Tough as a Pine Knot
After I dropped Francine and Jet at the airport, Katie Lee helped me finish packing my car for the drive home to Canton. I have to admit, getting away for the summer had a lot of appeal. Even better, I’d be traveling with GG, Edmond, and Travis for six weeks in the UK.
The Galaxie didn’t have air-conditioning, and I drove home stuck to the plastic seat. The open window flapped the garbage bags filled with my stuff and whipped my ponytail into something a KitchenAid mixer could create.
Guilt had hung in my chest since spring break. It had nothing to do with the demise of Billy Ray—that was good riddance—but with losing the oyster brooch GG had gifted to me. As I pulled in our farmhouse gravel driveway, Dad in his Richard Simmons workout shorts was futzing with the garbage cans, and from the porch my grandmother beamed bright and sunny in a yellow capri pant and sweater set. The two walked over to greet me.
Damn, what was GG doing here?
I thought I’d have at least a couple of days before I had to fess up about my carelessness. We were leaving for London the end of the week. The trip was like a ticking time clock, and I knew I’d have to say something about losing the amethyst oyster before then. I thought it best not to mention the inscription inside the brooch. That would only make the loss worse.
Dad opened my car door. “Rachael, we were wondering when you’d show up.”
After peeling my shorts away from my thighs, I gave him a squeeze. He hugged me tight.
Jeez, each time I see him, he’s more mushy than before.
“Rachael,” Geneva asked, “are you ready for our trip?”
“I will be,” I said, moving to give her a hug.
She flounced my arms and looked me over. “What a nice tan you have. You look as though you’ve been at the beach.”
“Um, ur, Carolina, you know. It’s sunny. Lot of time spent walking around campus.”
“Rachael,” Dad said. “What are these long scratches and this ding on the driver door?”
I moved toward the side of the car and told a tiny fib. “I think a shopping cart got me.”
“I’ll get it to the auto body shop. Hopefully they can be buff out the scratches, but that ding is permanent. Your tire pressure looks low. Get me the gauge out of the glove box, will you?”
“Gauge?”
“It the size of a pencil, silver. It’s in with the manual and plastic snow scraper.”
Walking around the car to the passenger side, I mumbled, “Who goes into the glove box anyway? Do I need a key?”
“If you locked it.”
That was a trick question. Dad locked everything. He was obsessed with locks. I rattled my key ring for show. Hell, I’d never looked inside the damn thing and had certainly never locked it.
Dad and Geneva were talking about flight times and who would mow GG’s yard and tend her greenhouse while she was gone.
As I pinched my fingers on the latch, GG called out, “Rachael, make sure you bring the amethyst brooch on the trip. I’ve made an appointment at Asprey. They may have some records on the original owner.”
Did she somehow know what I knew? I’d been home two minutes and was so screwed. I had a valid excuse, way better than the dog eating your homework malarkey. But I couldn’t tell my father or my grandmother the real story. Best to get the bad news over with while they were still glad to see me. “I need to talk to you about the brooch.”
She smiled and waited.
Opening the glove compartment, I flung my hand to my mouth, covering a gasp. The freaking oyster pin was in there. Was this some joke? I pulled the muddy oyster out. All the jewels were still in place. Someone knew. I knew someone knew since I hadn’t been the one who shot Billy Ray. But who? Bubba? Stone? Cauldwell? They all knew how to handle a gun.
Since spring break, I’d tossed the possibilities around over and over again. It could have been someone I didn’t know. An enemy of Billy Ray’s? That’s what I’d tried to believe. Now it seemed I knew the killer, and the killer knew me.
I pulled everything in that glove compartment out.
Dad stood before me. “Did you find it?”
I handed him the silver gauge. He moved to the driver’s side and bent down to unscrew the tire valve cap.
Besides the Galaxie’s manual, my fingers dug beyond a bunch of old oil change and car repair receipts and settled on a penned note.
It would be best if we kept things quiet.
Nine words on an index card. It was in script, slanted, dot on the i toward the right. I rewound my memory. Had I ever seen Bubba’s handwriting? Last summer, the African ginger he’d left behind with a note. I had it up in my room. He’d printed on the label in a blue rollerball pen. I didn’t bother to get it. Those letters were block style, and he didn’t dot the i’s. Besides, what would he have been doing at Shucks? I racked my brain. At Stone’s apartment, had I looked at his notes? No. Crap. Agent Cauldwell. I’d been to his office, sat across his desk. The witness statements I’d signed and the restraining order paperwork had all been typed. Shit.
“The tire pressure is low. Don’t drive the Galaxie until I get you air.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Rachael,” GG said, “come on inside. Let’s get something cold to drink and sit out back and catch up.”
“I should unload,” I said.
“Go with your grandmother,” Dad said. “I’ll bring everything inside.”
Grabbing my book bag, I slipped the note and brooch in a side pocket. If I wanted to know who shot Billy Ray, I needed a handwriting sample from a few good men. If there was merit to my suspect list, there was a two-thirds chance I’d slept with the guy who shot Billy Ray, and I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to know. Dating a killer was never on my “to-do” list.
NOTE TO SELF
I know who ate him. I just don’t know who the hell shot him.