One Foot in the Grove (22 page)

A person can only put up with so much. Then, it's either time to get over it and move on, or give up and have a breakdown. Thinking about it, since I'd been back home, nothing—I mean
nothing
—with the exception of reuniting with my family, had gone right. In fact, nothing had gone right for months. Maybe years. I'd been crying, fretting, hiding—teetering on the edge of total collapse—for weeks. Driving to town that morning, I'd finally reached my breaking point.

I'd had enough.

It was like being hit by a bolt of lightning. In an instant, my life changed. I was over it. All of it. And I wasn't going to have a breakdown. Instead, I was putting on my big-girl pants.

When Guido backed me into the corner—cruelly teasing, scaring, threatening me, and my family—I'd felt like a child. Helpless. Abused. Literally frightened for my life.

I'd wanted to run.

After he'd swaggered out the door, and later when I'd recounted it all to Pep, I'd realized that he only had the
power if I let him take it. No one, not even a killer like Sal Malagutti, was going to control me. Or know that he scared me. No one was going to make me feel like that again. Ever. I was done being the tail wagged by the dog. I was done being the hapless victim to circumstance. I was done with running away.

I stepped on the gas as I pulled out of Benderman's Curve. Whizzing down the road in my convertible, with my hair whipping in the warm wind, I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. I'd let all the gossip and intimidation suck my life from me. No more.

Eva Knox was back.

Although there were plenty of shoppers in town, it was easy to find a parking spot right in front of Boone Beasley's butcher shop. I hopped out of the car, stuck a quarter in the meter, and went to the door and pulled. It was locked. And the sign hanging inside the glass door read
CLOSED
. I looked at my watch. Ten forty-five. I double-checked. The hours printed on the door said the shop opened at ten.

“That's funny,” I said aloud. “It's Wednesday; he should be open today.” Still, the lights were off inside. “Why would he call, asking for someone to bring his check, if he didn't plan to be here?”

As I stood and thought for a moment, I saw Tammy Fae in the Shear Southern Beauty shopwindow next door, peering out from behind a magazine. Seated next to Tammy Fae, back to the window, a woman read a magazine under an old-fashioned hair dryer.

“Hi, Miss Tammy Fae!” I called out loudly. “How are you this fine morning?” I smiled and gave her an energetic wave.

People on the sidewalk turned to see to whom I was
calling. Tammy Fae flapped her hand quickly, then put the magazine up in front of her face and cowered back from the window. I smiled. I was going to be in Tammy Fae's face every chance I could get. You know the saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It'd drive her nuts.

I remembered that Boone Beasley's apartment was above his shop, so I turned and ducked down the narrow alleyway between Boone Beasley's building and Tammy Fae's building. Out back, I emerged in a small gravel parking area for tenants who lived in apartments above the Main Street shops. Something caught my eye, and I stopped short.

Parked on the far side of Boone Beasley's building, right behind Pooty Chitty's business, the Lacy Goddess Lingerie Boutique, I spied Billy's retro red Kawasaki motorcycle. It had to be Billy's bike; upgraded and custom, there wasn't another like it anywhere.

“That's weird,” I said aloud to myself. Maybe, I thought, Billy's just too cheap to pay the parking meter out front. Or maybe he thought it was safer to park the bike off Main Street. That's probably it, I decided. Although parking behind the buildings was reserved for residents, certainly, it was easy to find space for a motorcycle without anyone caring, or taking much notice.

“Ugh. What is that!”

Wrinkling my nose, I couldn't help but notice an acrid smell coming from somewhere close. Like the bitter, eye-watering stench of overripe cheese. Behind the butcher shop, at the base of the stair to a second-story deck and apartment, I walked around a black Chevy truck with a license plate that read
CHOP
. Clearly, the muddy truck with a gun rack mounted in the rear window belonged to the butcher. And the smell seemed to be coming from the truck bed. I went over to the truck and took a look into the bed. Instantly, I drew back, gagging. Randomly tossed about the truck bed were furry animal parts. Legs, ears, tails. Deer. And heaven knows what else.

I spun around, grabbed the stair railing, and raced as quickly as I could to the second-story apartment above the
butcher shop, taking each stair one step at a time, careful not to bend my sore left ankle. Once on the deck, I rapped on the apartment door. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could. The rancid smell wouldn't leave my nostrils.

“Mister Beasley?” I fanned my hand in front of my face, hoping it would dissipate the stench. I was close to gagging again. Sharp pain shot from my ribs as I coughed.

From inside, I heard something crash.

“Mister Beasley? Are you there?” I knocked again. The door jerked open.

Boone Beasley, wearing a white sleeveless tee shirt, striped boxer shorts, and black socks, wiped his red nose in the doorway. Bleary-eyed and red cheeked, it was clear that he'd been drinking.

“Well, whaddaya know!” he slurred. “Miz Knox! Howya doin. Wontchya come in?” Holding the door to steady himself, Boone Beasley threw one of his arms back as a welcome gesture. Looking past him, I knew there'd be no way I'd step in.

“No, thanks,” I said, taking in his squalid bachelor pad.

With the deep green and brown patterned curtains drawn, the apartment was dark. There was a tray table upturned on the stained wall-to-wall tan carpeting. Tattered furniture—a rolled-arm green velvet couch, a gold Naugahyde easy chair, a blue plaid armchair—surrounded a simple oak coffee table that was covered with old containers of take-out food, magazines, and empty booze bottles. There was a small card table with decks of cards, chips, and three folding chairs under a curtained window. A hunting show was droning on from a giant wall-mounted television screen.

Except for the television, every speck of wall in Boone Beasley's apartment was covered with taxidermy and weaponry. There were guns in racks, pistols on shelves, and hunting bows hung on the walls. There were stuffed, marble-eyed deer heads with huge antlers—some were probably twelve points—and smaller deer antlers of all sizes. Jackets, sweaters, and dirty white aprons draped from a few. Upturned deer feet with polished hooves held antique shotguns. I saw
bear heads with ferocious-looking expressions, their taxidermic tongues hanging out; sharp-eyed coyote, fox, hare, weasel, and wild boar specimens stared into the room. It was the
Who's Who
of Georgia wildlife.

As much as the sport is important to Abundance economy and lifestyle, I just couldn't wrap my head around what I was seeing. Instead of a being a tribute, of sorts, to the majestic animals who'd given up their lives to the sport of kings, Boone Beasley's collection seemed more like a grotesque carnival of death.

I thrust Daphne's check into his hand, quickly said good-bye, and one-footed it down the stairs as fast as I could, holding my breath as I passed the pickup.

My jaunt down to the hardware store was uneventful. With the help of the store owner, Merle Tritt, I quickly purchased Pep's P-trap and was soon on the road back home with her plumbing part.

As beautiful as the day was, driving under the great live oaks outside town, I couldn't erase the images of Boone Beasley's apartment. How could anyone live like that? With all those poor dead animals in the apartment, staring, day and night. And all the filth.

I shuddered.

Still, I wondered how the butcher had found time to hunt as often as he obviously did. And what about the animal parts in the back of his truck? It wasn't hunting season. Yet, obviously, the remains in the back of his truck were relatively fresh. Could the butcher be killing animals illegally? Then I had a gruesome thought: If he was killing animals illegally, were we eating them?

I shuddered again.

My mind flashed to the night Lenny Lemoni died. I'd been sure I'd heard gunshots before I left the cottage. And
again, later, when Dolly and I were running on the trail. Could Boone Beasley have been out in our woods? And there was the other guy, from the Country Corner Store . . . What was his name? Bart. That was it. Bart Somebody-or-other had admitted he'd been out giggin' for frogs. Could he have been out hunting for more than frogs that night?

I shuddered again. I'd have to tell Daphne about Boone Beasley. The man gave me the creeps. Great meat or not, we needed to look into another source. Besides, as drunk as he appeared to be, his reliability was surely in question.

I pulled into the gravel parking area at the big house and hurried upstairs to give Pep her P-trap. Already, the bathroom was dry and, except for the plumbing parts laid out on the floor, the room was immaculate. Pep was sorting her tools on an old towel.

“Is this what you wanted?” I asked Pep.

“Perfect. Thanks, hon,” said Pep. “Y'all are a lifesaver. Hey, I filled in Daphne about the stuff you told me earlier—about the mob men threatenin' you. Of course, she was shocked and horrified and went about shrieking and grabbing her chest, you know, the way she does.”

I nodded. “DQ.”

“Right,” continued Pep, “Anyway, we both agree. Y'all need to contact the sheriff's department. Like, right now. These Mafia folks scare the bejeepers out of us, especially with the kids around. Daphne wants to kick them out, but she's afraid they'll all come back and murder us in our sleep. So, we've decided to feign ignorance until they're scheduled to leave at the end of the week. She's gonna tell the kids they're havin' a slumber party and they're all sleeping in her room.”

“Good grief. No one will sleep.”

“Probably not. Of course, we're all hoping that Detective Gibbit can get his act together and stop focusing on y'all in time to figure out who really killed Leonard, or whatever his name was, before he or she gets away. Or takes out someone else.”

“I'll call the sheriff's department first thing after the
Chamber of Commerce meeting,” I said. “Promise. Although, I don't have much faith in any of them. I'll be arrested anyway.”

“Well, if they arrest y'all, at least you'll stay alive. Besides, why would they arrest you, sweetie? Y'all haven't done anything wrong!”

“Well, yes, actually, I have. Precious, too,” I said. Pep waited for me to explain. “And now that I'm thinking about it, can you help me with something?”

“Sure, sweetie. Are y'all gonna tell me what you and Precious did?”

“No. Are you sure that the folks from New York are still out for the day?”

“Far as I know.”

“Okay. Come on.” Pep followed me out of the Gambinis' pink bathroom and into the Malaguttis' suite. I pointed to the antique bed in the bedroom. “Help me lift the mattress.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

Pep and I reached under the side of the bed, and together we pushed the heavy mattress up and nearly over our heads. “Hang on,” I gasped as my rib complained. I peeked under the sagging mattress to the center of the box spring.

“Crap!”

The gun was gone.