Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

“She’s fine, thank you,” I answered. I wondered how I might get Wanda alone to talk without her battle-ready mother.

“I’m glad to hear that, although I think that you should really spend more time taking care of the poor woman and less time gossiping with the mentally deranged,” Ivalou pronounced in a half sneer.

“Excuse me?”

Ivalou smirked. Not a pretty sight. “I had a fascinating conversation with Franklin Bedloe today. My aunt Ludey has been circulating the most ridiculous stories, and when I confronted her on it, she confessed. She said she’d told you her fabrications concerning my daughter and me and Rennie Clifton.”

So much for subtle inquiry. Miss Ludey’s failure to keep her mouth shut had eliminated any chance of gently worming information out of these two. I determined, however, not to go on the defensive. “Miss Ludey simply shared her opinions with me.”

“And you promptly shared them with Franklin Bedloe. I suppose you would; it might shift suspicion off that temperamental sister of yours.” Ivalou folded her twiggy arms, like a schoolteacher daring a misbehaving pupil to contradict her.

I wasn’t intimidated. “My sister isn’t a suspect in Junebug’s shooting. Ed is, unfortunately.”

“Maybe Arlene should be a suspect. On the police shows, they always look to the victim’s lover.” Ivalou sneered the word lover like it was a synonym for venereal-disease carrier.

If she wanted to play snotty, fine by me. “Maybe that’s why they should have looked hard at Glenn Wilson when Rennie Clifton died.”

It scored the hit I wanted, but I felt a pang of regret for the dismayed look on Wanda’s face. Ivalou glared fiercely at me and one of her long-nailed fingers jabbed at my face.

“Get out of here,” Ivalou snapped.

“Mother! I’ll thank you not to be barking orders out in my store.” Wanda, ridiculous in her attire, managed a quiet dignity as she faced her mother’s taunting glare. She turned back to me. “I don’t know what silly ideas you’re nursing, Jordan Poteet, but I can tell you that Glenn Wilson had nothing to do with that girl’s death. Her death was an accident.”

“Did you know she was pregnant when she died?” I asked.

Wanda actually reeled. She took three sudden steps back against the counter, as though my words had shoved her with physical force. She found her voice. “No, I didn’t. But it don’t matter. Glenn couldn’t have killed her. He-he was with me during that storm.”

Of course, Glenn wouldn’t be available to confirm that claim. I watched Ivalou, who had gone a shade of plum in her cheeks, her eyes narrowed to slits. “And where were you, Ivalou?”

“That’s none of your business, you asshole. Get out of my daughter’s store.”

“Fine. I’m just asking what Franklin Bedloe’s bound to ask. I heard that he’s reopening Rennie Clifton’s file as a murder case.” I hadn’t heard any such gossip, but the beauty of rumor is that you can invent it on the spot. “Since you were her employer, I’m sure he’ll be questioning you. But, of course, if you’ve got something to hide-”

“I was stuck at home, waiting for Wanda to come back from wherever she was. I didn’t know she was off gallivanting in the storm with Glenn.” She calmed herself with a long gift of breath. “Make you happy now, Jordy? Not that either of us have to answer to you.”

“You didn’t go to where your family was meeting, Ivalou? If you were so worried about Wanda, I’d think you’d make a beeline to the most likely place she’d be.”

“Fine, Mr. Smart-ass, I wasn’t at home the whole time.” She squared her shoulders. “I went out to the Quadlander farm. I was worried about Hart, wanted to be sure he was okay.”

“Yes, you’ve taken a lot of interest in Hart over the years,” I parried.

“But he wasn’t there. Just that disgusting Louis Slocum, getting drunk on cheap whiskey. Smelled like he’d bathed in it. When I asked him where Hart was, he just started crying and said he’d gone.”

“Where?”

“That old drunk didn’t know. He leered at me-Louis Slocum always was a leering thing, and I never could see why Hart kept that good-for-nothing about-so I turned around and went home.” Ivalou Purcell glared at me with utter loathing. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, Jordan? You’re not.” She shook her head, smiling meanly to emphasize her point. “You come in here, making snide accusations against my family. You have no call, speaking badly of decent people. Not when I know what you are.” She took a step forward, as though to herd me out of the store. “You’re nothing but Bob Don Goertz’s bastard.”

I froze. How did she know? It was known only to me and a few close friends. But then, keeping secrets is often hard in a little town. Not impossible, just hard.

I wasn’t going to insult Bob Don by ignoring the charge. I couldn’t ignore the hot flush in my neck and the disdain in her voice and face. “I don’t see what that has to do with Rennie or Ed.”

“Nothing but a common bastard,” Ivalou began, her voice a taunting singsong, ignoring Wanda’s shocked pleas that she stop. “My daughter at least grew up knowing her daddy was really her daddy. I didn’t sleep around on her father, and I maintained myself as a respectable widow.”

“Only because,” I retorted hotly, “Hart Quadlander wouldn’t give you the time of day, much less a poke. How many years have you chased him without results, Ivalou?” I pulled myself into my raincoat. “I’m sorry, Wanda. I’m sorry that you have to put up with this woman. Tell Ed I’ll talk to him soon.” Wanda acted like she hadn’t heard me, staring at her mother with a dazed expression. I don’t generally insult my elders, but I wasn’t about to let her slur me-or my parents.

I turned and started to walk out. “Bastard!” Ivalou Purcell screeched at my back. “Bastard, bastard, bastard!”

I consoled myself as I stormed out into the rain that there were much worse things to be called.

I was cussing at myself by the time I got my Blazer started. I’d totally mishandled Ivalou and Wanda, and now getting them to talk about Rennie Clifton would be impossible. I didn’t like that I’d let myself be a blunderbuss when subtlety might have worked. I prided myself on being a gentleman and I’d let a trashmouth like Ivalou Purcell egg me into being a jackass. I felt a sick pang that somehow the gossip chains of Mirabeau had told Ivalou my parental secret. Now that I was firmly etched on her shit list, I supposed she’d broadcast it all over town.

I had no plans to be ashamed-my birth was beyond my control. Bob Don was so inordinately proud of me that no amount of vicious rumormongering would cow him. I felt queasy relief that Mama was beyond caring what anyone said about her. However, I was likely to deal with any fool stupid enough to reproach my mother to me with a sharp tongue-or a sharp jab to the jaw (depending on mood and reproacher).

I found Mark sitting on the porch steps, huddled against the rain, when I got back to Steven Teague’s office. He looked like a cold, miserable puppy in the fine mist.

I walked up to him and he looked up at me with darkly haunted eyes. “I’m ready to go now, Uncle Jordy. Can we just go home?”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

He clomped through a muddy puddle with total disregard. I caught up with him as he jumped in on the passenger side.

“What the hell has spooked you?” I demanded, pulling his door open again.

“You’re getting me wet,” he said. “I just want to go home, okay?”

I shut his door and went around to the driver’s side. I forced my sour mood out of my face and my voice. Mark was burdened enough right now, and Ivalou Purcell’s snide attack on me wasn’t going to color the way I dealt with him.