Sophie Littlefield - A Bad Day for Sorry

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, trying to sound puzzled.

“A hundred ought to do it.”

“A hundred ?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s—oh, whatever, fine. Where?”

“Bench on the southeast corner of the pond next to the county golf course. Be there in an hour.”

Stella could picture the muddy little pond, a ball-catcher at the bottom of a hill. She didn’t remember a bench, but the county was messing around with the community park and golf course these days, ripping out the landscaping they’d installed in the sixties and seventies and updating it. Bright tubular plastic equipment replaced the swings she’d pushed Noelle in. A mulched plot of azalea bushes grew near the park entrance where there had been an overgrown bank of arborvitae. Worst of all, “exercise stations” had sprouted along the brick walk that used to be a simple muddy track around the pond.

“I’ll find it,” Stella grumbled, hanging up.

She changed into some stretchy black yoga pants and fastened on her holster, a quick-draw abdomen model made of black nylon with Velcro in the back, and tucked the Raven into it. She shrugged on a tank top and slipped a light jacket over it. It was too hot by half to be dressing like that, but Stella didn’t intend to meet up with unknown would-be conspirators without some sort of insurance hidden on her.

As she was corralling her hair into a big plastic barrette, the phone in her bedroom rang. She picked it up, pretending not to notice the gosh-wonder-if-it-could-be-Goat thrill that zipped around her insides.

“Hello?”

There was only the sound of breathing—rather labored breathing—before a young woman’s voice finally said, “Is this Chrissy? Or the other one?”

“Uh, this is Stella Hardesty. Who’s this?” “It don’t matter who I am. Kin I please speak with Chrissy?” Stella considered. It wasn’t likely to be one of the other Lardner girls—presumably they knew their sister’s voice. Ditto any close friends. Which meant that a stranger was calling for her client. A stranger who somehow knew that Chrissy was staying at Stella’s place.

“Chrissy’s occupied at the moment,” Stella said briskly. “May I take a message?”

A bit more silence, then, “How about if I wait? Is she in the bathroom or something?”

“Actually, I’m taking all of Ms. Lardner’s messages at the moment. Can you tell me the nature of your call, please?”

“It’s—I’m—see here, I need to talk to Roy Dean.”

That caught Stella by surprise, but she answered carefully: “Roy Dean isn’t here, I’m afraid.”

“Well, y’all gonna be seein’ him soon?”

“We… may be, yes,” Stella said, thinking fast. Whoever the mystery caller was, she clearly didn’t know Roy Dean had disappeared. It was possible she might unwittingly spill information that would lead to him.

“Well, look. I need him to, to come over and get this, uh, this thing that he left here at my place.”

Stella’s heart sped up. The way the girl said thing … it was as if she had a secret to keep. “What sort of thing are you talking about?” she asked carefully.

Another pause. This gal required a fair amount of thinking time, Stella decided. “Something of his I don’t want around here no more, that’s what kind of thing. Look here, I didn’t know he was married, not when we first hooked up, okay?”

“Um… okay, sure. Can you at least tell me when he dropped the thing off?”

“A few days ago. But look. He said he’d be back for it and he ain’t been. I can’t keep it around here, you know? I don’t want to be responsible.”

Tucker—it had to be Tucker. Roy Dean had dropped the baby off with this girl—his girlfriend, from the sounds of it—maybe even the one he’d been pestering at the speedway. And then, for whatever reasons—reasons having to do with Benning and the Kansas City mafia, maybe, or more likely something a lot more simple, like he got drunk or high or otherwise distracted—he hadn’t been back for the boy.

“Look here,” Stella said in as kind a voice as she could muster. “Is this thing… being well looked after?”

“Huh? Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. Look, tell Roy Dean to come get it tomorrow at noon. I’ll come home on my lunch hour, and he better be there.”

“Sure. Just give me the address.”

“He has the address,” the girl spat, with a full measure of disdain. “He’s been here plenty.”

“Oh. Well, could I at least have a name?”

“He’ll know, okay? He’ll know damn well who it is—just tell him Darla said he better be here.”

Click.

Stella slowly lowered the receiver back to the cradle on her nightstand. She finished with her hair and went out to the living room, hesitating in front of the TV and wondering what to tell Chrissy. On screen, Will Ferrell was saying the Baby Jesus prayer. Somehow it seemed fitting.

“Chrissy… sweet pea… you happen to know a gal named Darla? Might have been keeping company with Roy Dean?”

Chrissy shook her head, glancing away from the television. “No, but I feel sorry for her if she has been.”

“Yeah. It’s just…” Stella considered describing the conversation she’d just had, but without knowing who and where the girl was, there was nothing they could do for now, other than get Chrissy completely riled up—just when Stella had finally gotten her all settled down. “Well, nothing that won’t keep until tomorrow.”

At least, until noon. Somehow, between now and then, Stella had to find Darla. Which shouldn’t be too impossible, in a town the size of Prosper. Though if Roy Dean had taken his lovin’ out of town, she could quickly have a monster search on her hands.

Stella sighed. One damn problem at a time. Right now she had a date with a park bench.

“Hey darlin’, I got to run out for a bit,” she said.

“You meeting up with the sheriff?” Chrissy asked, sitting up straight. She had changed into what Stella figured passed for pajamas: a pink T-shirt with a kitten screen-printed on the front and the words Sweet Pussy .

“Why would you think that?”

“Well, just ’cause of him calling earlier. I figured maybe you called him back and he talked you into a date.”

“Oh…” Stella was about to dismiss Chrissy’s guess, but the truth was she didn’t have any better excuses. “Going out for Pringles” would work, but it might not give her enough time. “Yes, you got me, girl,” she said. “Ought to make you into a detective or something.”

That got her a wide grin. “You think?”

Stella took care to lock the door as she left.

On the way to the golf course, she went back over what her caller had said. The thing about the hundred bucks was a joke. Stella had about fifty-five dollars in her purse, what was left from her once-a-week ATM visit. Taking out another hundred would put her a little too close to overdraft territory for comfort.

Stella had some money put away. Not a whole lot, but enough, if she was careful, to get by on as long as the store continued to bring in its usual unspectacular haul every month.

Because of the circumstances of Ollie’s death, insurance hadn’t paid out a penny. Luckily, when Stella’s mother passed, there had been enough to pay off the mortgage and the car loan and set some aside. After Ollie died, Stella used a chunk to employ herself a fancy financial adviser up in Independence. The man taught her a few things Ollie’d never seen fit to explain, and recommended a few books. Now Stella knew enough to scrape by.

The idea, of course, was to supplement her income with her little side business. And sometimes that actually happened. The bonus the Kansas coff ee importer’s wife had given her, for instance, had paid for the new dishwasher and gas range. But many of her clients had to work out payment plans, and Stella never had the heart to turn anyone away for lack of creative financing.