Library

Chapter Two

Cal was on his third beer and glaring at the television. He’d been sitting here nearly two hours now, and she still wasn’t home, or answering her phone. He was hungry and feeling sorry for himself when he finally heard a car coming up the drive and looked outside.

It was Bitsy in the little red sports car.

“About damn time,”

he muttered, downed the last of his beer, and got up, ready to read her the riot act.

“Where have you been?”

he snapped.

She dumped the insurance papers and the new car papers on the sideboard, looked at the empty beer bottle in his hand, and rolled her eyes.

“Clearly, you have had one too many or you would remember that I was at the dealership and then the insurance company, hence the stacks of paperwork I just put down. I assumed you would have fired up the grill and started the steaks, but you didn’t,”

and she sailed right past him.

“Don’t walk off when I’m talking to you!”

he shouted.

Bitsy froze. Stood a few seconds with her back to him, and then she slowly turned to face him.

“You did not just yell at me in my own house.”

The look on her face sobered up Cal’s three-beers’ worth of stupidity.

“Look, Bitsy, I’m sorry, but you’ve been acting weird ever since I came home from town, and I want to know why.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. My problem was with your friend, and it has now been solved,”

she said. “And to answer the question you shouted, I am going to change clothes and cook supper. Then we’re going to eat food and anniversary cake, and you can sleep off this hateful attitude. I would have expected you to see my side of this issue, but yet you seem to be more worried about what Bradley thinks. Maybe when you wake up, you will be my sweet man, again.”

“Hateful? Well, I guess I don’t want any dinner or anniversary cake. I’ll just remove myself from the premises.”

“Yes, hateful. Don’t ever yell at me again!”

Cal knew he was wrong. But he didn’t have the balls to say he was sorry.

Bitsy’s heart was pounding. She wanted to cry. But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction as she watched him grab his truck keys and stomp out of the house.

“Good,”

she muttered. “Since you’re screwing another woman, being in your batting lineup is no longer an option.”

She heard him spin out on the graveled drive and speed away and thought, I wish I had a tracker on that truck to see where he goes next . Instead, she picked up the anniversary cake, carried it outside, and set it in the grass by the chicken house, then she went to drown her sorrows with lilac scented bubbles in her Jacuzzi.

She stayed until all the bubbles had popped, and the water was cold before she got out. She put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt then sat down at the kitchen table with an attitude, a Coke, and some cheese and crackers, and ate while watching the chickens pecking the hell out of that cake.

She was still sitting there when the sun went down, but instead of turning on the lights, she sat in the dark, waiting for his headlights to come down the driveway. The longer she sat, the angrier she became, thinking if her daddy was still alive, he would put a load of buckshot in that man’s ass and dare him to ever set foot on this property again. However, Daddy was deceased, and it was up to Bitsy to make Calvin sorry.

It was six minutes past one a.m. when she saw headlights out on the blacktop, and the moment they turned toward the house, they went out. She snorted. That was Cal, trying to sneak in and lie about what time he got home.

She saw him park, kick a tire on her new car as he walked past, then heard him stumbling up the steps and fumbling with the keys before the door swung inward. For a brief moment, he was a looming silhouette in the doorway before he slipped inside and locked the door behind him.

He didn’t see her when he stopped to pull off his boots, and he still hadn’t seen her sitting in the shadows as he walked across her highly polished hardwood floors.

Then all of a sudden, she came out of that chair like she’d been launched and shouted out behind him.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Cal lurched like he’d been shot. His feet slid out from under him, and he fell backward with a thud. The boots he’d been carrying went up in the air. One came down on his crotch. The other one landed heel first on his forehead. It was a sucker punch he never saw coming.

“Oh, for the love of Pete,”

Bitsy muttered, and turned on the light.

He was laid out in her hallway like a body in a morgue. She checked his pulse. It was ticking just fine, which was more than she could say for him. There was a paper napkin sticking out of his shirt pocket which she quickly removed as evidence. It had a lipstick kiss and a phone number written on it, and she was contemplating all manner of revenge when sanity returned.

You are fortunate I do not want to go to hell, or to prison , she thought, and walked over his body, stashed the napkin in the baggie with her other evidence, and pushed it back under the winter quilts.

Then, to mark the end of their fifteenth wedding anniversary, she went to their bedroom, got his present, sat it out in the hall, then locked their bedroom door and went to bed.

**

The first thing Calvin saw when he came to, was the vamp of his boot in his face. When he shoved it off and saw ivy wallpaper, he thought, I am in the hallway. Why am I sleeping in the hall?

He remembered coming home and driving to the house with the lights off. He remembered pulling off his boots and then nothing. But it wasn’t until he started to get up that he began feeling the pain.

His face hurt, and when he stood up, it felt like he’d been kicked in the balls.

What the hell? Did I have a fight in the bar?

He was walking a little bit bow-legged as he headed for their bedroom, and then saw the gaily wrapped present outside the door and groaned. At that point, he was afraid to go in, then realized it didn’t matter, because Bitsy had locked him out.

He felt like ten kinds of a son-of-a-bitch as he carried the present into the kitchen, with the guilt of knowing he’d picked a fight with her for no reason and spent her hundred-dollar birthday bill on booze.

When he opened the box and saw the new hunting vest he’d been wanting, he left it where it lay, too ashamed to take it out of the box. He was beginning to feel sick and pretty sure it was from the lump on his head when he slipped and fell, and because the booze went sour in his belly.

He looked around for their anniversary cake, but didn’t see it, and then felt the contents of his stomach coming up. He took off at a waddle for the back door, flipping on the porch light as he ran, and got outside just in time to puke off the side of the porch.

He was hanging onto the porch post to make sure it was over when he happened to glance out across the back yard. The light on that security pole was bright enough for him to see something laying out in the grass.

At first, all he could see was a lump of something white, and thought it was a dead chicken and that a critter had gotten into the coop. He went tearing off the porch and out into the grass in his socks and ran up on the cake.

In his half-drunk state, he saw the cake, clearly hen-pecked and crawling with June bugs, but he read it as a dead hen crawling with bugs and maggots, and once again, puked where he stood before staggering back to the porch. As he was walking up the steps, his foot slid. He grabbed onto a porch post to catch his balance, and that’s when he noticed the white, greasy trail he was leaving behind him with every step.

He looked down at his socks, pulled one off, smelled the fresh chicken poop, and puked again, then he pulled off both socks and threw them in the yard, cursing loudly in garbled rage.

**

Bitsy woke when she heard him trying to get into the bedroom.

“At least he isn’t dead,”

she mumbled, then laid there listening, knowing he’d gone outside. Curious, she got up and went to the window that looked out into the back yard.

She heard him being sick, and thought why do men make so much noise when they fart or vomit? Women know how to do both delicately and blame it on someone else or bad food. Then she saw him walking toward the chicken house and pause beside the remnants of the cake and puke again.

She shrugged off his misery as well-deserved and went back to bed. A few moments later, she heard him launch into a cursing fit three octaves above his normal speaking voice, and she rolled over and pulled up the covers.

“Karma is a bitch,”

she muttered, and closed her eyes.

**

She was up making coffee and frying bacon when Cal appeared, already dressed for work. There was an imprint of a boot heel in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were squinty from the overhead lights and as red and bloodshot as the strawberries she’d put in their cake.

She poured a cup of coffee and set it on the counter.

He nodded his thanks as he picked it up, and even as he was taking his first sip, wondered if she’d poisoned it. But she was drinking from the same pot, and he decided his biggest issue today was having no excuse for last night.

“Do you want eggs, or would you prefer aspirin and dry toast?”

“Damnit it, Bitsy. Don’t rub it in,”

he mumbled. “Something got into the hen house last night. I saw a dead chicken. The carcass was crawling with maggots. I was going to carry it off this morning, but it’s gone.”

She never glanced up. “You were drunk. That was our anniversary cake. I gave it to the chickens. It couldn’t have been maggots. It hadn’t been there long enough. Likely June bugs. And there were raccoon tracks around the chicken house this morning. Likely, they finished it off. Had you passed out in the yard last night instead of in the hall, I would have left you to the critters, too.”

His stomach rolled. This reminded him of their entire junior year of high school, when she wouldn’t even give him the time of day. He didn’t know what to say or do, but had a feeling if something didn’t get resolved, there wasn’t going to be another strawberry cake or a sixteenth anniversary.

“Uh, Bitsy, about last night . . .”

“Go to work, Calvin. Go adjust someone’s insurance claim or cry on Bradley Beamer’s shoulders. I’m fine.”

He walked out the front door, passing the red Camaro to get to his truck, and thought as he was driving away, that the worst decision he’d made in his life thus far was pulling that stunt with her car just to make his sex game and playtime a little easier. Unfortunately for Cal’s well-being, the current discord wasn’t enough to consider calling it all to a halt.

Embarrassment came when he got to the office with the obvious signs of a hangover and the brand on his forehead. He passed it off as having had “one hell of an anniversary,”

which wasn’t a real lie.

It was their anniversary, and it had been the night from hell. They’d just happened to occur in two different places.

**

Bitsy, on the other hand, was full of righteous indignation, but she wasn’t about to share it with the world. As soon as she finished her breakfast, she changed clothes and headed to Lone Bridge. This was her day to help at her church. The ladies of the First Baptist Church took in clothing donations, washed and mended them, then hung or folded them up like their own little clothing store for whomever was in need.

She liked being a part of it more than she liked the sermons. The preacher was always preaching about sin and retribution. The Clothes Closet was all about doing the right things out of the goodness of their hearts.

Arriving at the church parking lot in her new red sports car, she was met with the usual female glares or compliments, and the sweet smiles they didn’t mean. It was her personal opinion that women were like feral cats. Just when you think you’ve tamed one to be your pet, it will scratch your eyes out just for practice. Just like she was going to shred Cal for cheating, and the woman participating in it, once she found out who it was.

She put up her things and went to get a work apron. Within minutes, she was sorting the new clothing donations, and JoJo Walker, who was also working today, was taking them back to the washing machines.

JoJo loaded up the three washers, then came back to where Bitsy was working.

“Nice car,” she said.

Bitsy smiled sweetly. “Thank you so much. It’s my anniversary present.”

JoJo nodded. “Wow, Cal really came through for you, didn’t he?”

Bitsy threw back her head and laughed. “Lord no. I bought this for myself.”

JoJo blinked. “Well, I guess he still paid for it.”

Bitsy paused. “Actually, he didn’t. I have my own money. But why, exactly, is our business any of your concern? Do you know something I don’t?”

JoJo went from flushed to pale so fast Bitsy thought she was going to pass out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do apologize for being nosy.”

“Apology accepted. I won’t hold it against you. Some people are blind to the boundaries of others.”

And then she pointed at the pile of clothing JoJo was leaning on. “I wouldn’t lay all over those if I were you. That pile is the one with fleas and nits. It needs to go to the laundry. Did you ever have head lice? I haven’t personally, but I hear it’s nasty.”

JoJo threw up her hands and shrieked, before heading for the ladies’ room, while Bitsy took a moment to reflect upon the lie she’d just told in the house of the Lord.

“Sorry, not sorry, Lord, but I think she’s been sleeping with my man. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize about it later.”

**

It was nearing noon, and Bitsy felt good about what she’d done today to help people in need. She was at the back of the room with the sewing machine, repairing rips and replacing buttons, when she heard the long stride of a man wearing boots coming toward her.

She glanced up and saw Fisher Means heading toward men’s coats and jackets, and she looked away before he saw her staring.

Fisher had been a year behind her in school. A quiet boy who’d joined the army out of high school and ended up smack in the middle of the war in Iraq. By the time he’d mustered out thirteen years later, there had been no one left to come home to.

His parents were deceased—killed in a car wreck just like hers had been. He lived alone in the family home he’d inherited, wore his long hair in a ponytail, and often had a couple of days’ worth of black whiskers on his face. He could have passed for the bad guy or the good guy in any spy movie she’d ever seen, which kind of fit the job he had now. He ran a private investigation agency from his home and was known to disappear from time to time.

And now here he was in the clothes closet, looking at the men’s jackets. She put her mending aside and went to see if he needed assistance.

“Hey, Fisher, are you looking for something in particular, or do you want me to go mind my own business?”

A slow smile spread across his face, changing the sharp angles to nearly handsome, which startled Bitsy that she’d even thought it. Right now, she was in no mood to admire anything about men.

Fisher still wore the half-smile as he met her gaze. “I would never be so rude as to tell a lady such a thing. I’m here because somewhere along the way, I seem to have lost my jacket. Maybe left it behind on a recent trip. I know it’s a bit warm for jackets right now, but I like knowing I have one hanging in the closet should the need arise. I don’t need charity. I would be happy to pay.”

“That’s fine. If you find what you want, we’ll make a deal. I’ll leave you to look.”

“Thank you,”

he said, and kept sorting through the jackets as Bitsy went back to her mending.

But now she was watching him more than she was sewing and thinking about his job. Private investigators were supposed to be good at tracking and snooping. Last night, she had wished for a tracking device on Calvin’s truck. Maybe Fisher could bug the truck and find out who he was cheating on her with, and where it was happening. The more she thought about it, the more it intrigued her.

She was still lost in thought when Fisher appeared before her holding a brown leather jacket as well as a denim one.

“What would be fair for these two?”

Fisher asked.

“Maybe twenty-five dollars,” she said.

“Deal,”

he said, and peeled off fifty dollars.

“Oh, Fisher, no! I meant for both of them,” she said.

“They’re worth it to me,”

he said, and put the money in her hands.

“The money will be put to good use,”

she said. “And thank you. Follow me up front, and I’ll bag them up for you.”

Fisher followed, trying not to admire another man’s wife, but he couldn’t help thinking what a fine sight she was coming or going. He laid the coats on the counter as Bitsy dug under the counter for a bag and then began folding them up to fit in it.

The whole time Bitsy worked, her thoughts were spinning, and before she talked herself out of it, just blurted it out.

“Are you still involved in private investigation?”

she asked.

He looked up, and for a second, thought he saw tears shining in her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

She handed him the bag with the two jackets and then whispered. “I don’t know what you charge, or how all that works, but I want to hire you.”

He glanced around to make sure they were alone then lowered his voice.

“It all depends. What, exactly, is the problem?”

Her voice was shaking. “I need to be sure you don’t tell anyone what you’re doing for me.”

“Privacy is part of my job. I don’t talk about anything I work on, or who I work for. If I did, I couldn’t solve anything, could I?” he said.

“Right. I didn’t think of that,”

Bitsy said. “So, my problem is that my husband is cheating on me with another woman.”

Fisher was stunned and tried not to show it. “Bitsy . . . ma’am . . . are you certain?”

“I’m lipstick on a collar, condoms in the glove box, blue pop-off nail stuck in his underwear, black lace panties under the truck seat, pink hairbrush that’s not mine, three different shades of lipstick, and ballpoint pens from at least six motels, certain.”

“Holy shit . . . I mean . . . right. That’s certainly enough.”

“Do I pay you a retainer first, or how does this work?”

she asked.

He definitely saw tears in her eyes now, and this was killing him. He couldn’t stand to see a woman cry.

“Usually a retainer but—”

“I want pictures of him and the woman. I want proof. I am going to take him to court and her with him. Hanging is illegal now, but a public divorce with all the trimmings and suing the woman for Alienation of Affections will suffice. Would a thousand dollars be enough to start?”

Fisher was looking at the maddest woman he’d ever seen, and she had yet to raise her voice. This woman didn’t just want a divorce. She wanted revenge.

He nodded. “Yes, it would be enough.”

“I don’t want to write a check he might see. I can get cash, or I can Venmo you or something.”

“Venmo would be fine, Bitsy.”

He took one of his business cards out of his pocket, wrote his Venmo address on it, and handed it to her.

Bitsy wrote her phone number down on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “My phone number. I’m still living with the bastard. Text, don’t call.”

“Understood, and Bitsy, I will get the proof you want, and he’ll never know it’s happening.”

“Thank you, Fisher.”

“Just Fish. We’ve known each other too long to be formal. I won’t send updates, and unless there’s an emergency, I will not need to contact you until I have the full package. It would be helpful if you’d text me the motel names off the pens. Just go about your business as usual and trust that I’ve got your back.”

Then he picked up his bag and walked out.

Bitsy’s heart was pounding. Either this would be the best thousand dollars she’d ever spent, or it would come to nothing, and Fisher Means wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. Only time would tell, and right now, she was officially off the clock at the Baptist Church Clothes Closet.

She gathered up her things and went back to her car, then she sent the thousand dollars to his Venmo address. Next stop, Granger Feed and Seed to get chicken feed. Laying hens did not thrive on cake, alone.

Fisher said to keep to her routine, and this was part of it. She came home with chicken feed and a rotisserie chicken with the intention of making chicken and dumplings.

After unloading the chicken feed and gathering the eggs, she headed for the house. Normally, she would have cooked the chicken herself so she would have the juices from the stew pot to start the dumplings in. But Cal no longer qualified for the best of Bitsy. A box of store-bought chicken broth and a pre-cooked chicken would work just fine. All she had to do was get the meat off the bones, stir up some dumplings to drop in the boiling broth, and add the pieces of chicken in the bottom of the bowl before she served the dumplings. One wrong comment about the food, and he’d be wearing it.

**

Fisher Means went home long enough to hang up his new jackets, then he headed down the hall to his office. He was still reeling from the shock of Bitsy’s request when her Venmo money arrived. He transferred it to his business account at the bank and felt sorry for her, for what was happening. Of all the people in Lone Bridge, he would have never seen this coming.

Then he shook off the thought and went back to the business at hand. What he needed first was a magnetic tracker to plant on Cal’s truck, and once he decided which one to use, he opened the package, loaded the info into his laptop and synced it with his cell phone. Another practice of his was to put a new SIM card in his camera every time he began a new case. That way, every photo he took from then on would be photos pertaining to that case.

Once he had everything ready on his end, he headed out. It was going to take time to get a feel for Cal’s daily routine, but the tracker would do that for him, and the camera was his gun. All he had to do was focus and click. A bloodless way to bring down the bad guys, and a far cry from spending thirteen years of his life in someone else’s war.

**

Cal was at work, finishing up a report to send to the home office and wishing to God he could do rewind to six weeks ago, and let Bradley fix Bitsy’s car. Never in a million years would he have expected what happened. She was always so agreeable and passive. But yesterday, she’d turned into a woman he didn’t know. He should never have shouted at her, either. Three beers and he’d been ready to rumble until she turned around. One look at her face, and he turned tail and ran. Chicken Little had nothing on him. The sky was falling, and he was afraid to look up.

But Cal’s focus on work was exactly what Fisher Means needed. He drove up the alley behind the Sullivan Insurance building, spotted Cal’s truck, and stopped long enough to slap the magnetic tracker on the underside of the truck, and then drove away.

He parked a couple of blocks up long enough to verify the tracker’s signal then went through the drive-through to get a Pepsi and some fries. Next stop was to find a place to park with a clear view of the alley by which Cal would be leaving, and wait.

Wherever Cal went, Fisher was sure to go.

**

Cal sent his report, checked the log to see if he had a clear calendar, and he did. Baring a fire, a wreck, or a natural disaster, his work week looked light, which meant his social calendar was looking up.

No sooner had he thought it, than his cell signaled a text.

#12. NOW

He grinned. Tansy Sullivan’s bat signal left nothing to the imagination. He sent a reply.

ETA in ten

He logged off the computer and walked out the back door with his phone in one hand and his car keys in the other, heading for Rogers Motel on the outskirts of Lone Bridge without one ounce of guilt about having an affair with his boss’s wife.

The tall pines lining the drive provided shade, and the parking lot behind the motel provided privacy. The perfect place for an illicit rendezvous.

He took the turn off the highway in a skid and gunned it down the pine-lined drive, then he slowed down as he entered the parking lot behind the building. Room Twelve was at the far end of the building, and that’s where he parked. Just thinking about Tansy’s hands and tongue made him hard. He got out of the truck on the run, knowing the door would be unlocked, and the room would be dark.

The moment he crossed the threshold, Tansy shut and locked the door behind him. She was a naked, shadowy wraith, waiting for a ride.

He kicked off his boots and began removing his clothes, but he wasn’t fast enough. Tansy yanked. Buttons went flying, as they fell into a tangle of arms and legs and naked bodies, turning the bed into a horizontal trampoline.

**

When Fisher saw Cal exit off the highway into the motel driveway, he wiped the salt off of his hands, started his truck, and began following the blip on his phone. It didn’t take long to figure out where Cal was going.

A few minutes later, Fisher turned off the highway and followed the drive all the way back to the parking lot, pulled into a spot two rows behind Cal’s truck, and killed the engine.

He took his camera out of the case, fitted it with the telescopic lens, and took a couple of pictures of Cal’s truck and the car parked beside it. Fisher wondered who she was and settled down to wait.

**

Twenty minutes after liftoff, Cal was flat on his back in the bed, still reeling from the blood rush, while Tansy had already pranced herself into the bathroom. She’d gotten what she’d come for and had places to be, and Cal was on the same schedule. He’d used up this week’s freedom to dither.

Tansy emerged from the bathroom and grabbed her clothes to put on as Cal rolled off the bed. “You’re the best,”

he said, and gave her butt a quick pat.

She was applying her makeup when he came out of the bathroom and began getting dressed. As soon as they were ready, they left the room key on the bed along with a tip and walked out together, unaware of the man in the back of the lot taking picture after picture of them, including their goodbye kiss, and then shots of them driving out of the lot, one behind the other.

After they were gone, Fisher drove around to the front of the motel and went into the office. The clerk looked up and smiled.

“Fish! Long time—no see,” he said.

“Evening, Dooley. How’s it going?”

Fisher asked.

“Could be better. My kid broke his collarbone a couple of days ago. I’m working two shifts to make up the money for the doctor bills,”

Dooley said.

“That’s rough. Sorry to hear that,”

Fisher said, then leaned on the counter and lowered his voice. “I need a little information, and it’s worth the hundred-dollar bill in my pocket.”

Dooley frowned. “What kind of information?”

“About the people who just rented room twelve.”

Fisher said.

“I ain’t supposed to give out that information,”

Dooley said.

Fisher laid the money on the counter between them.

Dooley looked around to make sure they were alone and then slipped the money in his pocket.

“Calvin Yarbrough and Tansy Sullivan. They take turns paying, but that’s their go-to room.”

Fisher nodded. “Out of curiosity, how long has this been going on? I mean . . . them meeting here?”

Dooley’s brow furrowed. “I’d say . . . once a week for at least four, maybe five years.”

“Do you have any way to print out that history for me?”

Fisher asked.

“It’ll take a minute,”

Dooley said.

“I’ll wait,”

Fisher said, and a few minutes later, he had the proof.

“Thank you, Dooley. I hope your son heals up okay,”

Fisher said, and walked out.

He got back in his car to check the blip that was Cal’s truck, noticed he’d already gone through Lone Bridge and was driving toward the home he shared with Bitsy. Fisher wondered if she would suspect anything when Calvin walked in the door?

He watched until the blip ceased movement, checked the location, and saw Cal was home, which meant it was time for him to go home, as well.

**

Bitsy had her mama’s tureen full of chicken and dumplings and a bowl of sliced cucumbers and raw onion slices marinating in a salt and pepper vinegar dressing. They’d been her daddy’s favorite version of a salad, and she had the need to hold the memories of her family close, today more so than ever.

She didn’t have Cal anymore.

She wasn’t even certain he’d come home.

All she had for sure was her rage—and Fisher Means.

A few minutes later, one question was answered when she saw Cal’s truck coming up the drive. It remained to be seen if he intended to stay.

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