2 Heroes & Hooligans in Goose Pimple Junction (16 page)

There’s not much difference between a hornet and a yellow jacket if they’re in your clothes.

~Southern Proverb

H
oney stood in the kitchen doorway pointing a 12-gauge shotgun at Lenny. She chambered a round, making the
chink-chink
sound reverberate in the quiet kitchen.

“Leave her be.”

Lenny recovered from his initial surprise and snorted out a laugh. “You won’t shoot me,” he sneered. “You’ll hit Martha Maye.” He held her as a shield in front of him, a handful of hair still in his grip, his other arm clamped around her middle.

“Seriously? You would seriously use me as a shield? I love how you’re trying so hard to be a
changed
man, Leonard. I swan, you’re sorrier ‘n a two-dollar watch.”

“Don’t test me, buster. I took top honors in the ladies skeet shooting division at the 2012 Tennessee skeet-shooting meet.

“I tell you what, all y’all done lost your minds,” Lenny said. “I—”

“Mama?” The little voice came from behind Honey. Butterbean stood in the doorway with a terrified expression on her face.

Lenny let Martha Maye go, pushing her roughly aside. “Screw it. She’s as cold as a frosted frog anyway. It’s okay, Carrie. Go back to bed.” He turned and walked out the back door, slamming it after him. The door immediately opened, and he stuck his head back into the room, addressing Honey: “Lady, you shouldn’t hunt anything smarter ‘n you. Try hunting worms.” And he slammed the door again.

Martha Maye’s knees were about to give out, so she collapsed into a kitchen chair, and Honey and Butterbean ran to her. “You’re okay, sweetie,” Honey cooed, patting her back.

“Are ya, Mama?” Butterbean wrapped her arms around her mother and dug her face into her neck. “Are you okay? What was Daddy doing?”

Martha Maye returned Butterbean’s embrace. “Yes, punkin, I’m okay. Sometimes your daddy just has a temper, and that’s why . . . that’s why I can’t be married to him anymore. Understand?”

Butterbean pulled back, tears brimming in her eyes. She looked at her mother and nodded. “I understand,” she said softly.

Martha Maye smoothed her daughter’s hair and cupped her cheeks with both hands. “Everything’s just fine now, darlin’. You gwon up, and I’ll be right there to tuck you in.” Butterbean nodded and reluctantly climbed the stairs.

Honey put the shotgun on the table and sat down next to her friend.

“How?” Martha Maye turned to Honey. “How did you know?”

Honey nodded her head toward the window over the kitchen sink. “I saw you through the window, silly. How many times have you and I waved to each other from there? I saw what was going on and came right over.”

“Thank you.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”

Honey put her arm around Martha Maye. “That’s what friends are for, sweetie.”

The next afternoon, Martha Maye dropped Butterbean off at Lou’s house and met Tess at the diner for pie and sweet tea.

“I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spit out,” Martha Maye told Tess.

“Why? What’s wrong, Martha Maye?”

Junebug arrived at the table, set down two glasses of sweet tea, and squeezed into the booth next to Martha Maye, leaning into her. “She actually came in with a shotgun?”

“Who came in with a shotgun?” Tess looked from Martha Maye to Junebug.

“Shewee, news travels fast around here,” Martha Maye said.

“Apparently not fast enough. What are you all talking about?”

“Honey,” Junebug answered Tess. “She rescued our girl from unwanted advances from that low-down, good-for-nothing, dirty-cur dog.”

“Yeah, she really did,” Martha Maye said in answer to Junebug’s original question. “She was like Little Orphan Annie—”

“You mean Annie Oakley?” Tess asked.

“Is that who I mean?” Martha Maye squinted.

Tess nodded.

“Y’all, she stood there in the doorway with the gun aimed right at him, and just as cool as a cucumber, she cocked it, or whatever you do to shotguns”—she waved her hands in the air— “and it made that
chink-chink
sound. Man alive, I bet Lenny left so fast on account he had to go change his shorts.”

“It’s a crying shame Butterbean had to see her father like that, but it’s probably just as well that she sees who he truly is,” Junebug said.

“Butterbean was in the room?” Tess asked, horrified.

“The commotion woke her up. She didn’t see him pawing all over me, but she saw enough. I don’t reckon she’ll be asking for him to spend the night any time too soon.”

“Did you report him to the police?” Tess asked.

“Naw. I just wanted to forget about it, and I don’t want the whole town knowing my dirty laundry.”

Junebug stood up and said, “Well, I won’t let it go no farther than this table. I’ma get y’all some pie. Pie makes everything better, don’t you know. Y’all stay put.”

“This makes what I have to tell you a little easier,” Tess said after Junebug went for pie.

“What’s that?”

“It’s one of those things where you need to know, but it won’t be pleasant to hear.”

“About Lenny?” Martha Maye asked, looking over the top of her glass as she sipped her tea.

“‘Fraid so. Jack saw him leave the Mag Bar the other night with another woman. He said they didn’t exactly look like strangers.”

Martha Maye took a deep breath and let it out, ruffling her bangs. “You know, I don’t believe you could tell me anything about that man that would surprise me anymore.”

“I’m so sorry.” Tess touched her friend’s hand.

“Don’t be. It’s just another nail in his coffin, far’s I’m concerned. I’m gonna tell my lawyer to get on that divorce PDQ.”

“PDQ?”

“Purty dern quick.”

“Chief!”

The call came from across the street, and Chief Butterfield saw Ernestine waving madly, hands over her head, in front of her store, Ernestine & Hazel’s Sundries.

Not likely I wouldn’t have heard her. Her voice would peel paint.
He waited for a green Ford Explorer to pass, then crossed the street and walked over to her.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?” He tipped his hat as he reached her.

Glaring at Johnny, she stood under the store’s awning out of the sun, with her hands on her hips. “I want to report more missing items from my store.”

“Alrighty then, calm down, now. Tell me what’s missing.” He took out his notebook and pen.

“My inventory’s short on candy, and some men’s T-shirts and . . . unmentionables,” she said, looking at his notebook instead of him.

“Unmentionables?” he repeated. “You sell, uh,
those
things in there?”

“Chief, we sell a little bit of everything in there. That’s why it’s called
sundries
. And nowadays we sell a little less, because somebody keeps coming in and walking off with my merchandise. I’d like to know what you plan to do about it.” She crossed her arms. He looked closely at her ears, checking for signs of smoke.

“Ernestine, I appreciate your position, and I assure you we’re doing everything we can to apprehend the culprit.”

Bright yellow gingko leaves fluttered at their feet with a gust of wind.

“And what might that be?” Ernestine shivered a bit and pulled her green cardigan closed.

“We’re doing the best we can with what we got, which isn’t a whole lot.” He quickly qualified his statement. “Not the what we’re doing part, but the what we got part. Nobody can tell us anything other than what’s missing. None of y’all sees anyone or anything until it’s gone.”

She looked at him funny. “How can you see something that ain’t there?”

“You know what I mean, ma’am. There aren’t any clues except missing items.”

“So in other words, you ain’t doing diddly squat?” Her eyes narrowed and mouth puckered. She was rail-thin and had a nose like a beak.

“No, ma’am, that’s not what I said. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you: I can’t seem to find any Ernestine Baker in the database. Is that your legal name?”

“No, Chief, it isn’t. I thought everybody knew I only took on the name ‘Ernestine’ when I bought the store. People kept asking where Ernestine was, so I finally gave in and said ‘rightcheer.’” She eyed him suspiciously. “Why? You been checking me out?”

“Just routine stuff. I told you we’re busy trying to find the bandit.”

“You should spend more time on criminals and less on law-abiding store owners like myself.”

“Just what is your real name, ma’am?”

“Just as I thought,” she said huffily. “You ain’t doing diddly squat.” She turned and stalked to the door of her store, then stopped, turned, and said simply, “Mona.”

“Mona?”

“My name. It’s Mona.” She slammed the door behind her, leaving Johnny standing alone on the sidewalk outside her store.

Johnny walked a few feet to the store next door and stuck his head into Rhubarb’s to say hi to Pickle’s mother, Caledonia, who he’d seen through the window-shopping for fruit. Backing out the door, he felt a hand on his bicep.

“Chief Johnny Butterfield, as I live and breathe,” the woman attached to the hand said.

He turned to see who it was and tipped his hat. “Ms. Winchester,” he said politely but formally.

“Aw, you can call me Honey,” she said. “And you can call me anytime,” she cooed, standing a little too close. “I love a man of authority.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Johnny started walking, and Honey took his arm and walked with him. He attempted to put some distance between them, but Honey held on tightly.

“Say, Chief, are you going to the Oktoberfest?” She batted her eyelashes at him, and he adjusted his GPJPD cap over his eyes.

“Yes, ma’am, I reckon I am.” He looked around to see who might be seeing Honey hanging on to him. He knew how fast small-town gossip spread.

With one hand still hooked in his arm, she ran her other hand up and down it, squeezing his muscle. “Maybe we could go together, big guy.”

He cleared his throat. “No, ma’am, I reckon we can’t.”

Honey looked taken aback for a moment but quickly recovered. “You don’t find me attractive, Chief?” She dropped one hand to her side.

“I didn’t say that.”

She raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“But I’m kinda interested in someone else,” he said, smiling down politely at her.

“You don’t seriously think you’re in love with Martha Maye, do you? She’s still a married woman, you know.”

“I don’t recall saying who I’m interested in, nor that it’s any of your business.” Stopping in front of the hardware store, he looked down at her and added, “No offense, ma’am.”

“Usually when someone says ‘no offense,’ it’s offensive. And must you keep calling me ma’am?” She stomped her foot like a petulant three-year-old. “It makes me feel so old.”

“Yes, ma . . . Ms. Winchester.”

She frowned. “So what are you gonna do, pine for Martha Maye until she’s free and clear of Lenny? That could be months. In the meantime, you and I could have us a peck of fun. If I were any more single, I’d be a fraction.”

“Thank you kindly for the offer, ma’am.” She gave him a hard look. “Honey. But I respectfully decline. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to run into the hardware store.” He tipped his hat, said, “You have a real nice day,” and began to walk away.

She yelled after him, “I love it when you call me Honey.”