She's Gotta Be Mine (7 page)

Spots floated before his eyes. Her voice faded in and out. He grabbed the table, afraid he might topple over.

“Is he having a heart attack?” Was that Roberta or Mavis? He wasn’t sure.

He’d never heard such a profusion of ditzy words out of Roberta’s mouth. Even the tone wasn’t hers. She was the most
unditzy
person he’d ever known. Hell, she even made lists of her lists.

His leaving must have affected her more than he’d ever imagined. He’d thought the divorce would be nothing more than a blip on her chart.

The blood vessels at his temples pulsed. Roberta fanned him with a menu. His vision blurred. Claustrophobia swept over him as people crowded round the booth.

Roberta touched his clammy forehead. “I think we better call the paramedics.”

Just as he was about to say he didn’t need any help, the front door burst open. All eyes turned toward the intrusion, allowing him to regain control of his faculties.

“Mavis, why aren’t the posters for the Accordion Festival up in your front window? It’s less than three weeks away.” Mayor Wylie Meade’s voice boomed out as if he were using his bullhorn.

“The Accordion Festival?” Roberta’s eyes lit up as she turned toward the mayor. Once again, Warren wasn’t sure he knew this woman anymore. “Are they going to play polka music?”

“And wear Lederhosen,” Mavis said, poking an elbow in Roberta’s ribs.

“Ooh, men in Lederhosen.” Roberta fanned herself with the menu. “I can’t wait.”

If Warren had anything to say about it, Roberta wouldn’t be here in two weeks, or even tomorrow. He had to get rid of her, especially now, when he had this little problem with Cookie. But all that came out of his mouth was a wheeze.

Roberta leaned towards Mavis and whispered loud enough for him to hear over the buzzing in his ears. “Who’s that?”

“It’s our mayor, Wylie Meade.”

Roberta covered her mouth with her hand and snorted. “Wylie? Is that appropriate for a politician or what?”

Mavis rapped her elbow in Roberta’s ribs once more. “Balls, I better get over there or he’ll be putting those posters in the windows all crooked. Wylie always get things crooked, no pun intended.” Then she hustled down the aisle to the mayor, his hand extended with a sheaf of flyers.

Wylie gave Mavis a toothy politician grin. “It’s going to be a magnificent extravaganza. We’ve got Cookie Beaumont heading up the decorating committee. She did a bang-up job last year.”

Mavis’s lip seemed to curl. Warren almost passed out at the mention of his beloved’s name. Twin images of Roberta danced before his eyes. He forced her into focus. Her face had paled, then her pencil snapped. The sound echoed as if a bullet ricocheted inside his head.

“Roberta, please,” Warren labored, as he managed finally to form words.

“I have to help my other customers, Warren. Are you all right now?” Her eyes glittered like hard green stones.

He wasn’t, not at all. “I need to talk to you about...you know.”

“You know?” She wore a singularly innocent expression, masking all emotion. This was not good.

“About...” He looked around. He’d lost the restaurant patrons’ point of interest; Mavis and Wylie had stolen it. He tugged on Roberta’s arm. His bowels crimped in terror. “About Cookie.”

Fatal Attraction’s
Glenn Close must have looked like that just before she dropped the rabbit in boiling water. “I don’t think we need to discuss that issue, Warren. I’m over it.”

“Yes, but, I have to tell you...” Unseen hands squeezed his throat, stopping his next words.

“Warren—my customers.” She rolled the broken pieces of pencil between her fingers.

Live by the sword, die by the sword. He rushed into it. “She hasn’t told...anyone...about her impending divorce...or anything else yet.”

Roberta gathered a large breath, her breasts expanding against her sweater. “And why should I be interested in that?”

“I’d just rather you didn’t...mention her to anyone.” Sweat broke out on his upper lip, his forehead. His gut rumbled. Anxiety was an evil, insidious thing. So was waiting for her answer. Maybe he should have stayed on the Prozac until after this whole mess had been settled.

But Roberta did the most amazing thing. She zipped her lips, then broke into a brilliant smile. “Uh-huh, sure, Warren. Just between us.”

It should have been reassuring. It chilled him to the marrow of his bones.

His troubles weren’t nearly over. He was very much afraid they’d only just begun.

* * * * *

Nick had just about decided a running toilet was preferable to listening to the drivel coming out of Eugenia Meade’s mouth. Separated from her by an aisle of plumbing fixtures and Rubbermaid products, her semi-screech carried to the far corners of
Sylvestor’s
Hardware Emporium. The woman had a pitch that could shatter glass. No wonder Mayor Meade had ordered a pullout sofa for his office at City Hall.

“Patsy did her best to warn her, but she’s taken Agnes Porter’s place right across from That Man.”

When he’d first moved back to Cottonmouth, Nick had checked his birth certificate just to see if his real name was “That Man.” He selected a ball cock and waited for more dirt on his new neighbor across the street.

“
Janey
Dillings
and Patsy say she’s just an utterly adorable little thing, sweet as the dickens. Everyone’s wondering why on earth any sane man would leave her.”

Christ. How was he supposed to have fantasies about an
utterly
adorable little thing
?

“She’s working for Mavis down at The Cooked Goose. I heard her husband came in. He’s her ex-husband, actually. Well, not quite, seems they haven’t gotten the divorce yet.”

Eugenia Meade had better take a breath soon, or she’d faint from oxygen deprivation. A conversation with Eugenia didn’t require verbal participation from her companions. Vague “
Mmmhumms
” were all that was necessary or even allowed, and those were so she’d know her audience hadn’t expired.

“Isn’t it odd she’s come to Cottonmouth, too? Well, not odd. I think it’s for revenge. Not that most men don’t deserve it.”

Guess he’d made a sound decision when he’d tried to scare the woman off. Being part of a vengeful almost-divorcee’s scheme wasn’t on his list of ten favorite things. Still, there was no reason he couldn’t let her sneak into a fantasy or two.

“I think she was some sort of accounting-type person down in the Silicon Valley.” Eugenia’s tone indicated that anything south of Cottonmouth was akin to the Devil’s lair. “And her husband is that new man who just set out his shingle in Bert’s old office space. He’s an accountant, too, a rather insipid little man in my opinion. I’m sure he’s trying to run poor Mr. Crouch out of business, at least that’s what
Jimbo
says.”

Jimbo
. Shit. The whole incident with
Jimbo
—and
Jimbo’s
wife—had been another of Nick’s regrettable errors in judgment.

“And you know the reputation accountants have these days,” Eugenia went on. “Why, it’s almost as bad as being a lawyer.”

Finally, she stopped long enough to suck in a lungful of air. Nick imagined her companion contemplating the cosmos...or how to get away from Eugenia Meade. But to give Eugenia her due, she was the town’s best gossip. Hell, he’d learned many an interesting tidbit about himself while lurking in store aisles right next to her moveable pulpit.

“Why she didn’t listen to Patsy’s words of wisdom, I’ll never know. It won’t be long before we find
her
body in That Man’s front yard. Mark my words, he’s going to move beyond cats, dogs, and raccoons before long. In fact, he probably already has. You know, they say most serial killers start doing humans when they’re in their teens.” Eugenia gasped. “And you do remember that poor Mary Alice Turner?”

In
The Word According to Eugenia Meade
, his sins were many. But Mary Alice wasn’t one of them. She was the only thing in his past he didn’t regret. But he’d never atone for coming home
after
his parents died. And for that, he did deserve Eugenia’s wrath.

“I’ve tried to get Wylie to talk to the sheriff about keeping a closer eye on him. But you know Wylie, he never listens to a word I say.”

Not true. Wylie had definitely been listening when he’d refused to hang Nick’s donated paintings in the hallowed halls of the newly renovated city building, known around town as the
Taj
Ma’Wylie
. Of course, all Wylie had really done was whitewash the building and replace the scrubby lawn with drought-resistant plants. As far as Nick knew, the walls were still bare.

“Then again, if something happens to Bobbie Jones, it could be the husband. I wonder if
Brax
has thought of that.”

Nick squeezed the rubber end of the ball cock. His old buddy, Sheriff Tyler Braxton. They hadn’t spoken much since high school. Since Mary Alice had to leave town. Except when
Brax
threatened to arrest him over that misunderstanding with
Jimbo
.

“I wonder if he used to beat her,” Eugenia mused. “You have to admire a woman who doesn’t air her dirty laundry in public.”

Right, just like Eugenia never aired her dirty laundry.

Then, with an audible wheeze, she continued. “What if
she
whacks the husband?” Eugenia’s banshee wail resonated with what sounded like glee. “I mean, there’s got to be something wrong when a woman is that delighted with the divorce settlement. And why is she here anyway, if she’s so ecstatic?”

And why had she been in Nick’s backyard?

Unconsciously, he’d walked to the end of the plumbing aisle. Eugenia’s pontificating littered the air in the Rubbermaid aisle.

“Mark my words, we’re going to have a murder in this town one way or another.”

His naturally evil nature rising again, Nick couldn’t resist.

“Excuse me, ladies, I’m looking for those containers, you know, the kind Jeffrey
Dahmer
had in his refrigerator for storing...” He paused, smiled, and pursed his lips around the word, “Parts. It has to be something really strong. Something acid won’t eat through.”

Eugenia dropped her basket, the contents rolling out across the floor. Her companion, Marjorie Holmes—as his high school drama teacher, she sure as hell had never been that silent—stared at him through her tortoise-shell glasses.

“Oh, sorry, maybe I should ask
Sylvestor
. But since I heard you over here...” He trailed off.

Eugenia collapsed to her knees, her mouth open, pudgy fingers grappling with the plastic goods strewn about her on the linoleum. Ms. Holmes continued to stare, as if keeping him within her sight would prevent him from slicing her head off with a scythe like the Grim Reaper.

“Let me help you clean that up.” He took two steps before Eugenia threw up her hands in the sign of the cross.

“No, no, I can get it.” She tugged on Marjorie’s sagging nylons and hissed, “Help me down here.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” He started to back away, wondering how the thin, frail-looking Marjorie was going to get Eugenia’s plentiful body up off that floor.

“Oh yes”—Eugenia sucked in a breath—“I’m sure.”

His fun over, he decided to leave before the lady hyperventilated. He smiled, gave them both a wave, and headed to the checkout counter. Yep, he was a bastard. But sometimes it felt good.

The women’s harsh whispers followed him.

“Did you see those eyes?”

“Inhuman. Maybe he’s a vampire. He just might suck the lifeblood from this town if we’re not careful.” He hadn’t known Ms. Holmes believed in vampires. But then again, she had staged Bram Stoker’s Dracula—twice.

“I’ll have nightmares, mark my words.”

He plunked down his purchases on the counter. “Afternoon, Mr.
Sylvestor
.”

Sylvestor
ignored the greeting. Nick counted out the dollars and change. The old man’s crab-like fingers, shaking with Parkinson’s, grabbed and recounted. It would be easier to do his shopping at the
minimall’s
Home Depot. But
Sylvestor
needed Nick’s business. At least Harry Bushman’s parents had retired to Florida before Cottonmouth’s economy had gone down the toilet. Mr.
Sylvestor
, on the other hand, was stuck. Shit.