Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Jesse

W ith Tallula standing opposite me, wearing a haughty expression, the bad boy in me threatens to rear his ugly head again. But I take a breath, doing my best to remember the man I've become.

"Let me give you my number, so?—"

She waves her hands as if turning down seconds on Thanksgiving. "That's not necessary. I don't drink tea."

I gawk. Does she really think I was giving her my number because I was going to suggest we meet up for morning beverages? She's as full of herself as ever.

"It's regarding the investigation of your stolen property. Should you have anything else to share or if there are further developments, you can let the station know, Princess." I flick the card to her.

"Oh, sorry. I thought?—"

"Yeah. I know what you thought. I wasn't going to suggest we get caffeinated and then take a ride on my motorcycle."

She shifts back slightly, cheeks the faintest pink.

Whereas old-Jesse wants to sling a bit more mud, I hold my tongue. "Glad to see you're doing well."

"Thanks. You too." Her gaze slowly skims our surroundings.

The interaction goes from chilly to awkward, and I'm right back where I started where talking to Tallula is daunting—like having to do the PE rope climb in front of the whole class.

Her eyes dart from mine, then to something behind me before landing on my shoulder where my two-way radio crackles, and then travel to my left hand and then back to my eyes.

I trace the path, wondering what she sees, what she's looking at. Before I can come up with an answer, a high-pitched, childlike voice calls to me from the doorway of the Coffee Loft.

"Deputy Lawson." Molly Hazelwood, the town's busybody in training, crosses the room like it's an obstacle course. It's not surprising that she followed me here from the salon.

My shoulders tense because a visit from Molly is always...tedious and tenuous. She is persistent and if I say the wrong thing, or even breathe funny, it'll end up in print.

"Deputy, there is a concern in this town about the Coffee Loft franchise. People are voicing opposition and?—"

Mustering patience because my short time in this position has taught me that I'll need it, I say, "I'm not sure how I could help you with your concern. Miss Valencia purchased this commercial property, following all the correct channels. She registered her business, the town board approved it, and she followed all zoning and other laws in the construction of the new building. If you have a true concern, I suggest you speak directly with her. Conveniently, she's right over there." I gesture, sensing Mara doesn't put up with Molly's pestering.

Tallula winces as if to say Good luck with that. Mara seems like the no-nonsense type.

Molly says, "It's not that, it's about the items that are going to be for sale."

"Coffee and other beverages?" I ask, actually confused.

I received my assignment here in Hogwash around the same time Mara initiated the purchase of the former Sunrise Café property. It's my understanding that the sun had set on that operation with numerous health code violations, insurance problems, and a few plumbing issues. Mara paid a large amount for the centrally located real estate and then adhered to all the local rules and procedures for turning a dump into what's shaping up to be a nice-looking coffee joint.

I don't see a problem.

Mara, eyes sharp, appears this time sans baby. Her arms fly in front of her chest, crossing tightly. "Yes, this is a franchise, but each store is independently run. Consider it a small, local business. Not a huge corporation. As for the menu items, you can be assured that they'll be of high quality yet affordable."

Molly's mouth guppies like she wasn't expecting Mara to come out with her fists raised, but if I remember correctly, she was always one with a sharp tongue—to this day, I don't think anyone has outdone her list of debate team awards at Cameron Parish High School.

She adds, "You'd think people would be excited not to get to the bottom of the swill from the gas station and choke on grounds."

They both turn to me.

I hold up my hands in surrender. "Tea drinker over here."

Molly straightens and stands firm. "Some residents expressed concern that this is the start of, um, gentrification." It takes her a moment to get the word out.

Mara narrows her eyes. "Have you taken a look at Hogwash lately? Do you remember what it was like when we were growing up?"

I study a scuff on my boot because I certainly didn't contribute to the town's upkeep. Quite the opposite, actually. Not proud of that.

It's just then that Molly seems to notice Tallula standing there. She blinks a few times. "The rumors are true? Betsy wasn't telling a tall tale?"

She's been watching the exchange as if it were a soap opera, and her intent expression shifts into a warm starlet smile. "If by rumors you mean that the one and only Llula Lilly is here, then yes."

"I thought you'd changed your last name to Price. "

"Reversion update pending," Tallula mutters.

Molly picks up on this as if making a note to chase the lead later. The Hazelwoods lived a few houses over from my father's trailer before he moved to my grandparents' place. They could never be trusted. Neither could we, but our deficiencies came more in the form of fighting and thieving. Theirs were far more conniving.

"This looks like quite the reunion. We have Mara, the brains of the bunch, returned to town to save it economically in a similar way Swan's Syrups did all those years ago during prohibition," Molly says.

"The sassafras farms helped too," Mara says smartly.

"Then there's her sister Llula, the good girl queen bee snob of Cameron High School."

She inhales sharply. "I wasn't a snob."

"You were definitely a snob," Mara counters.

Tallula huffs, crosses her arms in front of her chest, and turns her head sharply away. The response doesn't help her case.

"Then we have the boozer loser who now drives a cruiser." Molly smiles as if pleased with herself and rapidly types into her phone, likely making a note to include the phrase in a future issue of Pest Digest.

Her assessment is fairly accurate, past tense. People change.

Pest is the best way to describe Molly. But I don't argue even though I want to defend myself, Mara, and even Tallula. I saw a different side of the Cameron High princess that day in detention and afterward .

Even with the workers in the background, silence hangs between the four of us.

Mara breaks it. "That's accurate, but not the whole story." Her eyes dart to me and then float to her sister.

Undaunted, Molly says, "The timing of everyone's return works perfectly because I'm also heading up the high school reunion next spring."

"I wasn't in your graduating class," Mara says.

"You could donate coffee and?—"

"You come in here, questioning the legality of my shop, and then have the gall..."

Mara silences Molly with a sharp look.

"Wasn't your class Halloween-themed?" Tallula asks.

"Yes, we did our reunion two years ago with a murder mystery theme—that's what brought me back to Hogwash. When I couldn't get a good latte anywhere, the idea for the Coffee Loft came to me."

"We're doing an 80s retro throwback theme. Everyone has to dress up," Molly says.

"Good movies and good music from that decade. For our Clue-inspired murder mystery, we all dressed up like it was the 1950s," Mara says.

"80s hair and clothing styles were, um, interesting," Tallula adds like she's considering costumes.

Molly says, "I love the movie Clue. It's a hilarious mystery."

"I've never seen it." However, I do have a couple of mysteries on my hands.

"Surely, you've played the board game," Tallula says .

I shake my head because the playing I did as a kid was more of the I didn't do it and don't get caught variety.

Tallula sets the stage, "Clue is a classic film where six people, who at first seem to be strangers, are invited to a dinner party at a mysterious mansion. Their host turns up dead. A series of crimes are committed and revealed. No spoilers, but someone is guilty and no one is who they seem."

A chill works through us as we listen in rapt silence.

"Kind of like who killed Hogan Tickle," Molly says.

"Someone killed him?" Tallula and her sister say to me at the same time as if I can answer that.

"In my position, you'd think I'd have insider information, but those secrets are long buried. Officially, he died of natural causes."

"Hogwash. The crocogator got him," calls one of the workers.

"I heard he faked his death," another says.

"Rumors abound," Mara mutters. "And apparently, everyone listens to your conversation around here."

"They sure do," I add.

"Welcome home," Mara says in a sarcastically cheerful tone.

Molly's voice squeaks with excitement. "Who killed Hogan Tickle could be a theme for a play. Too bad the theater is closed down."

"I have such good memories from there." Tallula gazes wistfully into the middle distance.

"What? Like kissing a boy for the first time?" Mara teases.

"It was for the stage!" Tallula's cheeks turn pink.

"It's too bad we can't use the building for our reunion. Right now, we have the school gymnasium. Exciting. Not ." Molly sighs.

"The Flying Pig Playhouse is condemned. No trespassing," I advise.

Ignoring my comment, Molly asks, "Weren't you in a band?"

My cousin Sawyer comes back to mind—our drummer. " Was in a band. I haven't picked up a guitar in years. We were called the Simple Grinds."

Mara inclines her head in question. "Grinds like coffee?"

I shrug. "Grinds like guitar licks."

"Can you guys play at the reunion?" Molly asks.

"Doubtful," but I don't expand on why it would likely be a problem.

"All of you can invite a guest," Molly says.

"That would be Moink." Tallula nuzzles the dog with cartoonishly bulging eyes.

Mara rolls hers.

" Oui, oui, oui, mon petit mademoiselle ," Tallula says with perfect pronunciation, cooing at the animal.

The little dog with a corkscrew tail makes an oink , no a moink , sound instead of a bark. It wiggles out of Tallula's arms and darts toward the door. On foot, it's about the same size as Mrs. Halfpenny's battery-operated dog.

With workers moving heavy items all around the shop, she could be trampled. Moving quickly, I scoop her up. She wiggles in my arms and tries to lick my face while making the moink sound.

Tallula reaches for the animal and our hands brush as we carefully make the transfer. My skin heats through like I'd placed it on a griddle—an ill-conceived dare back in the day.

She offers a small smile, and I wonder why I feel like a pancake soaking up maple syrup.

"Thank you for rescuing Moink. Who's my little love bug? Mon porcin , mon corchon ." She nuzzles the wet, flat animal's nose.

"Is it a pig?" I ask.

Molly says, "This is likely a health code violation."

"We're not yet open," Mara says.

Once again, I hold my hands up. "That's not my department."

Tallula answers, "She's not a little piggy. Moink is a frug."

"Come again?" I ask, worried I didn't hear right.

"She's a French bulldog pug mix. Her official name is Mademoiselle Oink because she kind of makes that noise."

On cue, the dog demonstrates.

She showcases the cream-colored short-haired creature for all of us to see. I have to admit, she's rather homely—Moink, not Tallula. Her chocolate paws, like she was playing in the mud, paddle the air like she lives for cuddles.

People and their dogs. Sheesh .

But I suppose the same could be said about teenage boys and the crushes they didn't realize they had. Time to put that notion away, leave thoughts of Tallula in the memory book, and lock it in the vault.