Sophie Littlefield - A Bad Day for Sorry

Chrissy shrugged. “Well, the gun, that’s an old Soviet Makarov, my uncle Fred brought it back from Vietnam. Daddy used to let us kids shoot it sometimes when he took us out for rifle practice.”

“They didn’t let anyone bring these back,” Stella said, picking up the handgun. It was heavier than it looked, with a star carved in the pistol grip and a simple safety catch at the rear of the slide. There were two magazines in the box, both empty.

Chrissy snorted. “You didn’t know my uncle Fred. I don’t think he cared much what he was allowed to do or not do. He s’posedly smuggled that gun back wrapped up in a hollowed-out Bible. I think Daddy just keeps it around for sentimental reasons. It ain’t been fired in ages.”

“Yeah—it looks it, too.”

“Nothing a little solvent won’t take off. That other stuff is just mostly for fun, you know, things my brothers pick up here and there and then they get tired of ’em and leave ’em lyin’ around and they end up in Mom and Dad’s attic.”

“Your brothers have an interesting idea of fun,” Stella said, putting the gun back and hefting the biggest knife in her hand.

“I wouldn’t be talkin’ smart, Stella,” Chrissy said. “People say the same thing about you. Besides, you should see all the junk I didn’t bring.”

She lowered the knife carefully back into the box and considered Chrissy for a minute, the girl’s ramrod straight posture, the firm set of her chin.

This was a different girl from the one who’d spent most of the last two days lying on Stella’s couch. This new Chrissy had a hell of a lot more backbone and she sure seemed a lot less inclined to take any guff.

“I think I might need to apologize,” Stella said carefully.

“Thought you already did that. When we agreed how I’m going to be your partner on the rest of this thing.”

“Yeah, but—I think I need to maybe say I’m sorry for underestimating you. Chrissy, I do believe you got some iron in you.”

Chrissy said nothing for a moment, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead, and then she nodded. “All right. I accept your apology. You know what, I didn’t know I had it in me either. I kind of wonder now, what if I’d got this kind of determined back when Roy Dean was around? I mean, right now I’m so mad I feel like I could just beat the shit out of him myself.”

“I imagine you could,” Stella agreed softly.

Vengeance was a funny thing. You got a little taste of it, and it brought out things in you that you never knew were there. What was it they said? Vengeance is a bitter drink . Stella didn’t much mind. She drank hers straight up, and now it looked as if she’d found herself a drinking buddy.

“Hold on to all that determination,” she said. “We’re gonna need it.”

Chrissy coasted across two lanes without checking the rearview mirror when the Popeyes came into view, ignoring the outraged laying on of horns. Stella flinched, then forced herself to relax; risk was inherent in her business, after all, and she wasn’t really in a position to micromanage at the moment.

Chrissy managed to align the Jeep more or less straight in a parking spot. When they walked in the doors of the restaurant, she took one look around and smacked herself in the forehead. “Well, dang, why didn’t I think a them? Stella, you’re a genius.”

“Oh, now,” Stella said modestly. “I’ve been doing this a while. You’re just starting out—you’ll get there.”

“Yeah, but the Green Hat Ladies…”

Just then Novella Glazer spotted them and hollered out a greeting; her tablemates turned and followed suit. As Chrissy and Stella made their way over, purses of the large and floppy style favored by older ladies were moved out of the way, and the remains of the meal—plastic plates of chicken bones and a smattering of biscuit crumbs—were stacked and shoved into the trash.

“Oh Lord above, Stella, what happened to you?” Lola Brennan said, placing a hand over her heart and squinting up at Stella’s stitched and bruised face.

“Oh, nothing much—just took a tumble in the shop. I’ll be fine.”

“You ought to be home in bed,” Shirlette Castro scolded. “You must have good reason to be out and about. I don’t guess this is a social call?”

Stella had consulted with the Green Hat Ladies before when she needed information. One of them had even been a client, but that was hush-hush; her husband had needed only a light touch to be reminded that a foul mouth and ungracious commentary were not welcome in the house, and she didn’t care for anyone to know about their past troubles.

It was a funny thing about that generation, Stella reflected; they kept their own problems to themselves, but they loved to discuss everyone else’s—so much so that this bunch of septua-and octogenarians gathered for an early lunch and gossip at Popeyes nearly every day.

“I believe you all know Chrissy Shaw,” Stella said as they sat down. Greetings were exchanged.

“You ladies sure look nice today,” Chrissy said. “I do like those hats.”

The hats were bright green caps embroidered with the John Deere logo. Gracie Lewis’s husband ran a feed and supply store, and the Deere folks sent a regular supply of swag his way. When his wife and her friends caught wind of the Red Hat Ladies trend, being a thrifty type, he proposed a way to save some money and stand out in the crowded field of mature ladies’ clubs.

“I am surely glad you got shut of that Roy Dean,” Gracie said. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

“Oh, not at all,” Chrissy said. She twisted her gloss-sticky lips into a thoughtful frown and added, “I guess I might ought to have done it awhile ago. I’m not sure where my good sense went.”

The ladies made sympathetic clucking sounds. “Oh, now, we all have us a confused spell now and again,” Gracie said. “ ’Specially when it comes to the gentlemen.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to pick a rotten apple off the tree,” Novella added.

Stella laid out an assortment of facts about Roy Dean’s wandering ways as the ladies took turns patting and cooing over Chrissy. It was probably a misunderstanding, she said, but did any of the ladies know any Darlas in the surrounding area? Especially skinny youngish ones with blond ponytails?

“Oh my yes,” Lola piped up. She was a tiny thing, and her hat practically swallowed the top half of her head, nearly obscuring her eyes. “There was that one, over in Harrisonville, by the strawberry stand—”

“Ungainly thing, wasn’t she?” piped up Shirlette. “Large bust, unfortunate overbite?”

“Oh mercy no, you’re thinking of that other gal out that way. Took up with her aunt’s boyfriend. What was her name, Dora, Doreen, something—”

“It’s a shame Linda’s not here,” Novella said. “Her husband hails from Harrisonville—she’d know. She’s down with her usual unfortunate troubles,” she added in a stage whisper to Stella and Chrissy.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lola said. “You can say hemorrhoid , Novella, it ain’t a bad word.”

“Well,” Novella said primly. “I suppose that’s fine for some.”

“We could call her,” Shirlette said, pulling an iPhone out of her purse and peering at it over her eyeglasses. She tapped at it with her finger a few times and held up a finger.

“She’s not moving too quick today,” she said, “if you know what I mean. Oh, Linda? How are you, dear?”

Shirlette had the volume on the iPhone up high enough that everyone heard Linda’s voice, though Stella couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Is that right?… Oh, I’m sorry.… Listen, guess who stopped by? Who? No, Stella Hardesty. And she brought that darling Chrissy Shaw, remember? One of the Lardner girls?… That’s right, the pretty one. Anyway, do you know a Darla out Harrisonville way? Young gal, blond… Yes, ask him.…”