Читать книгу In Emmylou's Hands - Pamela Hearon - Страница 15

CHAPTER FIVE

PARKING UP THE street in a black pickup truck with a pair of binoculars trained on Ramona’s house was not the smartest reconnaissance plan Sol had ever been part of, but the Fullers had collectively vetoed his suggestion to get the police involved. So the next best option seemed to be to watch the house for Ramona’s husband or both of them to leave and to hope for an unlocked door or window, which Joe Wayne seemed to think was likely.

Looking around the run-down neighborhood, Sol couldn’t imagine such a scenario. This was a far cry from neat and tidy Taylor’s Grove and his own house, which he’d bet had never been locked since the day his grandparents moved in. But it confirmed that his decision to follow Joe Wayne and EmmyLou had been the right move, despite her protests that she didn’t need his protection.

Damn stubborn woman.

Joe Wayne came into view, slinking around the side of the house, head darting back and forth, guilty as sin and looking every inch the part. He sprinted to the edge of the driveway and up the street toward EmmyLou’s car. Sol hurried from the truck to hear his report.

“She’s in the backyard.”

A break—finally! “Did you arrange to get your keys?”

Joe Wayne shook his head. “Not Ramona. Patsy. She’s around back. And I seen the legs of my jeans laying out by the garbage, too. My guess is Ramona made herself a pair of shorts to get rid of the evidence.” He caught his breath on a wistful sigh. “I heard her husband tell her they was out of baloney and somebody was gonna have to go get some. Maybe it’ll be him. And maybe it’ll be soon.”

The temperature was creeping up to the point of being uncomfortable, and Sol was itching to get back to the beach house and the breeze off the Gulf...and the prospect of solitude once EmmyLou and her brother were out of his hair.

“I have an idea.” EmmyLou’s breathless exclamation raised his body temperature—and his disgruntled attitude—even more. “Let’s call your phone, and when they answer, we’ll pretend you’re an undercover CIA agent.” The brown of her eyes deepened with excitement, sending Sol’s memory soaring back to the night they spent together, which, in turn, reminded him how far he’d dropped on her scale of desirability. “We’ll say there’s a bomb planted on the cycle and they need to move it to the road with the keys and the phone, and we’ll come by and pick it up.”

Sol mustered his most condescending snort. “That may be the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard.”

“That so?” If the convertible top had been up on EmmyLou’s car, she might’ve ripped it in her hasty exit from the driver’s seat. “I don’t hear you coming up with anything better. I drove all night to get here, and I’m going to have to do it again tonight to get home for work tomorrow. I’m ready to go back to my hotel room and get some sleep, but instead, we’re standing around, roasting in this heat all afternoon, waiting for an event that might not happen.” She slammed the door and leaned back on it, crossing her arms in a pose that was somehow beguiling in its belligerence.

“If you’d stayed home, you wouldn’t be having to deal with this.” Sol shifted his eyes to Joe Wayne. “Look, I’ll just go to the door, and when she answers, I’ll ask for the keys and your phone.”

The male half of the Fullers squinted a wary eye. “What if he answers?”

Sol shrugged. “I’ll ask to speak to Ramona.”

“And he’ll throttle you on the spot.” Joe Wayne’s shrug mocked his own. “No questions asked.”

EmmyLou didn’t say anything, only glared at Sol as she stomped around to the trunk of her car and got out a bag, slinging it across her shoulder.

“What’s in there?” he asked.

“Hair tools and makeup. I’ll tell Ramona she’s won a makeover. When I get her alone, I’ll tell her who I am and get the keys and the phone.”

Joe Wayne’s face broke into a pleased grin. “That just might work.”

“No!” Sol exclaimed. Didn’t the woman have any sense of danger? “You’re not going in there.”

“Watch me.”

She walked fast. Sol had to break into his awkward jog to catch up with her. When he did, she turned a scowl in his direction. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not letting you go in there alone. I’m your assistant. Perry.”

“My assistant is Demitri.” Her scowl morphed into a smirk. “And he’d never let his hair look like that.”

“Today he does.” Sol couldn’t recall if he’d combed his hair this morning...or yesterday. It was one of those things that didn’t seem too important anymore.

The conversation stopped as they stepped onto the front stoop. EmmyLou rapped on the door as Sol let out a sharp breath.

* * *

THE WOMAN WHO answered the door had obviously been a real looker at one time, but her features had settled into a premature hardness that aged her maybe a decade, if Emmy was any judge...and she usually was. The husband hovered a few feet in the background, looking even meaner than he’d sounded over the phone.

“Hi there.” Emmy gave a warm smile and extended her hand. “Ramona?”

The woman didn’t return the smile or take her hand. Instead she scanned Emmy from head to toe and back. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Chloe Cramer from the Beauty Bar Salon, and this is my assistant, Demitri. Ramona’s name was drawn as the winner of a surprise makeover from our salon. Is she here?”

“A makeover? No shit?” Ramona’s smile softened her face and gave a glimmer of the pretty girl she used to be. “I’m Ramona. Come on in.”

Emmy shot Sol a triumphant grin. This was going to work. She stepped inside with him close at her elbow. Lifting her chin confidently, she covered the distance to the giant man in the Save The Squirrels, Eat More Possum T-shirt, whose tattoo-covered arm muscles bulged as he crossed them over his broad chest. “And you must be the lucky guy in this pretty woman’s life.”

“Naw, I’m her husband,” he snarled.

Emmy wasn’t sure if he’d meant that as a joke, but she kept her smile fixed. She hadn’t realized Ramona had moved to stand beside her, and she gave a startled jump when the woman’s hand squeezed her arm.

“Are you going to do it here? Right now? I never won nothing before. This is the best thing that ever happened to me!” The woman actually squealed with delight.

“I...uh. Well, actually, we usually try to do it when the husband isn’t home, so the final look is a surprise for him, as well.” Emmy’s mouth was moving so fast, she just let it go and prayed what she said sounded plausible. “If we can move somewhere more private and work out the details, we’ll figure out a better time for us to come back.”

“How long you need?” The husband threw a menacing look Sol’s direction that caused Emmy to shudder. “I don’t like leaving my wife with a strange man in the house any longer than I have to.”

Augh! She should’ve anticipated that Sol’s hotness would be a liability. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about Demitri. Does he, love?” She forced a giggle and patted Sol’s chest before turning back to the brute. “He’s head-over-heels in love with his husband, and they make absolutely the most adorable couple you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, making the grin he turned on Sol more threatening. “Yeah. I figured as much.” His eyes darted to Emmy. “So, how long you need?”

“An hour,” she said.

“And a half,” Sol added, his voice sounding an octave lower than usual. “We don’t want to have to rush.”

“I’m going for a beer.” The husband brushed past them, deliberately bumping hard into Sol, who stumbled against Emmy but quickly righted himself.

“Pick up some baloney while you’re out,” Ramona called before the door slammed, and then the questions bubbled out of her. “Are you gonna do color? And cut it? I’ve been thinking about going shorter. And will you do makeup, too?”

Emmy waited until she heard the vehicle start up outside, then held up her hand for Ramona to stop. “Ramona, I’m sorry. I’m actually Joe Wayne Fuller’s sister, and I’m here to get his phone and the keys to his motorcycle.”

Ramona pulled back, her face hardening into the old crone again. “You mean there ain’t no makeover? You lied about all this just to get the stuff from me?”

“Well, yeah.” Emmy shot a help me look at Sol, but he just smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I hate to do it, but we couldn’t think of any other way to get to you without making your husband suspicious.”

Ramona jerked her phone out of her back pocket. “I oughta call him back here right now and let him whip both your asses. Get out of here before I decide to do just that.”

“But Joey needs his phone and his keys.” If the woman had any affection for her brother, maybe this technique would work.

Ramona stomped her foot. “And I need a damn makeover.”

“Come on.” Sol pulled Emmy’s arm, but she stood firm.

“No.” She shook her head with a sigh, accepting what she had to do. “I am really a stylist with my own salon, so if a makeover is what it’s going to take, you’ll get a makeover.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out the box of color she’d picked up for a client yesterday. “The only color I have in my bag is Red Hot Red.”

“That’ll suit me just fine...probably.” Ramona grinned. “Make me happy, and you’ll get what you came for.”

* * *

SOL BREATHED IN a gulp of the afternoon heat, thankful to be leaving the place with all of his teeth intact. It had been touch and go for a while, but Emmy’s plan had worked.

She held up the keys and phone, flashing them in the sunlight. Joey let out a whoop and came running from the cover of the bushes.

“You did it!” He grabbed his sister in a tight hug. “Thank you. Thank you!”

“You know I’m here for you, sugar.” She swatted his backside. “Now go get Patsy. Husband’s due back any minute.”

“Whooeee, yeah! I’m coming for you, Patsy! Daddy’s here.” Joe Wayne darted around the corner of the house as Sol and Emmy headed back toward their cars at the end of the street.

She cast Sol a sidelong glance. “Gonna admit you were wrong? My idea turned out to be a winner.”

“I admit I was wrong.” Sol stopped and, covering his heart with his hand, gave a slight bow. “You’re a wizard. That woman looked like a different person by the time you got finished.”

EmmyLou raised her hands in front of her and flashed him a wicked smile. “Some people say I’ve got magic in these hands.”

His groin clenched with need at her comment, but before he could respond verbally, Joe Wayne tore out of Ramona’s backyard on Patsy, giving a war whoop and a thumbs-up as he passed.

Sol decided to let Emmy’s last comment go unchallenged and changed the subject. “So, did this flash of genius really come to you here? Do you always travel with your tools?” He pointed to the bag slung over her shoulder.

“I keep this one in my trunk because I go to homeless shelters and nursing homes pretty often. Sometimes the school there in town.”

Her kindness touched him, but the warm glow immediately turned to an irritated flare as he realized he seemed to be the only person in the world not on the receiving end of it. She was always bent on knocking him down, no matter the situation. “Playing me as a gay guy to those people was a bit unfair, don’t you think?”

Her laugh held no remorse. “He believed it, didn’t he?” They reached her car and popped the trunk, slinging her bag into it. “And now I’ll be on my way.”

Looking closely at her face, Sol could see the tired lines around her eyes. “You’re not heading home right now, are you? You’re in no shape to drive.”

“Nope. I’m going back to the hotel and sleeping until midnight. That’s a full eight hours, so I’ll be fine.” She pointed to the car parked too close behind her. “Will you watch me out?”

Sol directed her back slowly until she had room to pull forward onto the street. As she gave him a wave of thanks and goodbye, he ignored the fleeting feeling of regret that she wasn’t staying a little longer.

He stalked back to his truck and unlocked his door just as a pickup pulled alongside his.

Ramona’s husband.

“Hey, Demitri.”

Sol’s neck hairs rose with apprehension at the menacing tone. He jerked the driver’s door open but couldn’t get in quick enough.

For such a big guy, Ramona’s husband moved fast. He ran around his vehicle, and his fist connected with Sol’s nose before Sol could pivot out of the way.

Crunch!

Pain and a multitude of colored lights exploded behind Sol’s eyes. He lost his balance and staggered backward, coming up against the side of his truck. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, and the hand that he raised to his face soon dripped with red.

“We don’t like your kind around here. Go away and stay away, you hear?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Climbing back in his truck, he roared up the street.

Clenching his teeth shot pain through Sol’s cheekbone that drilled into the sinus cavity straight into the damn-this-is-excruciating center of his brain. He found a sweaty handkerchief in his back pocket and used it to catch the blood that poured from his nose like someone had turned on a faucet. Without a doubt, it was broken. He typed Hospital into his GPS and waited while the routing loaded.

“Thank you, EmmyLou Creighton.” He ground the words out through the pain.

The woman’s name had become synonymous with torture in his private lexicon. He would get even with her if it was the last thing he did.

And between her shenanigans and her brother’s, it very well might be.

* * *

NO MATTER THE story behind it, Sol had taken the punch meant for him, Joe Wayne learned when he stopped back by the beach house late that afternoon. He couldn’t let that pass without showing his gratitude. And so, despite Sol’s pretend anger and mock protestation, Joe Wayne had decided to stay an additional night at the beach house. He’d fixed a nice dinner from the provisions Sol had on hand—steak on the grill, baked potatoes, salad, and fresh fruit for dessert. He’d opened Dad’s wine cabinet and served one of the best reds in the house. And now, as they sat on the deck, he strummed his guitar and serenaded his new friend, who sported a swollen nose and two black eyes on his behalf. In between songs he filled their glasses—the good crystal stuff, not what they left out for renters—with Dad’s cherished Four Roses.

Yessirree, Sol Beecher was a helluva man. He walked taller on one leg than most men did on two. Fact was, he was exactly the kind of man Dad had always wanted EmmyLou to end up with. Too bad there was so much bad blood between them.

“That’s the night... I remember...best of all.” He strummed the final chord of the song and let it drift away on the warm night breeze from the Gulf.

Sol rested on a chaise with his head tilted back. His friend gave a grunt of approval, which Joe Wayne had already learned was about as complimentary as the stubborn mule got. “You ever think of trying to go professional?” Sol asked. “Being from Nashville, don’t you know people who know people?”

Joe Wayne took a sip of the bourbon to ease the tension that popped up in his jaw at the question. “I am a professional. Small-town bars and honky-tonks, mostly. No major gigs in a helluva long time,” he admitted. “But I make enough to eat on and to buy enough gas to move on to the next place.”

“You live out of motels?” Sol lifted his head and eyed him directly, looking like a raccoon with something on his mind.

“Not usually enough money for a motel room.” Joe Wayne shook his head, but he couldn’t hold back the grin. “There’s always a woman wanting to take the star home with her and take care of his needs.”

“Sounds like a lonely life.”

“Something else we have in common.” Joe Wayne strummed another chord, fleshing out a new song with a few plucks and the emotion weighing on his heart. “Lonely men...lonely women...settlin’ down...on Lonely Street. Not an end...not a beginnin’...just a hope...someday they’ll meet.”

“Never heard that one,” Sol said.

“Just made it up.” Joe Wayne fingered the tune playing in his head. It would probably be gone by morning. Alcohol was an effective eraser. He brought the song to a close.

Sol clapped a couple of times—high praise from Mr. Surly. “Ever play in front of a big crowd?”

That one took a swig to answer. “Ever heard of the Grand Ole Opry?”

Sol nodded and then hissed in pain and took another gulp.

“Eighteen years ago, me and EmmyLou shared that sacred circle.”

His companion sat up real quick-like and drew a sharp breath between clenched teeth. “You and EmmyLou performed at the Grand Ole Opry?”

“In the circle.” Joe Wayne couldn’t hide the pride even if he wanted to...which he didn’t. “Ever hear of The Fullers?”

He watched recognition dawn in his companion’s eyes. “Hell, yeah. I had some of their CDs.”

“Our CDs.” He tapped his chest with his finger. “Me and EmmyLou’s.”

Sol was all Mr. Interested now. He straddled the chair—maneuvering his artificial leg almost as well as his real one—and cradled his bourbon between his hands. “What happened?”

“Well, ya see, I was good, but EmmyLou was the draw.” Joe Wayne’s jaw was flapping loose as a goose now, his mind running through rationalizations that would justify giving up his sister’s story. “Hell, you saw the pictures of her in there on the wall. Beauty queen with the voice of an angel.” Sol would understand her better if he knew. And besides, EmmyLou... EmmyLou and Mama...had blown everything way out of proportion. What happened wasn’t that big a deal—hardly a deal at all, actually.

He tried to wash away the bitterness on his tongue with another sip. Nope, still there. He gulped, and the bourbon surrounded his anger, making it palatable and much easier to swallow. And it slowed him down. “But this ain’t my story to tell. Ask EmmyLou.” A few strums on the guitar, and the tension released in his arms and neck, his back and his hands. “What was that song I had going a minute ago?”

“Lonely men...lonely women,” his companion sang in a voice that wasn’t half-bad, but not half-good, either.

Joe Wayne’s fingers took off on a different tangent, the first tune lost in the marine fog in his brain. “Not half-bad...not half-good...life’s weird math just don’t add up. Not half-sad...not half-happy... ’less I’m sipping from a cup. Bourbon helps to fill the spaces...helps my mind to wander free. One good slurp and I’m expoundin’...on life’s geometry.”