Murder & Mayhem In Goose Pimple Junction by Amy Metz

Chapter 1

We’ve Howdied, But We Ain’t Shook Yet

swan: verb \swon\ to swear, deritive of swannee

I swan—raisin’ kids is like bein' pecked to death by a chicken.

“You are dumber ‘n a soup sandwich, Earl.”
“Oh yeah? Well, you’re a hole in search of

a doughnut, Clive.”
Tess Tremaine walked into Slick & Junebug’s Diner, past the two

gentlemen arguing at the counter, and slid into one of the red vinyl booths. The old men

were arguing good-naturedly, and she imagined they were probably lifelong friends,

passing the time of day.

Tess smiled as she looked around the diner. She was happy with her decision to move to

this friendly town. Everyone greeted her cheerfully and went out of their way to be nice.

It was a pretty place to live, too. Every street in the small town was lined with decades-

old trees in front of old, well-kept homes full of character, just like the citizens. She was

confident she’d made the right choice. This was a good place to heal from her divorce

and start a new life.

A raised voice at the counter brought Tess out of her thoughts. One of the old men spoke

loud enough for the whole diner to hear.

“If I had a dog as ugly as you, I’d shave his butt and make him walk backwards,” he said,

jabbing his index finger at the other man.

A waitress appeared at the table. Tess hadn’t seen a beehive hairdo in person until she

saw this waitress. With her pink uniform dress and white apron, she looked like she

jumped out of a page from the sixties. Her nametag said, “Willa Jean.”

“Don’t mind those two old coots.” Willa Jean hitched her head in their direction.

“They’re about as dumb as a box a hair, but they’re gentle souls underneath. Their

problem is one of ‘em’s always tryin’ to one-up the other.”

She got her pad and pencil out of her front apron pocket, ready to take Tess's order, but

she stopped and cocked her head, staring hard at Tess, and smacking her gum.

“Anybody ever tell you, you look like Princess Di? I just loved her, didn’t you?” She bent

her head slightly to the side to look at Tess’s legs under the table. “'Cept you look a might

shorter 'n Di was. How tall are you?”

“Five-five.” Tess couldn’t help smiling at the compliment.

“Yep. What we have here is a mini Diana. And your hair color is a reddish-blond instead

of a blonde-blonde like my girl Di. Other 'n that, honey, you could be her clone.”

“Thank you. You just earned a big tip.” Tess’s smile lit up her face. The waitress winked

at Tess. “What can I gitcha?”
“I think I’ll just have a Coke and a ham sandwich, please.”

“Anything on that? Wanna run it through the garden?”

“Run it through the . . . “ Tess’s brow furrowed.
“Yeah, you know . . . lettuce, tomato,

and onion. The works.”
“Oh! Just mustard, please.”
Willa Jean nodded and

hollered the order to the cook as she went towards the kitchen. “Walkin’ in! A

Co’Cola and Noah’s boy on bread with Mississippi mud.”

Tess smiled and looked around the diner. The front counter was lined with cake plates

full of pies covered in meringue piled six-inches high, cakes three and four layers tall,

and two-inch thick brownies. Six chrome stools with red leather seats sat under the

counter. The walls were packed with framed snapshots from as far back as the fifties.

From the looks of it, they started taking pictures when poodle skirts were popular and

never stopped. They were running out of wall space. The top half of the big picture

window was covered with a “Henry Clay Price For Governor” banner. Tess spotted

similar signs throughout the restaurant, and she’d noticed the waitress was wearing a

campaign button.

The diner was only half full with about twenty people at various tables and booths. A

few tables away, a mother was having trouble with her child. Tess heard the mother say,

“I’m fixin’ to show you what a whoopin’ is all about!” When the little boy whined some

more the mother added, “I mean it son, right now, I’d just as soon whoop ya as hug ya.”

She looked up to see Tess watching them and said, “I’ll swan— raisin’ kids is like bein'

pecked to death by a chicken.”

Tess laughed. “I know what you mean. But you just wait. In ten years time, you’ll be

wishing he were five again. The time goes by so fast.”

“How many you got?”
“Just one. My son's twenty-five now, but it doesn't seem possible.”

“You married?” the woman asked boldly.
“Divorced,” Tess answered.
“Here’s yer

Co’cola, hon,” Willa Jean said. “It’ll be just a minute

more on the sandwich. You visitin’ or are ya new in town?” She propped a hand on her

waist.

“Brand new as of a week ago. I've been unpacking boxes for days. I guess you could say

this is my debut in Goose Pimple Junction.”

“Well, all Southern Belles have to have a debut. And we're mighty glad to have ya, sugar.

Lessee . . . did you buy the old Hobb house on Walnut?”

“My house is on Walnut, but I believe the previous owner’s name was York.”

“Yep, that’s the one I’m thinkin’ of. Houses ‘roundcheer are known for the families that

lived in ‘em the longest. Them Hobbs had the house for over seventy years, up until old

Maye Hobb Carter died a few years back. It was her late huband's family home and then

hers, even when she remarried. She was a sweet old soul, bless her heart. We all hated to

lose her, but it was her time. She had a hard life, and I reckon she was ready to meet her

maker. Her daughter still lives in town, but she and an older sister are all that’s left of the

Hobbs ‘round here. Mmm-mmm— the things that family went through.”

“Willa!” the cook behind the counter yelled. “Order up!”

“Hold yer pants on, Slick,” she yelled and then turned to Tess. “Be right back.” Willa

hurried off to get the order and came bustling back with Tess’s sandwich. “It was nice

talkin’ with ya, hon. I’ll leave ya to eat in peace. Holler if ya need anything else.”

A few minutes later the door to the diner opened, and almost every head turned to see

who came in. Tess noticed everybody, except for her, raised a hand up in greeting,

and a few said, “Hidee, Jackson.” The man’s eyes caught Tess’s and held them a little

longer than normal. He sat down at the counter with his back to her and ordered iced tea.

Willa waited on him, and Tess heard her say, “You don’t need ta be any sweeter than

ya already are, Jackson. I’ma give you unsweetened tea.” She leaned across the counter

looking up at him adoringly.

“Don’t you dare Willa Jean or I will take my bidness elsewhere!” he said with a big

smile.

He was a good-looking man who looked to be in his early to mid- fifties, Tess guessed,

but she wasn’t in the market. Being newly divorced, the last thing she needed was to get

involved with another man.

As far as I'm concerned, they're all Martians and are to be avoided at all cost. “Men Are

From Mars, And Women Are From Venus” wasn’t a best seller for nothing, she thought.

The door to the diner opened and a middle-aged man of medium height, dressed in a

conservative suit and tie stuck his head in. “Vote for Henry Clay Price for governor,

folks,” he said, with a wide politician’s smile.

“You know it, Henry Clay. You’re our man. We’re proud as punch to have you runnin’,”

Willa Jean said.

Other than the smile, Henry Clay didn’t look like a politician. He had thinning auburn

hair that was almost brown, and he wore round wire-rimmed eyeglasses on a round face.

He reminded Tess a little of an absentminded professor.

“You gonna let out all the bought air?” Slick grumped, and Henry Clay waved and closed

the door, then ambled on down the sidewalk.

Tess finished eating and walked to the counter to pay her bill. Willa gave her change and

said, “Nice meetin’ ya, hon. Don’t be a stranger, now!”

As she closed the door she heard one of the men at the counter tell the other, “Yer so

slow, it would take you two hours to watch 60 Minutes!”

“I love this town,” she whispered to herself. ***

A few weeks later, Tess was sitting in The Muffin Man coffee shop, laptop open, fingers

flying over the keys, when she sensed someone sit- ting down at the table across from

her. She glanced up. It was him. The Martian she’d been exchanging glances with for

over two weeks. With her concentration broken, her fingers came to a rest. They made

eye contact, and she looked away, following their pattern of the last few weeks.

Oh yeah, it was him alright. Talk about Mr. Muffin—stud muffin. She'd seen him at the

post office, the grocery store, the hardware store . . . everywhere she went, it seemed

Mr. Martian-Muffin was there. They’d only spoken to each other with their eyes, and

she was always the one to look away first. Their silent flirting game was fun, and always

did funny things to the pit of her stomach, but flirting was as far as she wanted it to

go. Whenever she ran into him, she made sure to leave quickly in order to squelch any

chance of conversation.

She looked back down at her computer but could still feel his eyes on her. Putting her

fingers back in place on the keyboard, she couldn’t think of a thing to write. Her mind

was blank. She couldn’t concentrate. His stare was unnerving.

Tess felt very self-conscious and couldn’t help but look back at him a few minutes later.

He, too, had opened a laptop, but just as she chanced another glance, he looked up and

caught her eye again. He smiled.

She took a sip from her drink and tried to look nonchalantly around the store, but her

eyes wandered back to Mr. Muffin. Mr. Martian, the scorned woman's voice in her head

corrected. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a crisp light pink button-down shirt

with a hint of white t-shirt underneath. He had on topsiders, no socks. She looked at her

computer screen and tried to think about her book.

Focus, she told herself. Good-looking man at eleven o'clock, herself replied, like a bratty

toddler. She took another sip of her raspberry lemonade, and eyed him over the rim of the

cup.

He was tall and slim, with broad shoulders, and long legs. His wavy, sun-bleached blond

hair grazed the back of his long neck. A dimple formed in his cheek when he smiled. Of

course he has a dimple, she thought. He was hard to ignore. She looked up, and he was

smiling at her again. Dang that dimple.

Tess put her cup down on the table, and for the benefit of anyone who might be noticing,

she typed random keys just so it looked like she was working. She picked up her phone

on the table, and pretended to check for messages. His table was diagonal to hers, and he

was sitting facing her, so she had an ample view of him without turning her head. She

peered at him from over the top of the cup as she took another sip. He was finally looking

at his laptop instead of her. No wedding ring, she thought. Not that it matters, that other

voice said. After a few minutes of stealth ogling, she forced herself to resume working.

She put her fingers on the keys again, but her mind remained blank. She couldn’t

even remember what her train of thought had been when he first sat down. Her fingers

drummed on the table impatiently goading her brain. How could she be thinking this way

after what she'd just been through? The cheating, the betrayal, the divorce . . . but just

look at the man in front of her.

Okay, he’s good looking, but he’s probably a son of a gun who is indifferent, grumpy,

and thoughtless. I mean, look at him. Something has to be wrong with him.

As she had this inner conversation with herself, she began to feel conspicuous just sitting

there, so she started typing again, just to look busy.

She typed: Yes, he’s adorable. But he probably kicks his dog, or he’s a slob, or collects

his toenail clippings in a jar, or has a quick temper. Somebody who looks like that is

probably very self-centered. He’s probably a terrible, terrible person.

As she typed, she began to think of more things that could possibly be wrong with this

man, so she compiled a list:

He’s a misogynist.
He’s gay.
He’s a cheapskate.
He’s an axe murderer.
His idea of a

good date is having you cook dinner. He’s a burping, farting Neanderthal.

He slurps his food.
He’s duck footed, pigeon-toed, or flat-footed—pick one.

She giggled a little as her imaginary faults for him grew wilder and wilder. She glanced

up, and found him looking at her again with that incessant grin on his face.

He gave a mock show of looking all around himself and then asked, “Do I have toilet

paper stuck to my shoe?” His fingers felt around his nose, “A booger on the end of my

nose?”
“What? Oh, sorry! No...I’m just...working on a book and . . .”
“Oh really? You’re a

writer?” He sat forward and leaned his arms on the table.
“Kind of . . ."

“Hey! I’m an author, too. There aren't many of us around these parts.” He smiled that

killer smile again.

She stared at him, grasping for something intelligent to say. There was no way she would

tell him she was writing a romance novel.

“I’d love to read some of your work. If you’d be interested in some feedback, that is.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“As the locals would say, I believe we’ve howdied, but we ain’t shook yet. My name’s

Jackson Wright. Most folks just call me Jack.” He got up to offer his hand.

Ha! He’s Mr. Right, she said to herself. Mr. Right the writer. She cleared her throat

to stifle a giggle and said to him, “Hi, I’m Tess Tremaine. What kind of books do you

write?” Her voice came out a little higher than she would have liked. She cleared her

throat again.

“Mystery novels. I have nine published, and I’m in the process of writin' my tenth,” he

told her.

“A nine-times published author, wow, I’m impressed.”

“Oh, don’t be. I got lucky. There are plenty of writers out there who should be published

and aren’t. ‘Course, there are also plenty who have been published and shouldn’t be. But

I’d be glad to help you with your book any way I can.” He looked sincere.

She smiled and looked down at the table, feeling awkward and not knowing what to say.

She couldn’t say what she was thinking—that he could help her work on the love scenes

for her book. Oh no he couldn’t, came a sharp reprimand from the common sense half of

her brain.

He broke the silence. “I’ll be doin' a reading at the bookstore down the street next

Saturday, and I’d love it if you came.”

“Let me give you my e-mail address,” he said, writing on a scrap of paper.

“Writers need the support of other writers. E-mail a chapter to me whenever you're

ready.”

Oh, I’m ready, she thought and then mentally slapped herself.

“Do you come here often?” He laughed at himself, shaking his head. “That sounds like a

lousy pick up line. I’m sorry. And considerin' my vocation you’d think I could come up

with somethin' better.”

“No, don’t be silly,” she said quickly. Especially if it truly is a pick up line. She took a

sip to hide her smile. You have got to get a grip, girl.

“I do like to come here to write. Which is kind of crazy, because I don’t drink coffee and

it’s a . . . coffee shop . . . “ she felt like she was blabbering, but she couldn’t stop herself.

“Thank goodness they make tea and hot chocolate too. But I like to come here to write. It

helps me focus. If I stay at home for too long I end up surfing the net, and I don’t get any

writing done at all.”

“Oh, you live alone? I know what you mean, I live alone too, and sometimes the quiet is

just too . . . well . . . too dern quiet.”

And there’s one question answered—no wife. Yep, probably gay. Aren’t all the good

ones gay?

“Yep. I guess you could call this my office. I write here by day, and at home by night.”

She nodded, not knowing what else to say. There was no way she was going to be able to

write anything halfway decent with him sitting just a few feet away, and she didn’t really

want to continue the conversation. The look in his eye scared her. She was not going to

get involved with another man. She needed to put a stop to this right away. So as she

started packing up her things, she told him she was done for the day.

He cocked his head to the side and smiled, showing that dimple, as he said, “It has been a

pleasure talkin' to you, Tess Tremaine. I’ll be lookin' for your e-mail.”

Leave now, Tess. Leave now. She smiled back at him and mumbled, “Nice meeting you.

See ya.”

She stood up and tried to grab her cup of lemonade, purse, and tote bag, too, but the strap

of her purse slipped down her arm, causing her to spill lemonade all over the table. She

felt like an idiot. She set her tote bag down, went for napkins, and frantically wiped up

the spill. Waving weakly at Jack, she headed out. I need air, she thought as she quickly

walked away, trying to get out of the shop as fast as possible.

She heard him call after her. She turned around and saw him holding her tote bag, which

held her laptop. He had a sparkle in his eye and was trying to suppress a smile. She had

taken her purse but left the tote bag on the floor.

Feeling humiliated, she walked back to him and took the bag. When their eyes met, and

their fingers touched briefly as he handed her the bag, she repeated in her head, Martian

Man, Martian Man.

Trying to hide her embarrassment, she gave him a look that said, “Don’t say a word or

you’re a dead man.”

She turned, trying to make a graceful exit once again, but walked straight into a table.

She cleared her throat, sidestepped the table, and without turning around, raised her hand

up in the air as she walked out of the shop, indicating that she knew she was an idiot, and

he really didn’t have to point it out.

On her way out, she noticed a man in blue jeans and pointy-toe cowboy boots staring at

her. She breezed past him, with the niggling feeling she’d seen him before.

Chapter 2

It Ain’t Chinese Math

Despurt: adjective \des-purt\ desperate

It was an act only a despurt man would commit.

March 9, 1932 was a beautiful day in the town of Goose Pimple Junction. The sun was a

welcome change from the blustery cold day before, when it snowed three inches.

There were no customers in the First National Bank shortly after two o'clock in the

afternoon. The two tellers yawned and paced, waiting for the clock to chime four times,

signaling they could lock up for the night. Cashier Nate Hunter walked to the front

window to pull down the shade.

“What’ja do that for?” Tallulah, the other teller, asked.

“The glare of the sun was gettin’ to me,” he said. She shot him a confused look, and was

about to say something else when her face froze and she gulped noticeably, as three men

walked through the door with guns. Two of them walked to the counter, guns drawn,

while a third stood watch at the bank door, a sub-machine gun propped on his hip.

“This is a holdup. We want all the money,” a tall, skinny man wearing a cowboy hat

boldly proclaimed to the tellers. “C'mon, c'mon, put it all in these here sacks,” the

stocky man in overalls and a plaid shirt said. He and the other man held out pillowcases.

Tallulah froze, her eyes wide and her mouth opening and closing without anything

coming out.

“What are you waitin’ on,” bellowed Overalls. “This ain’t Chinese math, for Pete’s sake.

Put the money in the sack. Git movin’. And hurry it up.” Looking petrified, she went to

the money drawer.

“She looks as nervous as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs,” laughed Cowboy Hat.


“You,” said Overalls to Nate, “git the money from the vault, too.” In a matter of

minutes, the tellers, with shaking hands and rubbery legs, managed to stuff the

pillowcases with forty-seven thousand dollars in cash.

“C'mon, you,” the short, round man stationed at the door said, motioning with his gun

to Nate, “you're comin' with us as a little insurance policy.” They fled the bank, running

lickety-split down the street as fast as they could while trying to lug the loaded sacks of

money.

As soon as the men left, bookkeeper and auditor John Hobb came out of his office.

Unbeknownst to the bandits or the tellers, he had witnessed the entire robbery. He raced

out of the building, hoping to see which direction the men had gone. He saw them go

south on Third Street and quickly ran back inside.

“Are you all right?” John asked, out of breath, helping Tallulah into a chair. “Did you

recognize them?”

She shook her head. “I thought you were gone.”

“We should call the sheriff.” John quickly locked the front doors and picked up the

phone.

“Sheriff! The bank just got hit. There were three of them, and they’re armed. They went

south on Third Street with the money and, they have teller Nate Hunter . . . “

The young man sat at his grandfather’s bedside, his head resting on his hands, which

were clasped over one of his grandfather's. The room was silent except for the sound

of labored breathing and the ticking of the wall clock. He sat up straight when his

grandfather began speaking.

“I’ve done some things in my life that I ain’t a proud of, boy,” the old man said, lifting

his head to look at the young man.

“Shhh, Papa, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, patting his grand- father's hand gently.

“No! It ain’t okay. Murder and robbery ain’t okay, they’re horrible, rotten acts only a

despurt man would commit. But that’s what I was— despurt. I want ya ta know that I

only did what I had to do.” He was breathless and stopped a moment, coughing, his chest

heaving, as his lungs struggled for air. His grandson held a cup to his lips so he could

take a sip of water before continuing.

“I wanna get this off my conscience before I die. The bank robbery of ’32. I’s in on it.”

He laid his head back on the pillows and squeezed his eyes shut. “It pains me to say

that ain’t all, Squirt.” The young man smiled faintly at the sound of the pet name his

grandfather had always used for him. Hearing it was bittersweet. He wondered if it would

be the last time his grandfather said it.

“I killed a man, too. I had ta do it to protect my reputation. I had ta do it,” the old man

continued. A tear escaped his eye, falling softly down his weathered cheek; his hand

gripped his grandson’s tighter. “I hate havin’ to admit the horrible things I done, but I

want to protect my kin.”

“It ain’t all right, Squirt. The man had ev’dence. He told me so, right before I killed him.

I laughed at him at the time. Laughed right in his face; thought he was bluffin’.” He

stopped again, trying to breathe, as well as keep his emotions in check.

“He said he took precautions, and one day the world was goin’ ta know what a yellow-

bellied coward I was. It weren’t ‘til after I killed him that I found the note in his pocket.

It said, ‘Maye, if you’re reading this I must be dead. Look in the chest, Maye. It’s all

there.’ ‘Course I threw the note away, and his woman never knew about it.” He sighed

and then looked directly at his grandson.

“But I know he was tellin' the truth. He had somethin', some kind of proof. I’m afraid

it’s gonna surface some day and ruin y’alls lives. Look in his house. Promise me, Squirt,

that you'll find and destroy the ev'dence before it destroys our family. I don't want ya

saddled with my dirty deeds for the rest a your life. Promise me . . . “ he took a deep,

raspy breath.

“ . . . find the ev'dence John Hobb hid, and promise me you'll destroy it.”

“I promise, Papa,” the young man said as a sob escaped from his throat.

Chapter 3

The Jig Is Up

fumeer: adverb \fum-eer\ from here

Where do we go fumeer?

“Yeehaw boys! We done it,” Rod in the backseat hollered, waving his cowboy hat in the

air.

“Pipe down, will ya?” said the driver.
“I’ll pipe down if you’ll slow down.”
“Both a you

knock it off, ya bunch a numbskulls. Yeah, we did it.

We done pulled it off. Now we gotta git while the gittin’s good. We need to dump this

old heap a junk and find us a new one to take us far and wide, boys.”

“After we finds us a new ride, we need to split up fer a few days. Lay low. Don’t do

nuthin’ s’picious. And YOU . . . “ the front passenger, Brick, turned to Rod behind him.

“Don’t be drinkin’ none. You get stupid when you’s drunk.”

“Yeah, well, I’m dry as dirt,” said Rod. “’Sides, I still say we shoulda oughta taken care a

the Hunter boy, ‘stead a turnin’ him a loose on Main.”

“Yer such an ornery old cuss. Hunter won’t talk. We got him jest where we wont ‘im,”

Junior said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Yeah, but we gotta give him some a the take,” whined Rod.

“Not nessarily. Whas he gonna do—go to the PO-leece?” sneered the driver, Junior

Wells. “He’s in deep as we are.”

“We give him his cut. We don’t need no more trubba,” Brick said flatly.

The other two men kept arguing, and it wasn’t long before Brick had had enough. He

snapped, “What in tarnation are you knuckle-heads jib- ber jawin’ ‘bout? You two nitwits

shut yer pie holes. Y’all sound like a bunch of old biddies.” Brick stared out the window.

“Hey. Genius, looka thar,” Brick said, pointing. “Look over yonder at that Oldsie. Pull

over.”

“Whatta you think I’m thinkin’? Ah swear, if yer brains were dynamite, you couldn’t

blow your nose.” He shook his head. “I don’t rightly know fer sure if our car was spotted,

but I ain’t a gonna chance it.”

“Have you lost all of your mind? We can’t just walk up and take that car,” cried Rod.

“Why not?” Junior asked.
“Somebody’s bound to see us, that’s why not.”
“Then we

wait,” said Brick. “We sit and watch the house, if’n nobody’s around after an hour

or so, we hep ourselves to that there Oldsmobile.”

An hour later, Brick pushed on Rod’s arm to wake him. “Hey Roddy. Wake up, ya old

slug.” Rod’s head bobbled, and his eyes opened halfway. Brick snapped his fingers two-

inches in front of Rod’s face.

“Gad night a livin'. Would you get offa my back.” Rod squinted as he woke up, and

pushed Brick’s hand away from his face.

“Roddy, listen up—you sidle up over thar and get that car. We’ll gwon up the road a fer

piece and you come pick us up. We’ll leave this heap on the side a the road.”

“How come I gotta do it?”
“’Cause this is yer first rodeo.”
Stealing the car wasn’t a

problem since the keys were already in it.

Nobody in the country bothered with taking the keys inside the house. Rod started it up

and drove two miles and picked up the other two men. He dropped Brick off in Flat Rock

and Junior in Greasy Creek. Then he drove on to get lost in the big city. He was going to

have a vacation. He figured he’d earned it.

The man had cold eyes. He looked out of his office window at the hustle and bustle of

downtown Goose Pimple Junction, lost in thought. He wasn’t sure if he had a problem

brewing or not, but he was intent on finding out. The evidence was in that house. He

was sure of it. This was the second time the sale of that house had caused him angst; the

second time he had to be sure the new owner was settled in and done nosing around their

new digs. Not that this new owner would find anything. He’d already turned the house

upside down and came up empty, and she seemed too ditzy, anyway. There was even a

chance it was gone by now, if it had ever really been there. Whatever ‘it’ was. He just

had a bad feel- ing. He promised to find whatever it was and destroy it, and by golly, he

was going to keep that promise to his dying day. He picked up the phone.

“Willy?” he said. “Yeah, it’s me. Ya got anything new for me on that project we

discussed?”

“Naw, not yet.” Willy yawned into the phone. “I’ve been followin’ her around just

like you said, but I ain’t seen or heard nothin’ to be con- cerned about. I think you’re

overreactin'. Fact is, I think this'll be an easy, and fun, little project.” He snickered into

the phone.

“Well, as long as I’m payin’ you, do what I tell ya. Keep an eye and ear on that ditz, ya

hear?”

***

Tess had been married for twenty-six years and divorced for ten months. She’d only been

living in Goose Pimple Junction for a month, but was feeling very content for the first

time in ages. She’d been put through the wringer in the last few years; first, suspecting,

and then find- ing out for sure that her husband was not only having an affair, but had

several over the course of their marriage. She was glad for this fresh start.

Tess walked into Stafford’s, the town’s bookstore, and immediately felt a sense of

tranquility. She looked around at the exposed brick walls and bookshelves packed to the

rafters with books, excited to find it wasn’t one of those cookie-cutter mega-bookstores.

This bookstore had character. It made her want to grab a book, sit down in one of the

store’s big, cushy chairs and settle down for an afternoon of reading. All was quiet in the

bookstore except for the hum of traffic from the street. The sights, sounds, and smells of

the bookstore wrapped their collective arms around her, giving her a peaceful feeling.

The aroma of the coffee shop next door made her inhale with pleasure. Tess didn’t

care for coffee, but she loved the smell of it. She could picture herself seeking the cozy

confines of the store often.

So many books, so little time, she thought.

She walked past cute knick-knacks for sale in the cooking section. She stopped briefly

in the section that held upscale journals and greeting cards, before noticing a huge black

and white plaster of Paris cow jumping over a moon, hanging from the ceiling in the

children’s section.

She found it quickly: “Brown Dog,” by Tess Tremaine. It always gave her a thrill to

find her book in a bookstore. She picked it up, running her hand lovingly over the cover.

She wondered if she was doing the right thing in switching genres. She’d never written

romance before.

“You can’t do it,” her ex-husband had said. “It was a fluke you’ve even had a children's

book published. You write a novel? Ha. That’s laughable.”

Tess finally ended up in the huge section designated for fiction. It wouldn’t hurt to take

a look. She walked down the row until she was in the W’s, brushing her finger over the

book spines, stopping when she found the name “Jackson Wright.”

She pulled the book out and turned it to the back cover. Gosh, that man’s got looks to

spare.

She gave a self-conscious glance around to see if anybody was watching and then took

five of the books to the cashier, exchanging smiles with the man wearing cowboy boots

sitting in a chair by the fire- place.

The clerk was an older woman, looked to be in her mid-to-late- seventies, with big

hair and bright makeup. She greeted her with a “Hidee,” and looked down at Tess’s

purchases. “Did you know the author is a res'dent of this town?”

Tess played it cool. “I think I did hear something about that.”

“Oooohh, I hafta say, that Jackson is a dream.” She patted her brassy-red teased and

sprayed-stiff helmet-hair. “Wish we had more like ‘im. I'z born ‘n raised here, matter

fact, my kin have always lived here, goin' back to my great great-granddaddy. Yes

ma’am, I'z born here, and I’ll die here. And I make it my bidness ta know everbody

in town. Most everbody’s a right neighborly sort, but we get all kinds ya know; and

some are about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.”
“Is he a native of Goose Pimple

Junction?” Tess broke in.
“Who?” The woman looked puzzled. She glanced down at the

books she was holding and slapped her head.
“Well lands sakes, you mean Jackson

Wright, don’t you? Nemmine me, I shouldenoughta get off on tangents. Nope, I

reckon he’s been here for . . . law . . . ‘bout five years now. Jack lives in one a the

big ole Victorian houses on Maple Street all by his lonesome, right next door to

me actually.” Tess nodded politely, trying to keep up with the accent.

“A course the house where I'z raised is over on Walnut. It was up for sale not too far

back. I thought a buyin’ it, but that house holds too many mem’ries for me. I haven’t

met the new buyer yet—I hear she’s a divorcee from up north—but I ‘spect I’ll stop by

sometime soon to say howdy-do and welcome her to town. Just as soon as I get some of

this dad-gum work outta the way. I swan, I’ve been busier ‘n a stump full of ants. Are

you new in town or just passin’ through, honey?” The woman behind the counter finally

took a breath.

What a talker. “I only moved in a few weeks ago. Actually, the house I bought is on

Walnut. I live at 117 Walnut—that wouldn’t be your old house would it?”

“For law’s sake child, it sure is.” She clapped her hands together. “Well I’m just pleased

as punch to find out that it has such a nice new owner. Frankly,” she lowered her voice

and leaned in toward Tess, “I don’t think the people you bought it from had a lick a

sense. They were about half a bubble off plumb, if ya know what I mean. And Lordy,

they up and sold the house and moved outta town faster ‘n green grass through a goose.

Great day in the mornin’. Where are my man- ners? I’m Louetta Stafford, but folks call

me Lou.” She reached out to shake Tess’s hand. “So tell me—how you likin’ the house,

honey?”

“Oh, I love it. I really do. I want to do some redecorating, but the house has great bones.”

“Oooh law sugar, tell me about it. It broke my heart to see what those people did to that

house. They just did it up on a lick and a promise . . . “ she stopped talking when she saw

Tess’s quizzical expression. “ . . . they didn’t take their time, is what I mean. They only

had the house for ‘bout six years—jest long enough to make a mess of it.”

“Well don’t you worry, I intend to bring it back to its full glory.

I love the little house. I’m looking forward to working on it all on my own.”

“Well, now that I don’t have to meet someone else’s needs all the time, I’m going to

concentrate on my own for a change. I’m going to fix up the house and write a book.”

“Book. Oh, my. I forgot all about ringing the books up for ya.” She picked them up from

the counter. “Here I am flappin’ my gums, and I should be checkin’ you out. Say . . .

did you get a gander at his picture on the sign here? Look. Ain’t he the best eye candy

around?” She pointed to a sign next to the counter.

“Mmm hmm,” Tess mumbled, nodding her head and thinking, absolutely. The sign was

an advertisement for Jack’s book reading on Saturday. Yep, something has to be wrong

with that man. He’s too perfect.

“He’ll be here on Satudee night, ya know.” Lou had the thickest southern accent Tess had

ever heard.

“No, I hadn’t heard. But that sounds interesting.” She tried to sound nonchalant.

Lou seemed more than willing to gossip, and wanting to pump the woman for dirt on

Jack, Tess took a stab at bluffing. “So, um . . . I heard a rumor. Someone said he’s gay.

Do you think it’s true?”

Lou looked at her as if she had just told her she’d seen Elvis in the non-fiction section.

“Honey, I can spot a three-dollar bill a mile away, and if that man’s gay, then I’m Aunt

Jemima.”

“Well, if he’s not . . . ahem, a three-dollar bill . . . and he’s not mar- ried, then something

must be wrong with him—right?” She wondered if she was sounding cool and detached.

Lou pushed her big bosom over the counter towards Tess, and said in a hushed voice,

“Well, if you want to know what I heard . . . .” She leaned in towards Tess. “I heard that

he’d gotten a divorce right before he moved here because he was steppin’ out on his

wife.”

She nodded her head once in punctuation to this statement, then straightened up and

added, “But I’d let him eat crackers in my bed any- time, baby.” And then she broke out

laughing.

Both women were giggling like a couple of schoolgirls and hadn’t noticed the ringing of

the tiny bell over the door that signaled someone had entered or left the store. Tess took

the bag of books, said thank you, and was putting the change in her purse as she turned

and headed for the door.
Whump. Something hard stopped her in her tracks. That

something grabbed both of her forearms to keep her steady. She looked up into

none other than Mr. Jack Wright’s baby blue eyes.

“You’re like a one-woman wreckin' ball, Tess Tremaine. Where in tarnation are you goin'

so fast, and what’s so funny?”

“Oh! Hi! Jack!” she sputtered. I do a lot of babbling around him. That and running into

things.

Lou peered over the counter and slammed her hand down on it. “Well I’ll be doggone—

speak a the devil.”
Quiet, you silly woman, don’t say another word, Tess silently willed

her.

“Is that right?” He looked from woman to woman, amusement showing on his face.

“Yessirree, Ms. Tess here just bought five 'a your books, and I was tellin’ her ‘bout your

book readin’ here on Satudee night.”

. . . books. Don’t say a word about the books. Oh, she said it. Crap and double crap.

Tess’s face turned bright red.

“Oh reeeeeeeally,” he said, cocking his head and raising one eye- brow. There was a

sparkle in his eye, and a dimple in his cheek. “Ya don’t say.”

“Oh, well, yes . . . I thought ifI was going to have you help me at all with my book, then

I should at least be familiar with your work . . . “ she trailed off, not even believing that

line herself. “But I’m afraid I have a paint brush calling my name, so I have to run.”

What she really had to do was get out of there fast, before she said or did anything else to

humiliate herself even more.

Tess headed for the door, embarrassed to the core, not daring to look anyone in the eyes.

She knew the jig was up; she just didn’t want to admit they knew, that she knew the jig

was up. But she glanced at him as she closed the door, and the look on his face told her—

the Jig. Was. Up.

She walked out onto the sidewalk and stopped to take a deep breath.

The door opened, and, afraid it was Jack, she started walking. “'Scuse me, ma’am,” she

heard a deep voice call behind her.
She turned to see if he was talking to her. The

voice belonged to Mr.

Cowboy Boots.
“Sorry to bother you, and I hope you’ll forgive me, but I couldn’t

help but overhear your conversation in there. I wanted to offer you my services.

I'm Willy Clayton.”

She looked at him, confused, not knowing what services he was talking about.

“I’m a house painter and handy man,” he explained. “And all-around good guy,” he

flashed her a smile that she thought was probably an attempt at charm, but made him look

creepy.

She couldn’t help but notice in his faded Levi’s and dirty cowboy boots he looked

nothing like a handy man.

And the verdict was still out on all-around good guy.