Chapter Fourteen

Devil's in the Details

You can always count on at least three barflies buzzing around the Watering Hole at any time of day. Friday at happy hour, the parking lot is jammed full. The bar used to be an old service station in the '50s, until they built the bypass on the other side of town. Then the long building sat abandoned for a good fifteen years. Until liquor licenses were allowed—for the county only. Within twenty-four hours, Gary Dunlap painted the windows black, built a square bar corral in the middle and slapped a hand-painted Watering Hole sign over the old service station's name. It's been packed ever since.

Quietly, I look over to the car's empty passenger seat, wish like heck Adaire and I could take one more trip down that old country road to our house. We were always laughing about something. She loved this car, the cracked vinyl her favorite shade of red. She always said it felt like sitting in the mouth of a beast. I pull the purple-and-white tassel from her graduation cap off the rearview mirror. The tiny brass '83 flickers in the sunlight. It's faded and ratty but holding it now, I think about that night after graduation where we stole beers from Wyatt's cooler. Man, he was pissed. We sat on the hood of this very car—a graduation gift to herself—and drank those beers, talking about a road trip to the beach someday.

A road trip we never got to in the last few years. Life just happens like that. You get caught up in doing everyday things; working, saving up money, figuring out the next steps. Next thing you know, time slips out from underneath you. Then life throws you a curveball and snatches away your best friend.

I take one last look around the car, try to soak up all those memories Adaire and I shared here. The door makes a frowning sound when I close it. I try not to think about a new owner sitting in the front seat soon.

A haze of cigarette smoke hovering in the top half of the bar greets me as I step inside. It does nothing to mask the strong odor of dirty bleach-water and fried food. Some new song by The Judds croons from the jukebox like an anthem. The so-called kitchen is a row of eight deep fryers that'll serve you one of four dishes: chicken nuggets, cheesy fries, mozzarella sticks, or mountain oysters.

I wave hello to Raelean, who's delivering an order to a table in the back. I'm hoping she can give me a ride home on her break because if Aunt Violet is more than an hour into a shift, you can count on her being too buzzed to drive.

I belly up to the bar and drop the keys on the counter. "Hey, Vic," I say to the bartender who's drying a beer stein. Vic's slippery grin reminds me of a cat before it pounces. It's as sleazy as his greasy black hair, reminds me of Danny Zuko. Searching the room for Aunt Violet but not finding her, I ask, "Aunt V here? I need to give her these keys."

He hangs the chunky beer glass on the hook. "Yep, she's in the manager's office, talking with someone."

"Tell her I've caught a ride home from Raelean." And I start to walk in Raelean's direction when he stops me.

"Nope. She specifically said she wanted to talk to you. That it was important. So you can wait your sweet little ass right here." He leans against the bar with both hands, lathering up that grin. "Now tell Vic what you want?" I ask for a glass of water. As I sit there drinking and avoiding any more eye contact than is necessary with Vic, I hear the door to the manager's office and voices as they exit.

"Oh, shit." I duck behind the register as Deputy Rankin strolls out. I don't recall seeing a deputy's car in the parking lot.

"Damn if it ain't a busy day for the law." Raelean lays her serving tray on the bar and gives Vic a table's drink order. "Heard they were out at the Rutledge place earlier today, too. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Raelean side-eyes me. I lean farther out of Deputy Rankin's line of sight when he passes.

"Let's just say I won't be parading myself around town anytime soon." I sit upright once he's gone. I don't bother telling Raelean what Gabby said; she'd have the same reaction as Davis. "Hey, can you give me a ride home? Aunt Violet is probably already toasted."

"Sure." Raelean adds limes to the cocktails they ordered. "But she hasn't been drinking lately."

"Yeah, right." I huff a laugh.

"No, seriously, she's gone cold turkey." She stacks the last beer on her tray.

I think Raelean is so used to drunk Violet, she's recalibrated her barometer as sober Violet. Besides, I'd notice if Aunt V got sober. Wouldn't I?

"Becky just came in. She can cover for me, and I can drive you home—it's about time for my dinner break." Raelean spins on her wedge heels, tray full of food perfectly balanced on her small hand. I walk over to the manager's office.

Behind the desk, Aunt Violet is sorting through a stack of bar tickets. Her black hair—box-dyed and short—flames into this swooping wave on top of her head, the tips frosted. Her eyes, a crimson brown, flit up to me as I tap out a knock on the door frame. My hand a little shaky, I can't help but wonder if Rankin was asking about me.

"You're not bartending tonight?" I ask, stepping into the cramped space. Alcohol signage and paraphernalia litter the faux-wood panel walls. Two filing cabinets shoulder up a tottering overstuffed bookcase on either side that could come crashing down with a good sneeze.

"Lord, no." She swipes a dismissing hand through the air as she stands. "Gary has me doing the books now. Don't look at me like that. Your Aunt V has a brain, you know." She leans in to hug me, but stops short and snags my chin. "What in the hell happened here?" she gasps, examining the bruise purpling up my cheek.

There is no part of what happened today that I care to share. Instead, I tell her I had a run-in with a glass door.

"Mmm, huh," she says rather dryly, side-eyeing me, knowing it's a lie but she doesn't press further. It's a small town, the truth will eventually make its way to her. I'll deal with it then. "Let's get this fixed up." She frowns at the bruise, then scrounges in her overstuffed purse until she finds her makeup bag. Aunt Violet wears enough foundation and makeup for the both of us, but I don't mind her fussing—might spare me a few questions later on. "Look, sugar..." She dots out some concealer before blending it with her thumb. "Have the cops come to talk to you again about Stone?"

I feel my stomach tighten instantly at the mention of Stone's name. "Not since they first brought me in for questioning. Why? That why Rankin was here?"

"Yeah, he wanted to know if you stayed the night at the house the night before he died." She glances out in the hallway to make sure no one can hear and then closes us in her office. "But don't worry none, I covered for you. If they ask, you tell them we had leftover spaghetti for dinner. Maybe drank a few beers. And went to bed around one a.m. And you didn't leave until the next morning, say like, before nine." She dusts on a little bit of powder, then leans back to observe her work.

"But I did stay the night with you that night." Though I snuck in through Adaire's bedroom window, and I tell her that.

Aunt Violet pauses in dusting my cheek. Her brow crinkles up in confusion. She stares at me, unsure how to process this information. "Wait, you're saying you stayed at the house the night Stone was murdered?" The way she asks, it's like she's going to need a little proof to verify my story. "When did you get there?" Her voice shakes a little.

"I... I'm not sure, probably two thirty, three a.m. I was pretty drunk."

She chews on this a bit. "Okay then, if they ask, it was between one and two. Then we have similar stories." She nods, satisfied, as if this tiny change will matter somehow.

"Oh-kay. But you believe me, Aunt V, don't you?" Aunt Violet, with her nervous hand, closes her powder compact, unable to look at me. The color drains from her face.

Suddenly, this tiny office feels smaller and stuffy with the door closed. "You believe me, don't you?" I ask again.

She swallows hard, nodding. "Yeah," she says slowly, as if lost in thought. That nod of hers picking up pace as though she has to assure herself this new information is okay. "Yeah. Don't tell the cops you snuck in the window, okay? Stick with what I said: we ate spaghetti, had a few beers, and went to bed between one or two in the morning. Left before nine the next day. Okay?"

I watch her warily. She truly believes she's covering for me. My own family thinking I'm capable of something so brutal as murder. "You know I didn't kill Stone, right?" I ask, but honestly I'm not certain she does.

Her head jerks up, and then looks me straight in the eye. "That man deserved to die, you hear me? No one needs to feel guilty for avenging their family. But if you say you didn't do it, then you didn't do it." Aunt Violet smarts a nod. I release a sigh.

The office door swings open, causing us both to jump. Raelean shoves her head in and pauses, picking up the intensity in the air. Then she pops off. "Hate to interrupt your little family meeting, but if you want a ride, it's now or never."

"Coming." I move to follow her out, and then I pause. "Hey, Aunt V, is it true what Raelean said, you're sober now?"

A soft smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, doll, nineteen days and counting. I started thinking about my baby girl. And if her dying isn't a reason to get my act straight, then I don't know what is. Now, you get on out of here and keep your ass out of trouble. And the next time someone clocks you in the face, I better hear you gave it back to them twice as good." She chucks me on the chin. "Glass door, my ass. Get out of here."

She smacks me on the butt to get going.

Some rowdy Hank Williams Jr. song tune blasts from the jukebox. There's a boisterous conversation going on between a group of guys hanging around the pool table.

"Now maybe we won't have to hear you bellyaching about not getting first kill of the season," an old guy says to Jimmy Daughtry, and the crowd erupts in laughter.

Raelean catches Jimmy's eye as we pass. "Hey, sugar, why don't you come over and sit in Jimmy's lap and celebrate with me?" He gives his legs a hearty pat.

"Sure thing, Jimmy," she says, giving him a half second of hope. "Right after I'm done dropping off baby formula for the newborn your wife is home taking care of—bastard." The last part she huffs under her breath.

"You're no fun!" he hollers as we step out of the cigarette haze and into fresh early evening air.

"What's he celebrating? Wasn't his baby born, like, a month ago?" I ask as we walk over to Raelean's blue Camaro.

"Yeah." Raelean totters over the gravel in her heels. "He's celebrating the fact he doesn't have to buy any meat for the next month. But his truck fender paid the price for it."

I eye the damaged truck as we pass it and freeze as I catch sight of an antler sticking up out of the truck bed.

"A dead deer," I whisper to myself.

"That's right." Raelean tugs open her car door but pauses to watch me a second.

"A dead deer caused that kind of damage to his truck." A rhetorical question.

"Yeah. Why? What's turning over in your head there, Weatherly?"

Davis is wrong. Stone's pristine bumper is not nothing. Lorelei driving her father's car is not nothing. Gabby talking about hitting a dead deer is not nothing.

"You know what? On second thought, don't drive me home. Drive me to the police station."