Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

Linda’s hazel eyes misted. “Poor Freddy. I guess he won’t get to annoy any more women. Old sweet thing never did get flirting down right. And poor sugar thought this Intraglobal deal was his lucky ticket. He kept hinting about how much money he’d make, even after poor Mr. Callahan got killed.” I sipped at my coffee. It tasted slightly smoky and stale. I tasted the peach pie-perfection: sweet and sticky and crisp.

“Did you spend much time around Callahan?” It was a simple question, but it seemed to require ample consideration from Linda and several chomps of pie. “I didn’t see too much of him-he was Freddy’s pet project. Freddy had this image of getting some huge commission off the land sales and didn’t want me horning in.” She coughed, as though attempting to dislodge further information from her throat. I pulled.

“I thought there was something shady about him, too, Linda.” It didn’t require much of a yank to get her talking again. She leaned forward, as though the remains of the peach pie might have ears. “Not as much shady as lecherous. I think he was stirring up a mess at the Loudermilk place.” I bit my bottom lip. It had been obvious during the fire that Jenny and Dee Loudermilk were both unusually distraught, and Parker had seemed angry with Dee, telling her to keep her mouth shut.

“I thought something was going on between all of them when the Mirabeau B. was burning down,” I confided. “Parker seemed awful mad at Dee, but I didn’t know why.” My tidbit sparked Linda’s interest. She toyed with a slice of peach on her plate. “Well, he ought to be mad at that daughter of his, too. She’s nothing but a conniving little slut.”

“What, you mean Greg was chasing after Jenny and Dee?” I forgot to lower my voice, and although the office was empty, Linda shushed me.

“Chased and caught, I do believe. But I’m not certain.” “Wait a second, Linda, he wasn’t even here that long. And he wasn’t even that good-looking.” I was still irked that Lorna had taken Greg for a lover, so my memories of him were not kind ones. “How on earth did he seduce a mother and a daughter in that short time?” Linda shrugged.

“Well organized? Or well something. I don’t know. I just know that I caught Freddy admonishing him to stay away from Dee and Jenny if he didn’t want to sour the land deal.” I slumped. “Well, that’s hardly evidence of an affair, Linda.” “Give me more credit than that, Jordy.

Callahan was using the phone plenty to sweet-talk Jenny Loudermilk. I, well, accidentally”-the word was ever so slightly emphasized-“picked up line four when I was trying to hit line three last Monday morning and heard Greg asking Jenny to meet him.” “How do you know it was Jenny?” “He kept calling her Jen babe. As soon as I heard that petulantly whiny voice, I knew it was her.” “And what were they meeting for?” ‘To talk.” Linda made it sound like it was illegal. “And they had to be careful so they didn’t get caught, he said that in particular.” I mulled this over; Linda took my silence as judgment.

“Look, I don’t usually eavesdrop. I was just protecting this agency. I didn’t like Freddy being so involved with Greg anyhow-we hardly knew anything about him. He seemed too polished, too perfect in how he presented himself. Not a wart on the man.” She sniffed. “I mean, you could ask Jenny or Dee. They might know if he had any warts.” “Have you told all this to Junebug?” I asked. Linda glanced down at the remnants of her peach pie. “Yeah, but he didn’t seem too interested in it.” I leaned back in my chair. Assume, I told myself, for one moment that what Linda says is true. Greg sleeps with Jenny. Greg sleeps with Dee. Does either woman know about the other’s involvement? And what about Parker? What would he do if he thought either his wife or daughter had been seduced by this Yankee interloper? And if Freddy found out about Greg’s alleged misconduct with the ladies Loudermilk, could that give Parker a motive to silence both men? Freddy had said he’d make money even after Greg was dead. I remembered Parker Loudermilk’s dark eyes, the consuming blaze dancing in the black ballroom of his irises, his comment on the fire’s momentarily satisfying beauty. And I felt a chill in my heart.

Jenny Loudermilk answered the front door and no one could lean more provocatively into a doorway than she did. She seemed determined to live up to Linda’s image of her. She was real pretty, like her mother, except darker like her dad. A lock of luxuriant brown hair hung down over one eye. She was wearing a T-shirt one size too small, and beneath the fabric, the swell of breasts looked perfect.

Snug jeans finished her wardrobe. Her feet were bare and her toenails were immaculately painted a shade of dark scarlet. The whole stance had the air of not-so-subtle calculation. “Hello, Miss Loudermilk. Are your folks at home?” She regarded me with a bored eye. “Mom’s out back, throwing a pot. Daddy’s not here, though. You’re the library fellow, right?” “Yes, that’s right. Jordan Poteet.” I offered her my hand. She took it limply, gave it a shake, and then trailed her fingertips along my fingers when she let my hand go. My fingers felt itchy, but I kept them still. “I was just having a drink. You want one?” I thought she meant drink of water, but I realized with a jolt that she meant alcohol. The glassiness of her eyes looked like it had been poured from a bottle of wine. “I don’t think that I should drink with you. I doubt your parents would approve.” I’m sure I sounded like a total prude, but what else was I supposed to say? Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t hold with teenagers getting drunk in the middle of the day. And I would hazard a guess that drinking with my boss’s daughter is not de rigueur in Mirabeau government. (Yes, I’m a hypocrite. I drank beer as a teenager, but I only did it while sitting in the back of a pickup truck. I certainly didn’t invite folks in for cocktails.) She opened the door wider. “What would you know about what they approve of? Believe me, there’s not much.” She turned and walked away, her gait slightly unsteady. I stepped inside the foyer and shut the door behind me. My first sensation was of antiseptic; even the air smelled as if it’d been scrubbed. The Loudermilk place was big;

Parker’s construction company was one of the most successful in the tri-county area, and Loudermilk money was old money. The foyer I stood in had a fancy, swirled marble floor in gray and white, and the wallpaper of gray, black, and silver stripes looked expensive. One entryway opened into a living room that hadn’t seen much living; it was decorated with glazed pots of all shapes and sizes, no doubt the product of Dee’s hands and wheel. She’d painted them with all sorts of figures-stylized antelopes in graceful leaps, Egyptian letters (I recognized the ankh, the symbol of life), and Native American totems.

Lifted from other cultures, I thought, without a single symbol from her own heritage. Maybe our culture was just uninteresting to Dee, I reflected. Not even a pot with the Fighting Bees of Mirabeau High on it. I’d stepped away when I noticed the shards in the corner, one of the pots had fallen, smashing into bits on the hardwood floor. It was a shame; it looked like it was a real pretty one, with geometric shapes in red and green painted on it. I wondered why no one had cleaned it up, in this immaculate house. Jenny saw my eyes staying near the shattered pot. “What can I say?” She shrugged. “I’m a klutz.”

I glanced elsewhere; the other entryway opened into a formal dining room with an impeccably tasteful cherry dining table and a huge china and silver cabinet. “You coming or you just gawking?” Jenny Loudermilk bleated back at me. I cut through the dining room and found her in a spacious kitchen. It gleamed white-the appliances, the floor, the lights. Jenny perched on a bar stool, elbows leaning on the spotless Formica kitchen counter, a fashion magazine open in front of her. A tall, clear drink with ice and a fat wedge of lime sat in front of her, sitting in its own puddle of condensation. I picked up the glass and sniffed it. Gin and tonic, and good gin from the smell. “Aren’t you a little young for Tanqueray?” I asked, trying to sound jovial but undoubtedly sounding like a stern nerd. She shrugged. “I’m a little young for a lot of things, but that never stopped me.” She took the glass back from my hand and sipped, pretending not to watch me over the rim. “I’m very impressed with how adult you are,” I said. She ignored the sarcasm, or maybe she just didn’t give a shit what I thought. That seemed a distinct possibility for this little poseur.