Sophie Littlefield - A Bad Day for Sorry

Goat got himself invited to the game as a sort of law enforcement courtesy. His deputies, Ian Sloat and Mike Kutzler, had been playing for years, and it wouldn’t have looked right to exclude Goat, even though he was still a newcomer to the area. He had lived in Prosper for only a couple of years, having been hired in to replace old Sheriff Burt Knoll after he died of a heart attack while cheering on his grandson at a go-kart race.

Most of the poker players had lived in Prosper for decades, if not their entire lives. They were courteous to Goat, but maybe “friend” was too strong a word; outside the poker game, she knew they didn’t barbecue together or bowl in the same league or even jaw too long if they ran into each other at the Home Depot. Still, at the rate of four hours a week for two years, that was… oh, hell, a few hundred hours anyway that Goat and her late husband’s drinking buddies shared each other’s company, and in Stella’s book that made Goat guilty of poor taste in the company he kept, if nothing else.

Stella splashed cold water on her face and slapped her cheeks a few times in an effort to get a little color into them. She leaned in close to the mirror and didn’t like what she saw: it had been a while since she’d taken a pair of tweezers to her eyebrows, and they seemed to have made expansion plans on their own. The battle she was waging on her wrinkles, armed with the jumbo tub of Avon Anew Clinical Deep Crease Concentrate that her sister had sent her last Christmas, didn’t seem like it was trending in her favor. The wrinkles were still there, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the ones around her eyes had hatched a plan to reach down and shake hands with her laugh lines.

Stella scrambled through the Jif jar, tossing aside shampoo sample packets and emery boards and a dozen lipsticks in unflattering shades—she was a sucker for those Clinique gift-with-purchase deals—until she found the tube of Avon Radiant Lifting Foundation. Another gift from Gracellen. Praying it hadn’t passed its sell-by date, she squeezed a little onto her finger and dabbed at the worst spots on her face.

Her hair had escaped its barrette and sprang out in an unruly mass. That was entirely Stella’s fault. For most of her life she’d been vain about her thick, wavy light brown hair, keeping it trimmed and conditioned and blown dry. She’d just gotten in a few bad habits in the last couple of years, that’s all. Missing yesterday’s appointment with Jane over at Hair Lines hadn’t helped any.

She grabbed her hairbrush and yanked it forcibly through, ignoring the pain. Unfortunately, taking out the tangles also served to play up the line of demarcation between her gray roots and the shade that Jane had mixed up at her last visit.

Stella was overdue for a goodly amount of maintenance work.

She gave up and put down the brush. She made a face at the mirror, figuring she’d done all she could on short notice.

At the door to her bedroom, she had a thought, and dashed back to the bathroom. She dumped the Jif jar out in the sink and found what she was looking for at the bottom of the pile: a small bottle of White Diamonds. She sprayed behind her ears and on her wrists, sniffed deeply, and added one last spritz down her bra.

In the living room Chrissy had made a sizable dent in the Oreos. “Good girl,” Stella murmured, helping herself to one. “Got to keep your strength up.”

Naturally, Goat knocked on the door just as soon as she had the whole cookie in her mouth. Stella backhanded the crumbs off her lips and swallowed hard as she went to open the door, managing to get the thing stuck in her throat. She had to cough out a greeting.

“Goat,” she gasped, holding the door wide and gesturing him in. “Good of you to come.” A bit of cookie lodged stubbornly and she hacked some more.

“You okay there, Dusty?” Goat asked, but damn the man, he didn’t look so much concerned as amused. Light streaming through the picture window bounced off his shiny bald head and sparkled up his bluer-than-blue eyes, and he gave her one of his sideways grins. “Want me to whack you on the back a time or two?”

“Don’t you dare,” Stella said with as much dignity as she could manage. “Please sit.”

She reclaimed her own spot on the couch and sipped primly at her tea. Once she’d cleared her air passage so that she could talk without spraying crumbs, she gestured at Chrissy, who had managed to get herself more or less into a sit-up-straight position in the chair to greet the sheriff.

“Chrissy, you know Sheriff Jones, don’t you, dear? And Sheriff, this is Chrissy Shaw. She’s one of the Lardner girls. Out Road Twelve, the soybean Lardners.”

There were two strains of Lardners in town. The soybean Lardners were the wrong ones to hail from, if you had any choice in the matter. Ralph Lardner was a lazy mountain of flesh who did more sitting on his ass and ordering his boys around the farm than he did actual labor, and the family skill set lent itself more to quick-and-dirty methods rather than true craftsmanship, so the Lardner sons were constantly patching the siding on the barns and resetting leaning fence posts and attacking late-season weeds with industrial-strength fungicide in watering cans, killing off their mother’s flower garden at least once a year.

The other Lardner in town was named Gray. Ralph and Gray were distant cousins, but it would take degrees in both history and math to trace out the exact nature of their blood relationship. The lineage had split long enough back that Gray’s side had managed to build a modest fortune buying up rich land along Sugar Creek on the south end of town. While Ralph’s crew mined stony, hard-packed dirt for a bedraggled crop every year, Gray had to just look at his land sideways and it seemed happy to send up burgeoning fields of corn, alfalfa, prizewinning squash—whatever he had a mind to grow.

Ralph’s boys seemed bent on following in their father’s sorry footsteps. His girls, on the other hand, tended to marry the first boy who asked, just to get off that unlucky land.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the sheriff said, shaking Chrissy’s limp hand with exaggerated care before settling his lanky frame into Ollie’s old La-Z-Boy.

Damn, but the man was tall, Stella couldn’t help thinking for the thousandth time. Had to be six foot four, with acres of muscle running along his broad shoulders visible even under that homely tan uniform shirt. In his spare time, Goat had what was generally viewed as a strange hobby: he liked to lash his kayak to the top of his pickup truck and drive to any of the hundreds of put-in spots along the northern shore of the Lake of the Ozarks, as close as twenty miles away as the crow flies. Then he’d spend the day paddling around the inlets and channels and bights along the jagged shore.

All that paddling clearly built up a man’s physique.

“Nice to meet you, Sheriff… sir,” Chrissy said, a rosy blush stealing across her pale, full cheeks, and she looked at the carpet rather than at Goat. Stella might have thought the girl was shy, but she knew better: stammering uncertainty was the blood-dictated response that all the Ralph Lardner kin had to the law. She guessed that the idea was that if your pa or brothers weren’t guilty of something at this particular juncture, odds were good that they had just come from or were plotting to soon commit some sort of law-skirting activity.

“Chrissy’s a good girl,” Stella said, hoping to head off any conclusions Goat might be tempted to draw.

“Oh, I’m sure she is. I’m sure you are,” he repeated, giving Chrissy a reassuring smile.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you over,” Stella said.

“Well yes, Dusty, I am, but I’m also wondering if you’re planning to offer me a glass of that tea.”