Jelloman gave Stella the extra-long version of his trademark bear hug and then between the two of them, they polished off nearly an entire loaf of seeded challah with a generous melty layer of butter. Then Stella allowed him to shoo her off to bed while he went about the business of cleaning up the kitchen, whistling and whipping a dish towel around the kitchen’s surfaces like an oversized, bearded Betty Crocker.
Before going to sleep, though, Stella made one more call. Even though she was certain she wouldn’t have any more luck trying to find Brandy’s burial site than a whole county’s worth of trained professionals, it didn’t feel right to her not to try. She was more than a little skeptical about Brandy’s claim that she was running out of air already, in a hole of the size she described, so to reassure herself, she’d called Chrissy and had her get Larry on the line for a three-way chat.
If she’d had any doubts about Larry’s geekiness before the call, they were put to rest when the boy didn’t bother to ask her
why
she needed to know how long the air in a hole ten to fifteen feet tall and five feet around could sustain a person. He immediately started mumbling numbers and equations to himself and then wandered away from the phone, though they could occasionally hear him talking to himself as he typed furiously, the clack of the keyboard as loud as if he were typing with hammers.
“He’s got a lot a finger strength,” Chrissy explained while they waited, “and whaddaya call it, manual dexterity.”
Stella took advantage of the lull to fill her partner in on everything that had happened since the morning. Chrissy felt like they ought to set out right that minute to add their womanpower to the search efforts—“Just ’cause she’s got her hooks in your man don’t make her less deservin’ to live,” she pointed out—but when Larry came back on the line and told them that in a hole that size, Brandy probably had at least a couple days’ worth of air, Stella convinced Chrissy that they’d be a lot more helpful with a good night’s sleep behind them.
Then she’d gone to bed and slept like a rock, and if she’d dreamed, the dreams were forgotten by morning.
Stella woke to the smell of bacon and coffee and the feel of warm breath on her face. She slowly opened one eye and then the other and found herself staring into Roxy’s freckled snout, and she wondered for a moment if she was imagining the delicious smells, until she remembered that Jelloman had taken over her kitchen.
Stella lingered under the covers for a while, penned in by fifty pounds of affectionate dog, trying to convince herself she should be happier. If Brandy was right about Wil, Neb should be in the clear. There was the little matter of the evidence to consider, but whatever they had on him ought to seem a lot less significant when viewed in the light of them having produced an entirely separate killer and kidnapper.
And since Brandy had a couple of days’ worth of air left, surely they’d find Wil and get the information out of him in time to find and free her. That is, if Brandy didn’t claw her way out first—those long scarlet fake nails, combined with her relentless need for attention, ought to make easy work of all that digging.
Which was all good … real good. Crime solved, bad guy put away, Neb out of jail, Brandy rescued, the town recovered from the spate of twisters, and Stella free to get back to her regular life.
As Stella pushed hard against Roxy’s plump and spotted rib cage, and Roxy rolled onto her back and waved her paws in the air, letting her tongue loll out, Stella tried hard not to admit to herself that getting back to her life was a lot less appealing without the prospect of Goat being in it.
But if there was one thing harder to compete with than a sexpot ex-wife, it was a sexpot ex-wife who’d just been rescued from the jaws of death. If the man of your dreams was the valiant, come-to-the-rescue variety, that is, and Goat fit the bill to a T.
Stella wasn’t a victim. Not anymore, anyway, and never again, if she could help it. She was a badass in her own right, which meant she wasn’t exactly catnip for would-be heroes.
“Move it, you worthless beast,” Stella muttered, and gave Roxy an extra-hard shove that rolled her right out of the bed and onto the floor, where she stood wagging her tail and grinning a big doggy grin. Stella sat up and scratched her mutt behind the ears for a while. At least one creature on the planet seemed pleased to have her around.
Make that two. After Stella took a quick shower and picked out a pair of stretchy pants and a loose top suited for a day of victim-hunting, Jelloman squeezed her in a hug, sat her down at the kitchen table, and slid a big plate of challah French toast and bacon in front of her. She nibbled at it and endured Jelloman’s admonishments to slow down and appreciate life and not be in such a fuckin’ hurry all the damn time.
He fussed like a mother hen until she made it through nearly a whole slice of French toast and most of her bacon, and then he handed her a steaming cup of coffee in a travel mug and demanded one last hug before he let her out of the house.
Stella told Jelloman that she was headed over to do inventory at the shop, which was closed, seeing as it was Sunday. She saw no need to worry him with the petty little details of buried rivals and riled murderers on the loose. But as she got in the Jeep and headed over to pick up Chrissy, her glum mood threatened to evaporate the little bit of enthusiasm she’d managed to stir up for the job that needed doing.
When the man of your dreams was a justice-hungry knight in khaki polyester armor, there just wasn’t any way to compete with a woman whose ass needed saving—especially if that ass was sporting skimpy thong underwear.
Tucker Came
to the door and mashed his face against the screen, yelling “Sow, Sow!” Stella let herself in and found Chrissy sitting at the kitchen table, looking extremely smug.
“What’re you so dang cheerful about?” Stella demanded.
Chrissy fluffed her tumble of damp blond curls and sent them springing around her pale china-smooth cheeks.
“’Cause I’m a genius, is why,” she said. “Listen up, once you hear what I figured out, you can go home and change outta them nasty-lookin’ rags and into something decent, ’cause we ain’t gonna have to go hunting today after all. Not in any dirty old holes, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Stella reached down for Tucker, but he darted away and ran through the apartment, hollering unintelligibly. In seconds he was back, carrying a glittery platform sandal with pink and yellow fake gems all along the straps.
“Soo!” he yelled, and held it up to Stella.
“That’s right, it’s a
shoe
, ” she said. “Very good.”
Tucker, barely able to contain his excitement, jumped up and down a few times and pointed at her shoes. Today Stella had on her yellow rubber clogs. She had four or five pairs in a variety of colors; they were comfy, could be hosed off if her work took her into unsavory or dirty conditions, and on most surfaces they were silent, which made them good for sneaking up on people.
Tucker loved Stella’s colorful clogs. She kept meaning to get him a pair of his own, except she was pretty sure he didn’t exactly want to wear them. No, he liked putting his little action figures and cars in them, and putting them on his bears, and most of all, he loved running around the house carrying them and using them as bumpers when he smashed into things.
“I got a couple of things I think you’ll be interested in,” Chrissy said. “You know that whole story Brandy told you? About the hole and all?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, you remember that movie Jennifer Garner and Matthew McConaughey done a couple years back, where Jennifer’s a model with three months to live and Matthew plays her boyfriend and then she gets kidnapped—it was what’s-his-name played the bad guy, the one who used to be hot like a hundred years ago and now he looks—Alec Baldwin, that’s it—well, anyway, turns out she’s just one in a whole mess of girls? Like, there’s a serial killer?”
“I must’ve missed that one.” In truth, Stella made it a policy to avoid movies that featured violence, since she figured she got enough of that at work. Which certainly cut down on the pop culture offerings she could stand to watch, but she was too busy to see very many anyway.
“Well, when we were talking yesterday, it hit me that there was something awful familiar about that whole cockamamie story Brandy was feedin’ you. In the movie, Alec Baldwin hits Jennifer over the head in a bar parking lot and then he takes her out into the woods up in Montana, and he’s got a whole bunch of big old holes dug out there. I guess there ain’t very many folks living up in that entire state, so you can do shit like that and no one pays any mind.”
“That so. Huh.”
“Well, least in the movie that’s how it was. So anyway, he puts her in the hole and then he drags a piece a wood over the top and—is this startin’ to sound just a little familiar, Stella?”
“Either you’re sayin’ Brandy’s been picked off by a serial killer who’s been poking holes all over Sawyer County, or—”
“Or Brandy made the whole thing up and she couldn’t be bothered to come up with an original
plot
, even.” Chrissy seemed more outraged at the lack of originality than by the lie itself. “Only I can’t figure why she’d go and kidnap herself.”
Stella snorted. “Well, girl, I gotta hand it to you. I think you might be on to something. The whole thing sounded pretty stupid to me when she was telling me about it—like Wil would let her keep her cell phone, I mean, come on—and it would just
happen
to have enough juice for the one call. Course, she’s got more tits than brains, I guess.”
“Hey—watch it,” Chrissy snapped. “Just ’cause someone’s got a nice set—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry. You know, you gals that got the looks
and
the brains just make it tough for the rest of us. Have a little sympathy.”
“Oh, now,” Chrissy said, mollified. “You got your own look. We just got to dress it up a bit.”
Stella chose to ignore the comment, but Tucker was getting more and more agitated as he tried to pry the yellow clogs off her feet.
“Soo!
Soo!
”
“Oh, all right, you can borrow them,” Stella said, slipping off the clogs. Tucker immediately bundled them up in his arms and ran off, hollering “Da-doo!”
“Was that—?”
“Yup, ‘thank you,’” Chrissy said, beaming. “His first sentence!”
“Oh, my,” Stella said, and she took a break for a few minutes to chase the little towheaded toddler around long enough to tackle him and blow a congratulatory raspberry on his plump tummy.
“The reason she did it,” she said when she caught her breath, “is this way she thinks I’ll go after Wil and kill him. If she just told Goat, she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to make any charges stick and Wil’d just go after her again, and maybe shut her up for real.”
“Huh,” Chrissy sniffed. “Me, I’d face my problems head-on. I personally wouldn’t go tellin’ no tales tryin’ to get someone to do my dirty work for me.”
“Yeah, but Brandy ain’t got half your starch,” Stella said. Not a quarter. Not one little
tenth
, truth be told.
“She ain’t got my brains, neither.” Chrissy lifted a couple of sheets of paper off the kitchen table with a flourish. “Looka here!”
“I don’t have my reading glasses on me, doll. Whyn’t you tell me what you got there.”
“Only the last four transactions on Brandy’s Visa card,” Chrissy said. “Larry showed me how to hack in and see it online. Why, I had half a mind to go charge a few things on her account.”
“Like maybe a few nice long books to read for when you get put away for fraud?” Stella said, but the truth was she was impressed. Seriously impressed.
“I ain’t done a fraction of all the shit you done,” Chrissy said, “and you’re just jealous ’cause you cain’t hardly turn that Mac
on
and plus I’m gettin’ laid in the process and you ain’t.”
Stella didn’t need reminding of the latter truth. But she had to grudgingly admit that the former might take a little acknowledging.
“See here,” she said, “I suppose these might be some handy skills you’re picking up. If you can figure out how to do all this without Larry—’cause I can’t hardly afford to put
him
on the payroll, too—then I guess there might be some sort of bonus in this for you, assuming Donna’s willing to pay us for clearing Neb.”
“Hey, I’m getting the hang of that whole hacking thing. I b’lieve I might have a
calling
for it. I don’t really need anyone holding my hand and telling me what to do. And besides, Larry’s just after my sugar,” Chrissy added. “He’ll do whatever I want for free.”
Must be nice to have that kind of effect on a man, Stella thought wistfully. “So what-all did our girl charge on that Visa?”
Chrissy tapped the sheet of paper with a sparkle-polished fingernail. “The Bluebird Motel in Casey. Plus sixty bucks at Beau-T Nails. Got her a new set of tips and a lip wax.”
“You could tell that online?”
“Nah, I called, acted like I had a question about my bill. Details, Stella, remember?”
Stella did remember: She’d once told Chrissy that the secret to running a successful business, whether you were maiming wife-beaters or selling sewing machines, was in the details. The preparation. The meticulous records. The follow-up to ensure customer satisfaction.
The fact that her young protégée had taken her advice to heart gave Stella a little swell of pride. “So … partner,” she said, her voice a little husky, “what do you say our next step is?”
“I say we go bust into that Bluebird Motel and call out the bitch. It ain’t right that she’s got the sheriff’n them running around lookin’ for her while she’s layin’ out by the pool sipping margaritas.”
“All right, then, sounds like a plan.”
“You know what, Stella,” Chrissy added as she slipped a couple of juice boxes into a diaper bag, “I sure don’t care to be lied to, you know what I mean?”
“Mmm-hmm, I surely do.”
The proud little swell lodged in her chest expanded into something like a tidal wave of good feelings. Because there was a
we
in there—Chrissy was thinking like half of a team. Brandy lying to Stella was as good as her lying to the both of them; that’s what the girl was saying. And that felt just about right to Stella.