Harley headed toward the front of the store where two men stood, searching the place with a sense of urgency. One of the men was quite blond and tan, both his hair and skin having spent a lot of time in the sun or salon. He wore tight, distressed jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to display his bronzed chest beneath. The other man was quite his opposite. His black hair was styled into a Mohawk, and what little skin peeked from his head-to-toe black clothing was pale and smooth like a mannequin’s.
“Oh, lord, there’s a pig in here,” said the blond, catching sight of Matilda on the floor. “Why am I not surprised in this godforsaken town?”
His companion did not seem to appreciate the commentary, and beneath his breath said, “Take it easy, Marcus.”
When Harley approached from the back of the store, Marcus took in her appearance then broke into laughter. “Look coming here, Stevie. It’s one of the extras from Deliverance.” He hummed a bar of “Dueling Banjos” and laughed at his own joke.
Stevie, however, did not laugh. He inclined his Mohawk head toward Harley and smiled, exposing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. “Good morning,” he said. “We were wondering if maybe you could help us. We’re looking for somebody.”
When Harley didn’t answer, Marcus said, “Oh, don’t pretend like you don’t know who we’re talking about. We know he’s in here. Somebody saw him come in.” He turned to Stevie. “You know, he probably took one look at Deliverance here and ran for the hills.”
Harley glanced over her shoulder to the bar where the man had since disappeared. “I haven’t seen anyone.”
As soon as she said it, she caught sight of Matilda in her peripheral vision. The pig had risen from her place on the floor and was walking toward the two men. She idled sheepishly before Marcus, hovering over his feet with her mouth slightly open. Harley had only seen the pig this way a few times before and every time she …
Blech!
Vomit spewed from Matilda’s mouth, congealing in a pool over Marcus’s feet. “My boots!” he said, staring at his feet in horror. “Three thousand dollars! That’s what I paid for these.” He reached down as if to scoop some of the vomit from his boots, but then thought better of it. He glared at Harley, as if he expected her to clean it up, and she stood placid, expressionless. Her passivity seemed to anger him even more, and he opened his mouth to spew more curses when Stevie interrupted, tugging at his elbow.
“Let’s go, Marcus. We’ll get you cleaned up back at the resort. Come on. We’ve got more important matters to deal with.”
A few more malicious glares, and the still-fuming Marcus turned away, cursing under his breath, something about an ignorant hillbilly girl and her disgusting animal. The stream of insults filtered out onto the sidewalk, only silenced by the clang of the shop door.
At the bar, the stool where the man once sat was empty, his whiskey glass still stationed on the counter. There was something else there, too. A piece of paper. In surprisingly neat handwriting, it read: Muscadine Farms. Beneath it were five one-hundred-dollar bills.
But she did not have long to ponder this because the shop door opened yet again, but this time it was Sheriff Jed Turner.
“Smells like puke,” he said, making a face of disgust. Then, his eyes roamed over Harley and he added, “and poop.”
But Harley did not engage. She walked past him, trying to locate another towel she could use to clean up Matilda’s vomit.
Following behind her, Jed had his arms flexed on his hips, his biceps at the best angle for admiring eyes, for which at the moment there were none. “I got a call from Alveda,” he said to Harley’s back as she mopped up Matilda’s vomit with a towel. “Said you and that pig have been destroyin’ property on Main Street … been involved in some disorderly conduct.”
Harley kept her head lowered, continuing to mop.
“Might I remind you that we’ve got a festival startin’ here soon? A big festival. With lots of people and lots of money pourin’ in. And you’re bein’ nothin’ but a problem for me. First, you’re findin’ drunks in the ditch—sayin’ they’ve witnessed a murder. Then, you and that pig are tearin’ up flower beds on Main Street and harassin’—”
He crossed the room and stood over her, his eyes glaring into her shoulder blades. “Harley, are you listenin’ to me?”
When she did not answer, he said, “Harley Henrickson, you are the most infuriatin’ woman. Listen, I don’t wanna hear anything about you from here on out. You got it? You lay low. No more of you and that pig disturbin’ the peace, especially not durin’ this festival.”
Harley lifted herself from the floor and met his gaze. “Did you find anything out? About the homeless man we found in the park this morning?”
“You mean the drunk one?”
Losing her patience, Harley turned her back to him and started toward the bar.
“Okay, yeah, Harley, I did make some calls,” he said.
“But I thought you said he was just some old drunk.”
“Well, he probably is.”
“And? What’d you find out?”
“Well, he was at the shelter last night, like you guessed—but only for supper, they said. He ate, then said he was going to Bud’s Pool Hall.”
“Bud’s?”
“I asked if it was because he wanted to drink, and they said no. Said he’d given up drinkin’. Said he was supposed to meet somebody there.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know.”
Interesting, she thought. Who would the man have known in Notchey Creek? Was it an old friend, an acquaintance, or someone he was meeting for the first time? And had the person been responsible for his inebriated state that morning? Or perhaps, she thought, they could at least tell them who he was and why he was in Notchey Creek.
Before she could ask any more questions, Jed’s cell phone rang and he answered it. “Sheriff Turner.” As he headed for the door, he continued speaking. “Uh huh. Yeah, Alveda, I spoke with her. No, Alveda, she and that pig aren’t gonna terrorize the community anymore. What? No, they’re not gonna ruin the festival either. Okay. Okay. Bye.”
The shop door slammed shut behind him.