Janet Evanovich - Full Scoop

Mike quickly moved out of his way. He straightened his jacket, but it did little good. "Look, lady," he said to Queenie, "I barely remember writing that article, but I would never have called your grandfather a witch doctor. I may have quoted someone. Most people don't believe in that stuff anyway."

Queenie started for him, but Zack blocked her. "Dr. Davenport can't see you right now," he said. "She's in surgery."

Maggie crossed the room. Enough was enough. "Excuse me," she said, squeezing between Zack and Queenie. "I'm Dr. Davenport. You needed to speak with me, Mr. Henderson?"

Mike looked relieved. "I just wanted to get your reaction to the news about Carl Lee Stanton's escape."

"My reaction?" she repeated.

"You know, on account of the two of you were kind of tight at one time."

"You need to leave before I do something you'll regret," Queenie said.

Maggie shot the woman one of her "don't even think about it" looks. "Does Jamie know you're here?" she asked Mike.

"No."

"I didn't think so. My reaction to Carl Lee Stanton's escape is no different from anyone else's," she said, an edge to her voice. "I want him caught before he hurts or kills someone else."

"Are you afraid, Dr. Davenport?"

"What kind of question is that?" Queenie blurted.

Maggie looked at Zack, and their gazes met and held. "Absolutely not."

"Wow!" Mike pulled a small notepad from his pocket. "You know he's dangerous, right? And everybody says he has a score to settle with you. I'll bet you regret ever laying eyes on the guy, huh?"

Maggie opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. How could she regret having known Carl Lee Stanton when the result had been a daughter she adored? She could feel everyone's eyes on her. "I'm finished answering your questions."

"Could I get a quick picture?"

Queenie pushed past Maggie. "Take a picture of this door," she said, and slammed it in his face so hard the house shook.

* * * * *

"Holy shit!" Cook shrieked the words.

Carl Lee Stanton jumped, and the car swerved to the center lane, almost sideswiping the pickup truck that barreled past them. He yanked the steering wheel to the right, and they rode the shoulder for a few seconds before he managed to get control. In the passenger seat, Cook twisted around, covered his eyes and gave an enormous shudder.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Carl Lee yelled. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

"It's Loopy," Cook said. "He's deader'n hell."

"Are you sure?" Carl Lee glanced around, trying to get a look. "Did you check his pulse?"

"I don't have to, man. He's stiff as a board." Cook's voice was muffled behind his hands. "His eyes are open, Carl Lee. He's staring right at me."

"Just what I need," Carl Lee muttered. "A dead clown in the backseat."

"I can't ride in a car with a body. No way can I—"

"Shut up!" Carl Lee shouted. "I don't need you freaking out on me on top of everything else."

"You don't understand. I have a serious phobia! Some people fear heights, elevators, and snakes, but I fear dead people."

"So don't look at him."

Cook babbled on. "I was raised way up in the mountains," he said. "When somebody in my family died the undertaker put them in a casket and delivered it to the house. It would sit there for three whole days! Somebody had to sit up with the dead person all night; I was five years old my first time."

"We'll just have to make an appointment for you to see a shrink once we get to Beaumont." Carl Lee turned on the radio. He searched for a country-western station and paused when he found a news station. He turned up the volume. "Be quiet, I want to see if they mention us."

"And when my grandma died the ground was frozen so she couldn't be buried until it thawed. My old man put her in a junk car at the back of our property and covered her with a blanket. I still have nightmares." He wiped his hands down his face. "You gotta let me out of this car, man."

Without warning, Carl Lee backhanded him.

Cook reared back. "Why'd you do that!" he demanded. "Look, my nose is bleeding! I've got blood all over my good western shirt." He reached for a dirty handkerchief on the floor, shook it out and pressed it to his nose. "I don't want to be part of this anymore if I have to ride with a dead man in the backseat staring at me. Stop the car and let me out."

Carl Lee reached beneath his seat, pulled out a pistol, and, darting a quick look at Cook, put it to his head. The man froze. Carl Lee listened to the newsman who was in the process of recounting Carl Lee's crimes and giving a description of him. In the distance ahead, a police car sat on the side of the road. Carl Lee checked his speed and lowered his gun, pressing it below Cook's rib cage. He passed the patrol car and glanced in the rearview mirror several times until they were well past it.

"Now, you listen to me carefully," he told Cook. "I'm not going to dump a body in clear daylight, you got that? It'll be good and dark by the time we get to the other side of Shreveport; then we'll get rid of it."

Cook swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed several times. "Whatever you say, Carl Lee," he said, eyes fastened on the barrel of the gun. "I can wait until it gets dark."

"And just so you know—" Carl Lee looked at him. "I can dump two bodies as easily as one."

* * * * *

They found Butterbean eating a cardboard cereal box from the recycling bin. "Uh-oh," Maggie said.

"I didn't think to move the bin, but I feel better knowing she's had a snack." The animal didn't let their sudden presence interfere with her dinner. She chewed right on.

"She's so small," Mel said.

"I don't think pygmies get much larger than that," Zack said. "I read an article about them in National Geographic."

"I don't know why Joe Higgins names all of his animals after food," Mel said, and looked at Zack. "He gave us a cat named Okra."

"Joe's little girl is a patient of mine," Maggie told Zack. "He pays her medical bills with animals."

"Ah, the old barter system," he said.

Mel was keeping a respectful distance. "Does she bite?"

"Nope." To prove it Maggie stroked Butterbean's forehead. Mel did the same.

"She's kinda cute," the girl said. "I was expecting some ugly, disgusting-looking goat."

"I'd better have a look at the garage." Maggie turned, and they followed. The wooden structure was as old as the house but she hadn't had the time or inclination to scrape, repaint, and repair, after she, her parents, and a handyman named Yap had spent so much time working on the house. Her grandfather had let things go after her grandmother's death. Decades-old wallpaper had been stripped, carpeting pulled up, the wood floors beneath sanded and varnished, and the list went on and on.

The garage doors swung out on hinges that squawked like a nettled blue jay. Inside it was dark and cool and musty. Maggie caught only a hint of the paint thinner she'd used restoring several of her grandparents' antiques in the garage. Still, it was orderly, Maggie noted thankfully, having devoted an entire Saturday to cleaning it back in the spring. She had hauled off years of forgotten junk, organized and stowed items in the built-in cabinets along the back. Yap had cleaned decades of dirt and mildew, inside and out, with a power washer.

"It's gloomy in here," Mel said.

"I think we should open those two windows and take off the screens so Butterbean can stick her head out," Maggie said. "She'll be able to get fresh air and won't feel so closed in." She shrugged. "It'll just have to do for tonight until I figure out another solution. I've put an ad in the newspaper. Hopefully somebody will call."

"I'll take care of the windows," Zack said, "if you and Mel have something else you need to do."