Shop Talk Page 18

  Before she could get over the scare she’d given herself, the sky erupted in a blast of light. The car was buffeted by the loud blast and when she looked up again, she saw that a portion of the big building on the horizon was on fire.

  Her first impulse was to run–the direction was irrelevant. She felt scorched, singed, beaten, in desperate need of flight. Her fingers fumbled with the door, but her gaze was drawn to the magnificent flames that shot into the night.

  Before she could force the door open, Marvin stepped out of his car. He nodded, a movement that was clearly visible since he was silhouetted by the flames. Lucille felt the wedge of burgers slide into her stomach as goosebumps crawled over her arms and back. Something about the old man’s intense interest in the fire, combined with his crisp nod, scared her. Maybe Jazz wasn’t being neurotic. Maybe there was something about him that warranted close watching.

  Marvin climbed back into his car and turned around. Cowering down in the front seat, Lucille watched him as he drove past. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in what may have been a grin, but to Lucille, it looked like a rictus of death.

  Her hands were shaking as she cranked up her car and fell in behind him. She watched the blaze in her rearview mirror, fighting the hypnotic pull of the dancing flames. To look at the fire was to invite trouble. She focused on the square taillights of Marvin’s vehicle, knowing she would be lost if she didn’t keep up. He cruised through the neighborhood streets that suddenly came to life as pajamaclad residents turned on porch lights and rushed out into their yards to investigate the explosion. For Lucille, it was like a dream. All the way back to Marvin’s apartment, her fear steadily grew. She parked beneath the same tree where she’d spent most of the early evening. Marvin went into the apartment and closed the door. A light burned greenly through curtains the color of seafoam, and Marvin’s thin silhouette paced back and forth. Occasionally he bent down to another, more solid form. A man sitting in a chair? No, Mona had assured her that Marvin lived alone.

  Lucille brushed a spiky strand of hair from her forehead and realized her fingers were freezing. In the distance the ululating sounds of sirens and fire trucks gave the night a texture of rhythm. It was a Southern night made for walking along the beach, not for explosions and tragedies.

  The gentle moon illuminated the graceful branches of the oak under which Lucille parked, and she felt a keen pang of regret. Turning in her seat, she looked down the easy slope of the road to the water. The black depths glittered, a moving sea of stars that was darker, brighter than the sky. The beach itself glowed white, empty, inviting. A place for two, a man and a woman. Lucille could almost see them. A tall, lean man with broad shoulders and clean boots, his hand properly on the elbow of a young woman with a stiff spine and a stiffer corset. In the background was the soft moo of contented cows. Would it be possible to get Slade to drive the cattle to Mississippi? The beach would make the perfect setting for the realization of his true love. Angelita would be left behind in the rocky dust of Granite, and Slade could find a woman of merit.

  “Lucille,” Jazz’s voice drifted to her.

  Lucille whirled around. She hadn’t seen the headlights or heard the approach of another car. “Jazz!”

  The librarian, wearing khaki walking shorts and a multi-colored, striped top, stepped up to the side of the car. Her upswept hair had been tied in a scarf with stripes that matched her earbobs.

  “Lucille,” Jazz put her hand through the window. “I’ve got some bad news. There was an explosion tonight.”

  “I know. I saw it.”

  “You did?” Jazz didn’t know what to say. She’d caught the tailend of the news report and had dreaded telling Lucille that her apartment complex was blown to bits.

  “Of course I did. That’s when I got a good look at Marvin’s face. He is one bad dude, Jazz.” She reached through the window and grabbed Jazz’s arm. “He enjoyed the explosion.”

  Jazz pulled back, appalled. Lucille had witnessed the explosion, but it had not occurred to her–yet–that it was her home that was destroyed. Amazing.

  At Lucille’s sudden gasp, Jazz turned. The door to Marvin’s apartment opened. In the yellow shaft of light, he was silhouetted for a moment on the upstairs balcony. The tip of a cigarette glowed red in the night as he inhaled sharply.

  “He runs all over a beefalo farm, and then he smokes cigarettes,” Jazz whispered. They huddled closer together, Lucille in the car and Jazz squatting outside. “He studies Horn Island, and then he drives to a point to watch a building blow up. What will he do next?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Lucille said.

  “Uh, Lucille, maybe you should …” Jazz faltered. What could she say? Maybe you should go buy some clean underwear because your panties have been blasted to tatters? She couldn’t do it. “I think your brother needs to talk to you.”

  “Bo?” Lucille was shocked. “He’s in bed by now.”

  “I think I saw him up in the shop.” Jazz had definitely seen him. And Iris. They were all pacing the floor while Driskell was on the phone. Jazz knew they were trying to locate Lucille.

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  “I think there’s something wrong.” Jazz nodded. “Definitely, there’s something wrong. You’d better stop by there.”

  “Was Driskell there?” Lucille had a sudden thought that

  maybe he’d packed his things and left. It wouldn’t be the

  first time a man who’d piqued her interest had fled in the

  middle of the night.

  “He was there.” Jazz nodded. “Go on. Just be careful.”

  “Surely she wasn’t in her apartment.” Bo paced the front of the shop. “They haven’t been able to go through the rubble. The fire is too hot. But surely she wasn’t there.”

  “It’s that big, ugly Peter,” Iris said. “I feel it in my gut. He did this.” She bit her lip. “Poor Lucille.”

  “Don’t poor-Lucille her yet,” Bo insisted. He paced harder. “Her car wasn’t in the parking lot. Or if it was, it was blown to smithereens. They think maybe the bomb was put in it.”

  “You told them, Bo, baby, that somebody was trying to hurt her the night her car was burgled. They wouldn’t listen to you.” Iris glanced over at Driskell. He was standing, as he’d been since the blast, with his long, slender hands in the wiring of a big screen television. For the first time, Iris noticed that his agile fingers were completely still. “You okay, Driskell?”

  “Yes.” His voice rustled like dry corn shucks.

  Iris cut a look at him and frowned. He was paler than ever.

  “Where did Peter go?” Bo demanded, pacing like a caged tiger.

  “He said he’d be by here today.” Driskell finally put the screwdriver down and gave up all pretense of work. “The police said Lucille would have to be gone twenty-four hours before they went looking for her? Even after her apartment was blasted into oblivion?”

  Bo nodded.

  “We should have told them she probably had an ounce of grass on her. They would have killed themselves trying to find her then.” Iris lit a cigarette.

  “She isn’t dead.” Bo stopped and looked at Iris, then Driskell. “If she were dead, I’d know. I’d feel something.”

  “An overwhelming sense of relief,” Iris said, half under her breath.

  “She isn’t dead.” Driskell stepped away from the counter. “If you’ll excuse me for the rest of the night, Bo, I’d like to hunt for that man who claimed to be your uncle.”

  “Where will you look?” Bo turned to him with an eagerness that made Iris’ heart contract. He was desperate with worry over Lucille. Her apartment had been the epicenter of the blast. Nothing had been left except charred rubble. And the head from one gnarly badger slipper, which Bo now clutched in his hand.

  “I’ll start with the low-rent dives and motels. Peter Hare didn’t look like a man who spent a lot of money on clean sheets.”

  “Clean wasn’t in his vocabulary,” Bo said sof
tly. “But he likes home cooking. Turnips with fatback and cornbread, lima beans, biscuits, that kind of thing. Especially breakfast foods.” Bo recalled Peter sitting at the kitchen table in Aunt Doris’s trailer, his gut meeting the edge of the table and forming a shelf for crumbs. Some days Peter had never left the kitchen. He’d stayed right at the table, blending one meal into the next.

  “I’ll hunt for him.” Driskell had observed him carefully, and deduced several things. As big as Peter Hare was, he did not get in and out of the truck often and he consumed a lot of food.

  “He’s quite the lady’s man.”

  Driskell looked up. To his surprise, Bo was not smiling.

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. There was a time when Peter Hare was considered the catch of Stone County.”

  “By whose standards?”

  “Aunt Doris said she was beside herself when he chose her. All of the girls in her class were after him. She was only sixteen, and she didn’t give a thought to how he was going to make a living for them. Apparently he didn’t either. He was more interested in my aunt’s cooking skills. When she said ‘I do,’ he thought she said ‘I do for you.'”

  Driskell adjusted his cape. “I don’t mean to be rude, Bo, but was your father like him?”

  Bo laughed. “Happy wasn’t a thing like Peter. They were different as night and day. Daddy was so responsible, so concerned about providing for his wife and family.” The smile that had touched Bo’s face disappeared. “Daddy hated Uncle Peter. They were bitter enemies. Mama said they hardly spoke from the day Lucille and I were born.”

  “But your Aunt Doris kept in touch.”

  Bo nodded. “She was a good woman. Mama tried to talk her into divorcing Peter, but she wouldn’t do it.”

  “Did they have children?” Driskell leaned against the counter.

  “Aunt Doris wanted children, but Peter would never hear of it.” Bo sighed and walked to the window, staring into the night. “I can’t be the last of the Hares. I have to believe Lucille is alive.”

  “Her car would have been there if she’d been home.” Driskell put forth that thought. “I think Peter kidnapped her.”

  Bo turned to him. “You really think so?”

  “I do. The fact that he tried to run her down makes me believe he took her. I don’t know what hole he crawled out of, but he can go back.” Driskell walked to the door. “I’m going over to the Marina Apartments and see if I can find out anything new. That Officer O’Neill was supposed to call. If I learn anything, I’ll call here. If not, I’m going to start the search for Peter.”

  “Good idea.” Bo pressed his fingers against the glass. “I wish I could think of something to do but I have to wait here in case they call me.” He watched as Driskell stepped through the door and out into the night.

  Iris hugged Bo from behind as the emptiness of the shop settled over them. She twisted around so that she looked up under his arm. “We could play Lost in Space. I’ll be the robot.” Putting her lips against his throat, she whispered, “Mr. Robinson never had it so good. Your robot can do things the Robinson’s robot never dreamed of.”

  “Do you have any idea how to get in touch with those writer friends of Lucille’s? Maybe she’s with one of them.”

  Iris hesitated. “One of them is a librarian. The head librarian. But I don’t think they use their real names here, Bo.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Mona, Andromeda, Dallas …” Iris went around the table. “Coco and the one that’s the librarian calls herself Jazz.” She snapped her fingers. “Coco has been talking with Sonny Zanzarro over at the Fiesta. Lucille was telling me all about how he’s going to finance her cookbook called Cheesecake.”

  “I’ll give Sonny a call. See if he has a number for Coco.” Bo felt a surge of life force. There was a chance Lucille had gone off with one of the members of WOMB. That would be the only thing that could drag her away from her computer. The only thing that may have saved her life.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Here’s the phone number.” Sonny gave it, then hesitated. “What’s the story on this broad?” he asked. “Bo, I want the real skinny. I mean she’s not strange, is she? Her and Lucille? No offense meant, but your sister is a fruitcake, and, well …”

  “Coco’s a writer. A friend of my sister’s.” Bo heard the interest in Sonny’s voice. He was attracted to the skinny cookbook writer, but he couldn’t simply act on his desire. His greater need was not to be embarrassed or shamed.

  “Coco seems like a fine young woman to me. Extremely clean, at the moment,” Bo said. “A little too thin for my taste. I’d hate to puncture a lung with one of her ribs, but otherwise, very attractive.”

  “I went by her apartment this morning. I haven’t heard from her in a week, and I wanted to see if she had any more photos and recipes for the book. If I’m going to back this venture, I want a quality product. Something I’m not going to be ashamed of.” Sonny sounded unsure. “Say, Bo, you’re a pretty good businessman. You think it’s a mistake? I know gambling, not books.”

  “Hell, Sonny, if you like the idea, what could it hurt?” Bo backed out quickly. Good business advice was always appreciated by the Zanzarro family. Bad advice brought retribution in one form or another. He didn’t mind counseling Sonny romantically, but not where a buck was involved.

  “I went by her place this morning,” Sonny went back to the point that troubled him. “There were these men in white suits with gas masks, like toxic waste specialists. They were hauling out these big industrial trash bags full of something.” He paused, and when Bo didn’t comment, he went on. “I mean maybe she’s cooked up something deadly. Some virus or something. You think that’s possible? I mean she is awfully skinny to make desserts.”

  “Maybe she had a gas leak.” Bo ventured no farther. He wanted off the phone so he could make other calls. “I don’t know these women, Sonny. Lucille tied up with them. I’m only looking for my sister.”

  “Is Lucille still writing?”

  Bo felt a wave of remorse. She would be writing–if she were alive. He could only pray that Lucille would turn up. He made a silent vow that he would never again ridicule her work. At least not to anyone but Iris. “Probably,” he hedged. “I have to go.”

  “If you talk to Coco, tell her to get in touch with me,” Sonny said. Bells, whistles and horns blasted out in the background. “Gotta go. We’ve got a big winner on a slot machine.” Bo clicked the switchhook and dialed the number Sonny had given him. He was about to hang up when a timid voice answered with a whispery hello.

  “Miss Frappé?”

  “Yes.” There was relief in the voice. “This is Coco.”

  “This is Bo Hare, Lucille’s brother.”

  “Ye-es?” Relief turned to hesitancy.

  “I’m looking for my sister. Would you happen to know where she might be?”

  “Yes.” Coco had never been able to avoid a direct question.

  Bo waited. “Well, where is she?”

  “Let me think a minute.” Coco had not paid strict attention to Jazz’s complicated scheme to ferret out information about the strange old man named Marvin Lovelace. She’d been too deep in a carbohydrate psychosis, too terrified that after months of thinness, Elsie had emerged.

  It didn’t matter that she’d cut away the old fat and the old personality in a series of horrifically painful surgeries. Elsie was still there. Hiding behind the curtains. In the refrigerator. In the grocery aisle where chocolate chip cookies and Little Debbie snack cakes whispered her name, promising starbursts of pleasure that only food could provide. They were calling her now.

  “Coco. Coco. Coco?” Bo beat the receiver on the desk. “Coco, are you there?”

  Bo’s question brought her back and she blinked her dark eyes at the telephone like a wounded deer. “Yes. I’m here.”

  “Do you know where Lucille is?”

  Coco looked at her watch. It was ten minutes after ten. If she rem
embered correctly, Lucille’s shift for watching Marvin was over. She vaguely remembered that the watching was to be a secret, another of the many pacts that bound the members of WOMB. “She should be on her way home.”

  “From where?”

  Coco had no idea where Marvin might have gone. “I don’t know.”

  “But she was away from home tonight?”

  Bo’s voice held an urgency that electrified Coco. “She was supposed to be doing something for Jazz until ten o’clock.” That was as much as Coco could tell. “Call her apartment and see if she’s home.”

  Bo was about to retort that perhaps Coco should turn on her television and tune into the real world when he saw Iris rise abruptly and walk to the window. The glare of headlights cut into the shop, invasive and cold. He heard Iris’ gasp, and though he couldn’t see who had driven up because of the glare, he thought for certain it had to be Peter Hare.

  “It’s Lucille!” Iris held up her hands. “It’s your sister. She’s alive and perfectly fine!” Iris yanked open the front door of the shop. “Lucille! Where have you been?”

  “Never mind,” Bo said to Coco. “Thanks for your help, and Sonny Zanzarro wants to talk to you.” He hung up before she could ask a single question.

  Lucille entered the shop and stopped at her first glance at Bo and Iris. “What is wrong with you?” She swiveled her head back and forth. “Where’s Driskell? What are you two still doing up?” She looked at Iris, who simply stared back at her. “Is there food on my face?” She reached a hand up and brushed at whatever offensive matter might be there. She turned to Bo. “What’s going on with you two? Are you doing some kind of drugs?”

  “Lucille?” It was both statement and question, ending in a high note of doubt and relief.