A Rip Roaring Good Time (18 page)

"Turkey shoots?" He volunteered.

"Yeah, that's it, Mr. Jons. Couldn't think of the name right offhand. I reckon I had a brain fart there for a moment. I'm quite good at shooting them turkeys, if I must say so myself. I've really got a dead eye for them little rascals, in fact. Are you aware that they're hard to kill if you don't shoot them directly in the head? They've got a brain the size of a pea, you know. And, more often than not, I nail them right between the eyeballs with my twelve-gauge." Even as I was blathering and lying through my false teeth, I knew I should have shut my mouth and given him as brief a reply as I could. I'm certain he already thought I was some century-old loony tune who couldn't recall what year it was.

Falcon stared at me for a few seconds and said, "I'm pretty sure they shoot clay pigeons, not actual turkeys in those competitions."

"Clay pigeons? Oh, yes, of course, clay pigeons. That's exactly what I said, isn't it, son?"
Why is the competition not called a pigeon shoot, then
? I wanted to ask the smart aleck. Of course that might be a dead giveaway that I'd never heard of a turkey shoot before, much less "frequently participated" in them. I had been correct, though, when I thought I might be pushing my luck by boasting about my shooting expertise, and running on and on about turkeys for goodness sakes! My only option now was to infer he hadn't heard me correctly. "You need to clean them ears out, boy. I'm guessing you could grow potatoes in them."

"Um, no, actually you said—"

"Well, never mind about what I said or how I know Joy." I was trying to divert the conversation back to what I'd gone there to discuss in the first place but Falcon wasn't making it easy for me.

"And, actually, a turkey's brain is the size of a walnut, not a pea," the know-it-all said.

"I was referring to a very large pea, young man. But enough of that! How do you know Joy? I kind of recall her telling me she quit seeing you so she could date some dude named Potter, Cotter, or something of that nature."

"His name was Trotter. Trotter Hayes. And she didn't dump me, I dumped her when I found out she was cheating on me with that rat. After we split up, she ended up getting pregnant by Trotter. I really cared for Joy and all, but I ain't raising some other chump's child, even if she did want me back."

"Which apparently she doesn't," I said somewhat sarcastically. "So, Joy had a baby with this guy? I can't believe she didn't call me to let me know of her good news. I am her godmother, after all. I'm also surprised Viola didn't tell me about her new grandchild."

"She hasn't had the baby yet. Joy only found out she was pregnant a few months ago. I'm guessing she's just going on four months now. Should start showing soon with what should have been my baby. That no-good bast—"

"Goodness gracious, son! You sound very, very angry with this Trotter fellow. You did say his name
was
Trotter, didn't you? What did you mean by
was
?"

"He's dead now."

"Oh, my! I hope you didn't have anything to do with his death! I'm not judging your character, mind you. But from what you just told me, I'd be tempted to whack him myself if I were you."

Falcon Jons thumped his fist against the top of his desk and took a couple of deep breaths before saying, "Let's get back to the business at hand. I don't have a lot of time to waste this morning. In fact, I have a meeting to attend in twenty minutes. So, Ms. Ripple, do you have a doctorate or, at least, a masters degree in aerospace engineering?"

"No, but I'm sure I could have gotten one of those degrees if I hadn't gotten knocked up at eighteen and had to get married right out of high school." Falcon Jons's expression suddenly resembled that of a man who'd just been told he had an incurable venereal disease. It took him several long seconds to come up with his next question.

"So, what experience
do
you have in this field?"

"None, really. But I've done about everything else, so I'm sure I could learn all I need to know about it very quickly. After all, I learned all about using an iPad in one short lesson."

"Good for you," Falcon replied. It appeared to me as if he was the one using sarcasm now. "Tell me what you know about cosmic astrophysics, microwave celestial bodies, and the electromagnetic spectrum."

He was obviously just messing with me now. We locked eyes for a few seconds, and then I asked, "Are you thinking the same thing I'm thinking, Mr. Jons?"

"Probably not."

"Well, I'm thinking this might not be the right job for me."

"No shit?" He replied. "This position sounded to me like the perfect fit for you."

Now I was certain he was being sarcastic with me. I didn't think Falcon Jons's condescending attitude was very professional for someone who was in the position of interviewing and hiring new employees to work at his firm.

"No, sorry. I'm afraid I'd bore very quickly working here. You know, in a position like this one in your Software Engineering Department that I'm so clearly over-qualified for. Good day, Mr. Jons. I'll see myself out." Falcon gave me the oddest look. It was as if the aerospace engineer was studying a new planet he'd never seen before.

Before he could respond, I stood up and walked out of his office. I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I walked down the hallway. I'm sure he was still racking his brain to come up with where he'd seen me before. Either that, or he regretted being so rude and disrespectful and causing a prime candidate for the job opening to walk right out the door.

* * *

I was pleased with myself for now knowing how to enter the inn's address in the GPS for the return trip, and was rather enjoying getting more and more proficient with the device. I was even getting used to Ms. Ratchet's bossy voice giving me turn-by-turn directions.

Rip was the only one at the inn when I walked through the back door into the kitchen. According to Rip, Stone had been allowed to visit Lexie at the police station again for a few minutes.

Meanwhile, Rip was sitting at the kitchen table scouring through some legal tomes he'd borrowed from an attorney friend of Stone's. He was searching for anything that might serve as a loophole in getting Lexie released from jail. So far, he told me, he hadn't had much luck. According to Rip, it seemed as though the majority of the loopholes only applied to the rich and the famous, many of whom seemed to be above the law and never had to worry about criminal charges sticking to them in the first place. As a career law enforcer, this was a particularly aggravating pet peeve of my husband's.

After Rip got through with his "justice is a joke" rant, he asked me how my morning had gone, and I explained to him what I'd learned about Joy White's pregnancy. I touched only briefly on how I'd applied and been interviewed for a job opening in the aerospace field, to which he'd replied, "Seriously?"

Rip's response hit a raw nerve. "How would you like that fourteen-hundred page, leather-bound law book shoved up─"             "Down, girl!" He smiled as he patted my head like I was an overly zealous Doberman Pinscher. "I was just teasing with you. Go on with your story about Joy."

"All right. As you know, she's the young gal who arrived at the party with the victim and was wearing a sad expression much of the time, even before her date got killed."

"I remember her. She was the hysterical young lady who got hauled out on a gurney."

"Yes, that's the one. Falcon Jons, who's Joy's former boyfriend, estimated that she should be about four months along in her pregnancy. I don't recall noticing if she was even beginning to show yet, but I didn't really pay much attention to her at all until she freaked out after Trotter was killed."

I didn't mention this to Rip, of course, but felt I might not have noticed if Joy was showing because, prior to learning what Trotter had done to Wendy, I was too busy checking out the chiseled facial features and tight buttocks on her date.

"I wonder if that pregnancy figures in to Trotter's death in any form or fashion?" Rip asked. "Also, the fact she was expecting might have been why the EMTs wanted to transport her to the hospital for further observation."

"I was wondering that too. I'm hoping to find out when I go to the YMCA this afternoon. I read online that Joy White is the instructor of an exercise program that just happens to take place this afternoon at two. I called the Y this morning and was surprised when they told me she had decided not to cancel the class, despite the vicious slaughter of her baby's father just a couple of days ago."

"That surprises me, too," said Rip. "I wouldn't think she'd be in any condition to go ahead with the lesson either, considering both her pregnancy and Trotter's death. What kind of exercise program is it? Aerobics? Spinning? Yoga, maybe?"

I wasn't sure what spinning was, but I was glad it wasn't that kind of class. I get dizzier than a loon just riding on any carnival ride that rotates in circles. I certainly didn't need any self-induced dizziness. So I replied to Rip's question, "No, thank goodness, it's just pole dancing. I reckon Joy will teach us how to dance with a pole. Kind of like dancing with an invisible partner, I guess."

After Rip had stopped laughing, I explained that the program was advertised with the catchy phrase, "Pole dancing is not just for strippers anymore."

After my husband stopped laughing again, even harder this time, I explained, "According to the program's description, pole dancing has become popular as a form of exercise that helps build muscle strength, endurance, flexibility, and self-confidence."

"That sounds wonderful, darling. Will you show me what you've learned from that program this evening, preferably right before we go to bed?" I knew Rip was teasing me, because he caressed my behind as he spoke. I promised him I'd give him a private demonstration of my new dance moves that evening at bedtime, because if nothing else, it'd be nice to shift our sex-drive gears out of
park
for the first time in a while.

At one time Rip and I had really enjoyed dancing. We'd even taken ballroom dancing classes when we were in our forties. With surprisingly good rhythm, Rip could really cut a rug before he became reliant on a cane. Now, without his "third leg," he couldn't walk from his chair to the refreshment table at the dance hall without groaning and moaning. I kept telling him I had no intention of spending the rest of my days pushing him around in a wheelchair because he was too bull-headed to see a physician about a hip replacement. So far, however, no amount of nagging had persuaded him to make an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon.

I had just enough time to grab a turkey sandwich and change into a sweatsuit I'd had for many years. The sweatshirt had a yellow and green Baylor University emblem, and running down the right leg of the sweatpants it read, "Go B ars." The "e" in bears had peeled off after about the hundredth washing of the tattered suit.

Grabbing the keys to Lexie's car off the table where I'd left them earlier, I told Rip I'd be back in a couple of hours. He wished me good luck and told me he'd give anything to be a fly on the wall at the pole-dancing program, just to watch me practice my new moves. I was flattered until he began to laugh again.

Shortly after I arrived at the gym, I watched as Joy entered the front of the building wearing dark leotards. The all-black outfit was certainly appropriate for the situation. Joy looked sad but she didn't appear to be in a state of shock, grief, or anxiousness. More importantly, her concave stomach showed no signs of what the celebrities in the gossip magazines were now calling a baby bump. Not that it was totally unheard of for an expectant mother to not show at all until her fifth month, or even later on rare occasions.

She must really need the income that teaching this program provides
, I thought. Just to show up here to fulfill this obligation so soon after the death of her boyfriend seemed incredible to me. The very thought of having to raise their child alone had to be weighing heavy on her mind. I didn't know whether to admire her commitment or question the reasoning behind her apathetic behavior.

When I walked into the specified room at the YMCA a few minutes later, it was immediately evident that I was the only one attending the program who knew how to dress for a workout at the gym. Granted, I was the only senior citizen in the room, but you'd think these young ladies would have better sense than to wear such skimpy little outfits. They might as well have just shown up in their underwear, considering their attire left very little to the imagination anyway. I judged that there was enough spandex in the room to cover the gymnasium floor.

I had hoped to be able to speak privately with Joy White before the program began. If at all possible, I wanted to sneak out before the lesson commenced. I felt like the only adult in a room of toddlers, and I hated to show up all these youngsters who couldn't possibly have as much dancing experience as I'd had over the years. But it was not to be. When I approached her with the inquiry about speaking to her for a few minutes, she agreed to talk with me following the completion of the lesson she was planning to teach that afternoon. I really had no option but to participate in the ensuing program.

The next hour and fifteen minutes were grueling. I was sweating like a cold water pipe in the summer and grunting like a warthog as well. The younger women, clad in their cutesy little outfits, had shown nary a glisten of perspiration. Nor were they struggling to breathe like I was, gasping like a goldfish that had jumped out of an aquarium and was lying helpless on the floor.