A Bad Day for Pretty (26 page)

“Well, go ahead, take a good look,” Brandy grumbled. “’Cause you ain’t never gonna see
this
again. I don’t
ever
go out without my face on.”

Stella did, enjoying the sight plenty. As a matter of fact, it just might be that Brandy’s hips were lumpier than her own. And that butt—
flat
. Decidedly flat. Like, you could iron on it.

And, really, what man likes a flat butt?

“So how about we get going on the information sharing, Truax?” Stella said with considerably more cheer than she was feeling just a few minutes ago.

“Now, look here,” Brandy said, perching on the edge of the other bed. “I don’t know that you have to go messing the man up, all right? I mean, no need to go overboard.”

“What’s your problem, Brandy?” Chrissy demanded. “Here we are, ready to take this problem permanently off your hands, so you can go back to whatever pathetic little life you were leadin’ in Versailles, and all of a sudden you want us to play nice with the guy who’s been trying to kill you?”

“I didn’t say be
nice
, exactly, I just don’t know if it’s necessary—”

“You still love him!” All of a sudden Chrissy snapped her fingers. “Stella, that’s it—Brandy here still loves that no-good man of hers. Don’t you?”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to. I mean, look at you. You’re all twitchy like, worried we’re gonna mark up his pretty face. What did that neighbor lady tell you, Stella?”

“She said he was charming,” Stella said doubtfully. “And easy on the eyes, though that’s the kind of thing that has a fair bit to do with the beholder—”

“Aw, come on, Stella. I been married to a no-good man, and you have, too. We don’t neither of us need to go pretending we don’t know what it’s like to fall for a fella that’d just as soon bust your lip as kiss you.”

“Wil ain’t
never
hit me,” Brandy said hotly. “He was always gentle.”

“Holy Christ, Brandy, he tried to blow you up, and he killed some poor woman—hell, he was probably screwin’ her, too. Just how much punishment do you need to take from a man, anyway?”

“He ain’t never messed around on me, neither.” Brandy set her lips in a thin line and crossed her arms and fumed at the two of them. “And if he did kill that gal, there had to be some good reason.”

“There’s never a good reason to kill a woman!” Call it a hot button—Stella felt her blood surge in her veins.

“Trust me, I’ve messed around on a lot a guys and a whole bunch of them probably think the same thing, sister,” Chrissy said. “Just ’cause you don’t want to know it, don’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Shut up. You don’t know him. Not like I do.”

“And yet you’re willing to let me kill him,” Stella said. “You’re one confusing, crazy, mixed-up kind of sister.”

“Well, yeah—if you kill him
quick
. Hell, that’d be better than locking him up. He’s a—a wild spirit. You can’t fence that in.” A little hiccupping sob followed this declaration and Brandy dotted her eyes with a tissue.

“Oh Lord, as I live and breathe, now I think I’ve heard it all,” Chrissy said. She picked up a TV channel guide from the nightstand and fanned herself and Tucker with it. “I think you may be just about the dumbest person I ever met. And trust me, I know all about dumb—I’ve dated it, married it, and had its baby. Difference between you and me is, I
learn
from my mistakes.”

“Well, maybe I just won’t tell you anything, you think you’re so smart. You go ahead and figure it out yourself,” Brandy said petulantly. “I don’t have to tell you his cell phone number or nothing else besides either. Why, go ahead and shoot me, Stella, if you want to. Only I don’t think you got it in you.”

It wasn’t the smartest thing to say, but at least Brandy got one thing right: Stella couldn’t shoot a woman, at least one as pathetic and self-destructive as Brandy.

But after Stella handed the gun over to Chrissy and excused herself and went and got her portable intimidation kit from the Jeep, and got Brandy strapped down with a couple of custom-made, chamois-lined restraints, and explained just how she planned to shave her head bald with a wicked-sharp razor, Brandy turned out to be a lot more cooperative than any of them expected.

NINETEEN

The new plan was simple enough: First, call off the search so the law enforcement staff could get back to looking out for the welfare of the citizens, in addition to locking up innocent civic employees like Neb Donovan. Next, find Wil Vines and ask him why he killed poor Laura Cassel. Then suggest he turn himself in … and pound his ass into a pulp if he wasn’t feeling cooperative. And then have a nice celebration dinner with the Donovans, and work out a payment plan that would help keep Stella afloat for the next few months.

Only … Stella and Chrissy hit a snag right about step two.

The visit to the sheriff’s department went as well as it could, considering the sheriff himself wasn’t there. Since he’d led a search team around the county’s backwaters all through the night and into the morning, Detective Simmons had finally sent Goat home to get some sleep. Simmons, on the other hand, had caught a few hours of shut-eye back at the motel, and when Stella and Chrissy dragged a much-subdued Brandy through the doors with them, she was sitting in Goat’s office, looking rested—if no more friendly than on Stella’s prior visits. Tucker, bright-eyed after the nap that started in the motel room and continued on the ride over, wiggled to be put down and then scampered over to Irene’s desk and helped himself to the bowl of Tootsie Rolls she kept there, holding just one of Stella’s clogs pressed to his chest.

“Well, hi, girls. That Tucker’s getting more precious every day,” Irene said. Then she lowered her voice and leaned over her counter. Apparently Simmons still hadn’t learned to play nice with the help, because Irene shot a significant look in the direction of the detective. “Now they got me babysitting the Wicked Witch of the North. Who you got there?”

“This here’s the murder victim,” Stella said. “Brandy Truax. Only she never really was in any old hole. Ain’t that right, girlfriend.”

“I guess,” Brandy mumbled.

“You’re talking to a lady member of the sheriff’s department,” Chrissy said, slugging Brandy on the shoulder. “Show some respect, and speak up.”

“I said, I guess,
ma’am
.”

“Well, my heavens. Nice to meet you. I suppose I best get Simmons in here,” Irene said, and tapped the intercom, causing Simmons to start and then practically leap out of her chair. Irene might not like the woman, but she was passionate about justice. She bent and spoke into the speaker. “Detective Simmons, we got a situation.”

Stella was secretly pleased that Goat wouldn’t be taking Brandy’s confession—no sense accidentally setting off any confused misdirected chivalrous feelings in the man. But as Daphne Simmons strode out of Goat’s office, sharp nose jutting forward like she was scenting blood, Stella managed to feel just a bit sorry for the gal.

“Brandy, may I introduce Detective Simmons, who’s been kind enough to come down from Fayette to help put a stop to all the murdering that’s been taking place around here,” she said politely. “Detective, this is Miz Brandy Truax.”

“I suppose you know that fakin’ a kidnapping’s a serious offense,” Simmons said, not even sporting Stella a thank-you or a nod. “You’ve had my team running all over the place in unfavorable and dangerous conditions for hours.”

All that running and digging, Stella reflected, and yet, Simmons looked surprisingly fresh. No creases in her uniform pants—no dirt caked on her shoes. She’d had the rest of them on the run while, for all Stella knew, she’d been playing solitaire on Goat’s computer. Stella didn’t think much of that kind of comportment—it wasn’t any kind of teamwork that she knew about.

And—was that lipstick on the gal? And wasn’t there some kind of fancy smell emanating off her—a floral kind of spicy perfumey smell? Now that was low—gussying up for a man in the middle of a murder investigation.

Stella tried very hard to ignore the fact that she’d done the same thing. Still, encountering yet another rival added more confusion to the situation—she found her allegiances slipping around like greased pigs. Suddenly Brandy didn’t seem quite so bad.

“I’m sure you’ll cut Miz Truax some slack, seein’ as she has valuable information for you on the crime,” she said.

Simmons pressed her lips together. “There’s
protocols
that we got to follow.”

“Guess our work here is done,” Chrissy said, and gave Stella’s sleeve an ungentle tug. She turned a winning smile on Irene. “Sure was nice seein’ you again, Miz Dorsey.”

“I believe you and I are going for a drive up to Fayette, Ms. Truax,” Simmons said, glowering like if it was up to her, she’d throw the whole bunch of them into the paddy wagon. “Y’all watch her for a minute while I get my things.”

When she was back out of earshot, rooting around in Goat’s office, Irene leaned over the desk and said to Stella: “He ain’t at home, you know.”

“Uh … who?” Stella felt the color flooding her cheeks.

“Goat, that’s who. Simmons sent him home, but he called me not twenty minutes later, sayin’ he was going out on the lake and to call him if anything happened. So if you need to talk to him … or something…”

Irene waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Stella realized something kind of funny.

She owed Daphne Simmons, ball-busting second-in-charge up in Fayette, heir apparent to the job of Sawyer County Sheriff, a debt of thanks. Much as she hated to admit it, before the woman had come to town and cast her line for Goat, Irene had only ever been polite and generally friendly to Stella—and if she’d noticed any sparks between her and Goat, she’d never done much to fan the romantic flame.

Now, though, presumably because she’d seen the alternative—and didn’t fancy the thought of a romance between her boss and the interloper from Fayette—Irene was tossing cookies at Stella quick as she could catch them.

“He usually puts in at Calvin Wallach’s place down near Barton Beach. You know where that is?”

Stella knew. In fact, she made good time, after she sent Chrissy and Tucker home with instructions to see if she could dig up anything further on Wil Vines’s possible whereabouts.

It was only about twenty miles down to the silty, brackish branch of the lake where the Wallachs had built a low-floating dock just perfect for Goat to put his kayak in. On the way, Stella called Jelloman, who reported that Noelle had arrived and got her laundry started, and Todd had wandered over. Sabine had gotten off her shift at the Freshway, and the four of them were playing poker.

“Boy’s catching on quick,” Jelloman said. “Gonna teach ’em acey-deucy next. We’re betting that jar of change I found in your pantry.”

Stella had been tossing her spare change in an empty peanut butter jar for a couple of years. It was the start of a savings plan for a much-dreamed-about trip to New York. “I want it all back,” she said. “Plus a cut for the house.”

Jelloman laughed. “I b’lieve you’re forgettin’ who’s cookin’ your dinner tonight.”

Goat’s battered truck was parked in a choke of weeds. Down by the water was a rowboat, turned upside down and tethered to a stake pounded into the dirt shore. Stella managed to flip it over and, after a moment’s hesitation, slipped off Chrissy’s bejeweled sandals and tossed them into the boat, in an effort to keep them mud-free. Then she clambered in and pushed off and rowed until her shoulders started to ache, especially the one that had been shot, which still throbbed now and then. The effort got her a couple hundred yards out into the lake.

Only then did she call him.

“Stella,” he said. “What a surprise. If you’re calling to gloat, don’t bother. Simmons called, so I know about Brandy. Guess I should thank you for hauling her in.”

There was a reason Stella had waited until she was in the middle of a lake to call. The way she figured it, Goat would tell her not to worry, to go on home and let him and his department hunt down Wil. And that would never do. For one thing, if Goat brought him in, she couldn’t in good conscience ask for full payment from the Donovans. And for another, the minute he kicked her out of the investigation, she’d be off his radar as he focused all that steely-blue-eyed concentration on the case. And she wasn’t quite ready to go gently out of the picture.

“Yeah,” she said, “only I got a problem.”

Stella didn’t have much room for helpless in her life anymore. It hadn’t worked out too well as a strategy in the past, and now she had to be strong and capable for all her clients. So it was with a big heap of misgivings that she picked up the oar and threw it as far as she could away from the boat.

“What kind of problem?”

“I’m stuck.” Stella sighed, shut her eyes, and pictured Goat’s long sun-browned arms, all bulked up from paddling. “I need you to come and get me.”

TWENTY