gran lifts her chin. “That was for dramatic effect.”
I look skyward, like maybe divine intervention will deliver me from this moment. The answer to my prayer comes in the grin
the pastor sends me from the church, like he’s glad it’s me and not him.
“Ladies, I had nothing to do with the pudding,” Chad says. “The kitchen manager wants me to bring in some healthier options.”
Gran narrows her eyes. “Like ’roids?”
“Nobody says ’roids, Gran.”
Chad laughs. “I promise, no ’roids and I’ll talk to the kitchen. Maybe I can bring in something better.”
Bernie scowls. “None of that low-fat stuff.”
“I apologize for my grandmother and her friend,” I say.
“Honey, don’t apologize for me.” Gran waves me off. “Someone’s gotta keep order.”
Chad chuckles, backing away. “Stay out of trouble, you two.”
When he’s out of earshot, Gran turns to Cybil, eyes gleaming. “I like you.”
“I like you too,” Cybil says, smiling—and my traitorous heart skips a beat.