Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

“No, I do not,” Dee answered in a measured, nearly soft tone I had to strain to hear. The sweep of her brush made a delicate mark on the bowl’s surface, like an angel’s fingerprint. “You seemed terribly upset at the fire.” “That’s a stupid comment, Jordy; we all were upset at another bombing taking place.” She glanced at my arm in its sling.

“I mean, when we think we nearly lost you to that lunatic.” Her tone didn’t sound like my loss would be a grief for her. “Parker seemed to enjoy watching Chet’s house burn.” Her brush hesitated over a dark crescent of watery glaze she’d just applied to the pot. “Parker has a strange sense of humor. You really shouldn’t pay him mind.” She completed her glazing and went over to another workbench with a cabinet next to it. “Jenny seemed terribly upset as well.” “She’s a teenager,” Dee answered, pulling on a heavy pair of rugged work gloves, “and she gets upset easily.” Hexing her fingers inside the gloves, she opened the cabinet and rummaged inside. I was about to tell her how upset-and drunk-her daughter was, when Dee turned back to me, her hands spread apart like she was measuring a caught fish, and metal sparkled like stars between her palms, the length of silvery barbed wire glinting in the bright sunlight from the studio’s window.

“Isn’t it lovely, Jordy?” she asked, a half smile on her face. I stood quickly, nearly falling over and toppling the stool, staring at the strand of death in her hands. It was just like the wire in Greg’s throat. “Don’t be afraid, silly. God, but you’re jumpy, just like Parker.” She moved over to the pot she’d thrown, sitting down again. I stayed on my feet. “Where did you get that?” I managed to ask. “At the store, just like everyone else,” Dee answered. She began to wrap the wire around the pot itself, pressing the barbs into the material so the wire held. “That’s-that’s an odd decoration for a pot,” I croaked.

“And not in very good taste right now, Dee.” “It’ll be lovely when it’s done.” “You have a lot of that wire on hand?” I cleared my throat, knowing that it wasn’t about to be ripped (at least for the moment), and righted the chair I’d knocked over. “Sure. I do lots of Southwestern-style pots for that crafts store over in Bavary. Barbed wire’s a big decorating item there. You can get pottery, sculptures, all sorts of stuff like that.” So the killer wouldn’t necessarily have had to cut the wire from the fence that bisected Dee and Bob Don’s land. He or she could have filched a length from Dee’s studio. Dee knew it was here, and presumably so could Parker and Jenny-or anyone who bought Dee’s ceramics. Of course, it wouldn’t be filching if Dee herself took it to wrap into Greg’s neck like soft clay. “I’m sure you mentioned to Junebug that you had that kind of wire on hand, didn’t you?” She shrugged. “He didn’t ask. I didn’t volunteer.” I shook my head. “Are you just trying to make yourself look bad? Is this some game to you?” She finished setting the sharp wire into the pot and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Of course it’s not a game, Jordy. A man’s dead, isn’t he?” “Two men. Don’t forget Freddy.” “Poor Freddy. He was really an oaf, wasn’t he?” “You’re ice, do you know that?” I suddenly wanted to be away from Dee Loudermilk. “You make that pot right after a man is strangled with wire. I think that’s sick.” “Aren’t you the sensitive boy? Then leave, Jordy. No one asked you here anyway. Why don’t you run back to your little friend Junebug Moncrief and tell him what I’ve been up to?” She smiled hollowly at me. “I’m a Loudermilk. See if he’ll do anything about mean ol’ me. I opened my mouth, then closed it. “Not cooperating with Junebug in his investigation isn’t going to help your husband.” She laughed. “I’m not a good political wife and Parker knows that. I could frankly not give a rat’s ass about him being mayor. If I did, I’d have him fire your ass in a minute. You’re not exactly behaving like a loyal employee.

But maybe it’s good for old Parker to have a thorn in his side.” “Do you give a rat’s ass about your daughter? She’s in there-” I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence as Parker Loudermilk barreled into his wife’s studio, looking for all this world like his senses had fled him. He stared hard at me, venom contorting his face. “Jordy. What are you doing here?” The breath that powered his voice was ragged with fury. His eyes slid to Dee, who stood calmly by her wheel, arms crossed over her breasts. “Just talking with Dee about all the goings-on in town,” I offered. It sounded idiotic, but I frankly didn’t have a witty excuse available. “Would you mind leaving?” he asked, the politician in him kicking in belatedly. “I mean, I need to talk with Dee privately. And I’m sure you must have work at the library to do.” His dark eyes darted to her and lingered. I saw the folds of flesh in the corner of his eyes crinkle in annoyance when he saw her standing disinterestedly watching us. He might be the mayor, but I’d had enough. “Yes, I think I will leave. Y’all are just too strange today for me. First Dee makes a big production of letting me know that she’s got a bunch of the same kind of wire that killed Greg”-he swallowed hard at that little announcement-“and your daughter’s got a solid drunk on in the house. I’ve had my fill of Loudermilks today, thank you kindly.” I turned to go. “Goddamn you!”

Parker roared, and I whirled back, thinking he was coming after me.

But he wasn’t. He was after Dee, seizing one of her arms and shaking her hard. Her eyes were frozen on him, unblinking, like marbles left in sand. I had no wish to get involved in their domestic squabble, but I couldn’t very well walk out when it looked like he might hit her. I grabbed his shoulder, said, “Hey, Parker, calm down-” That’s when he spun around and belted me, hard. I landed on the floor. You don’t know how much getting hit in the face hurts. It’s a lot, trust me.

“Parker!” Dee shoved past him to kneel by me. I was busy working my jaw; it seemed okay. My eye, though, sure was sore. “Oh, aren’t you tough?” Dee spat at her husband, who stood staring down at me with a look of utter blankness. “Hitting a man who’s got his arm in a sling!

And he’s a librarian, too.” I decided to ignore that implicit slur against my profession and my manhood as I got to my feet. My left eye tingled, as though announcing that its skin would soon darken like an overripe plum. I was still so surprised that I hadn’t even gotten ticked at Parker. I just thought: The mayor hit me. Dee steadied me.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Parker?” she snapped. “Have you just totally lost your mind?” Parker Loudermilk continued to glare at me, but his fingers unfolded out of fists. Finally his well-worn mask of local government slipped back into place. He smiled, nearly beatifically at me, then walked out of the studio. ‘Tell me he’s not going to get his gun,” I said to Dee, holding my good hand up to my eye. This investigating crap could get you damaged if not outright dead. “No, he’s not going to get a gun,” she answered, but I saw her delicate teeth biting the top of her lower lip. She looked worried, which did nothing to reassure me. “Let’s get a cold compress on your eye.” Dee helped me into the kitchen. We heard the squeal of tires in the driveway; Parker leaving, I guessed. Jenny wasn’t in the kitchen.

I sat on a stool while Dee wrapped a baggie of ice in a dish towel and pressed it against my eye. I was feeling better-so well, in fact, that I wanted to kick Parker Loudermilk’s ass for him. Dee pressed the coldness to my face. Another lock of her blonde hair dangled before her face and I wanted to push it back behind her ear, the way I did back in her pottery shed. I didn’t. “I’m sorry, Jordy. But maybe you shouldn’t go around asking so many questions.” I saw her eyes dart around the kitchen again, as if looking for something. “She might be passed out, but I don’t think she’d drunk that much,” I answered, guessing that she was looking for her daughter. “Jenny’s much like her dad. Prone to stupid decisions. But I really don’t want to talk about my daughter with you.” She pushed down hard on the ice over my bruised eye. “Does that feel better?” “Not when you’re trying to drive it through my skull like that,” I answered. I pulled on her hand to ease the pressure and she let go of the compress entirely. I took hold of it and watched her walk to the sink. “You know, it’s not like I barreled in here, guns blazing and accusations flying,” I said. Well, maybe I did, but that was beside the point. “Your daughter’s drinking heavily and your husband-a public figure-is belting city employees.