Sophie Littlefield - A Bad Day for Sorry

Stella swallowed. She remembered trying to hang on to the handle of the rotary cutter with her hands slick with blood. Remembered looking up into the snub barrel of Funzi’s handgun.

“Now the scene in the back yard, that’s sure got everyone scratching their heads.”

“Oh?” Stella said. “Um, what did they find—what happened in the back yard?”

“Well, it’s a puzzler. There was a struggle back there, that’s for sure. Lots of blood trace, though somebody hosed it down. See, there was a fire earlier in the evening, like I mentioned, with the fire department called out and all, just a little structure fire on the back side. It got put out pretty quick. Duty boys barely logged it. But get this, we found Roy Dean Shaw shot dead and stuffed in a landscape box.”

“No kidding,” Stella said faintly. “How on earth, I wonder?”

“I mean, he must have done something to piss off Funzi,” Goat said. “But we just can’t figure what it was. You know? I mean, maybe it was some sort of double-dealing—we got some leads that he was doing work for that outfit. Oh, by the way, there’s a team out at Benning’s now, digging up pieces of a body. Must be somebody else that ticked him off. There’s a thousand things, when you get down to it, that can get you in bad with the boss, you know?”

“I—I just wish I could remember,” Stella said. “I mean, if I could remember what happened after they took us to that house—”

“Yeah, that would sure clear up some things,” Goat said. “But if it ain’t happenin’, it ain’t happenin’. The brain is a mysterious thing.”

“Yeah,” Stella agreed. “Very mysterious.”

“And you know, that wasn’t the only strange thing about today,” Goat said. “I found something real interesting sitting on my doorstep when I went home to take a shower awhile ago.”

Shit! Stella had forgotten all about Patrick. The kid had been laid out on the chaise since the middle of last night. He would have woken up at some point with a hell of a headache, wondering where he was and how he got there.

“Was he—was it—”

“I think somebody left it there by accident,” he continued, ignoring her. “Clearly this thing didn’t belong there. And it was in kinda bad shape. I fixed it up as good as I could, put a fresh shine on it, and took it back to its rightful owner.”

He put extra emphasis on the last words, fixing her with an intent stare.

And then he winked.

And the corner of his mouth twitched.

And under all the layers of gauze and bandages and tape and antiseptic gel, Stella felt a little stirring. A little warmth. A little reminder that there was at least one darn good reason to hurry up and get better.

“And did she… the rightful owner”—Patrick’s mother, it had to be. “Was the owner happy to have this thing back?”

“Yup. I think it’s safe to say she’s gonna take real, real good care of it. Not let it out of her sight, you know?”

Stella tried to absorb what Goat was telling her. He’d been hinting pretty broadly that he was ignoring and willfully misinterpreting the evidence laid out at the Funzi place. That was bad enough. But freeing Patrick had to add up to evidence tampering. Or worse, if he’d told the boy to keep his mouth shut—that might be considered a threat.

Goat was riding straight into a storm without an umbrella.

And he was doing it for her. Her gut flip-flopped over again.

“That trick with the rotary cutter—that was really something,” Goat continued.

“Oh. Uh, now that you mention it, seems like I might have had that on me.”

“Took us a little while to figure out. You know, it has that retractable blade and all. Plus, it was pink. We had to call a gal from Jo-Ann Fabrics up in Fayette to explain that one.”

They stared at each other and then Goat gave a little chuckle. Nothing more than relief, it sounded like, but it was contagious, and Stella couldn’t help joining in, though she had to be careful because of the pain in her stomach.

“It benefits breast cancer research,” she finally said. “We carry a whole line of pink accessories down at the shop.”

“I’ll make a note,” Goat said. “Maybe I ought to come check it out. You know, the whole… sewing thing.”

“Goat Jones,” Stella said coquettishly, batting her eyelids as well as she could, given the fact that they were swollen nearly shut and gluey with Noelle’s eye shadow and mascara. “Are you one of these pathetic men who can’t sew on a button to save his life?”

As she watched, Goat’s broad, handsome face slowly reddened, starting at his cheeks and spreading out to his ears and up to his lovely smooth scalp. He opened his mouth to say something and closed it again.

Then he shrugged. “Guilty.”

“Well, about time we take care of that, don’t you think?”

“You off erin’ me sewing lessons, Stella Hardesty?”

Stella smiled for real this time, searing pain in her lips be damned.

“I might be,” she said. “What have you got to trade?”

Goat grinned back. “I don’t know, Stella,” he said, his voice low and rough, just the way she liked it. “I have half a mind to paddle you out to this little spot I know.”

Stella was trying to nap the next morning, breathing the cloying scent of flowers and wishing evil on the nurses, who’d come in every few hours during the night to poke and prod her. With any luck she’d be out of here in another couple of days, but she planned to return, fortified with snacks and celebrity magazines, to set up camp in Chrissy’s room.

Apparently Chrissy had woken up for a few minutes early in the morning. Stella was torn between dismay at not having been there and enormous relief when the shift nurse described how Chrissy looked around the room and asked where she was.

The doctor said it would probably go like that for a while, little lucid periods and lots of sleep, while Chrissy’s body made up its mind to start rebuilding the destruction the bullet had wreaked on her innards.

Stella let her eyes flutter slowly open and noticed that there were even more flowers than when last she drifted off. Lots of her well-wishers had remained anonymous: Stella figured her past clients had heard about her troubles.

But the biggest arrangement was from Goat. It was a funny-looking thing, giant pink and green caladium leaves with white roses, delphinium, and Shasta daisies. “All my favorites,” he’d confided, embarrassed, when he stopped last night as he was heading home for the day. “I had ’em make it up special.”

Then they’d stared at each other for a while, not saying much, while Noelle watched from her chair, a knowing little smile on her face.

Noelle had finally gone home this morning after spending the night on a cot. She said she’d be back after a shower—with doughnuts.

Stella pressed the button to lift the back of the bed, slowly gliding to a more upright position. Her stomach, if possible, hurt worse today, but the shoulder throbbed a little bit less and her face was more itchy than anything. Noelle had removed the makeup carefully, dabbing with swabs and cotton squares, and then spent forever massaging cream in between the stitches. Stella hoped she wasn’t having some sort of allergic reaction; there’d be hell to pay with her doctor, who’d practically blown a gasket when she saw the makeup.

Stella was reaching for the clicker, figuring she’d see what the fuss over The View was about these days, when Noelle walked in the door.

Carrying a baby.

Stella’s mind did a loop-de-loop and then she recognized the familiar shock of white-blond fluffy hair and said, “Is that who I think it is?”