Heroes & Hooligans in Goose Pimple Junction: Goose Pimple Junction Mysteries Book 2 Read online

  The Goose Pimple Junction mystery series:

  Murder & Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction

  Heroes & Hooligans in Goose Pimple Junction

  Rogues & Rascals in Goose Pimple Junction (coming soon)

  To Jake, Michael, and Liz: my heroes.

  What you don’t have in your head, you have to have in your feet.

  ~Southern Proverb

  Ray moved like a bee-stung stallion. As soon as the jogger’s footsteps passed him in his hiding place behind a large crepe myrtle bush, he pounced, jumping the man and pulling a plastic bag over his mark’s head. He held it securely and tightly with his right hand and controlled the man with his left arm that wound around in front of the man in a vice grip. They struggled, but Ray held on. Mark pulled loose from Ray’s left arm, and with the bag still tight over the man’s face, Ray punched him with his left hand in three quick jabs. Blood exploded inside the bag, as Mark fell to the ground. But Ray held the bag firmly in his hand and went down with him. Two more jabs caused the man’s head to hit the pavement like a ping-pong ball.

  And then he was still.

  Ray straddled him, looking down at his former friend as he twisted the bag tighter and tighter, making sure no oxygen was reaching the man’s lungs.

  With his adrenaline pumping, he’d hardly noticed the ninety percent humidity. Now that the heat of the moment was over, so to speak, he realized sweat emanated from every pore of his body. It was only seven o’clock in the morning, but the air blanketed him with wet stickiness. Recalling an episode of World’s Stupidest Criminals where they nailed the killer over DNA from his sweat, Ray decided he’d better rid the man of his clothes. He lifted his nose and breathed deeply. There was a smell a rain in the air, and he figured the impending storm would wash away any other evidence on the naked body.

  Wiping his face with the side of his arm, he tried to catch his breath. He’d waited for Mark for over an hour. Not his real name, but Ray’s secret nickname for his friend ever since “Mark” had nicknamed him “Ray.” Smiling bitterly to himself, he remembered the man once telling him that aliens must have zapped him with a stupidity ray.

  “Heck, they turned you into a stupidity ray,” Mark had said. That comment had turned his friend into a mark.

  Now Ray stared at his former friend’s body thinking, “Stupid’s better ‘n dead.”

  Marry in haste, repent in leisure.

  ~Southern Proverb

  Lenny drove to his neighborhood bar with the windows wide open and Johnny Cash blaring on the radio, but he was oblivious to both. He was thinking about the phone conversation he’d just had with his ten-year-old daughter Carrie. It made him crazy the way her mother’s family called her “Butterbean.” What kind of a name was that for a child? But today he was crazy for a whole new reason. Jealousy and anger tore through him faster than small-town gossip. His daughter had spilled everything, and just when he thought he’d finally gotten a break, she said, “Mama kinda had a boyfriend but not anymore.” And: “Mama was kidnapped, but she’s back now.”

  He pulled into the parking lot of the bar thinking, Boyfriend? We literally aren’t even divorced yet and she had a boyfriend? He pounded his fist against the steering wheel. He knew she’d been cheating on him. And now she’d done it right in front of their daughter. No doubt about it, he was going to have to do something about this Martha Maye situation.

  Pulling into a primo spot at the front door, he looked up at the old rusty sign that had been over the entrance for years: TEETOTALERS AIN’T WELCOME HERE. He winced at the loud screech announcing his car door opening, followed by the same screech when he slammed it shut. He glanced around the parking lot and saw the same cars that were there every night. His feet crunched on the gravel as he walked, and he remembered waking up three months earlier and slowly realizing his wife and daughter weren’t there.

  The familiar bacon and coffee smells were gone. Cartoons weren’t blaring on the TV. His wife’s clothes were missing, along with his daughter’s, her teddy bear, and her dolls. The bookshelves were dotted with bare spots where Martha Maye’s favorite knickknacks and paddywhacks had been. And then he saw the note on the kitchen table that said she was divorcing him and that he shouldn’t try to find them. The realization that she’d left him in the middle of the night and taken their daughter seared through him like a red-hot poker.

  Pretty stealthy for a woman who could literally be outwitted by a jar of marshmallow fluff. If she thinks she can literally run out on me and then humiliate me by going out with some scumbag before we’re even divorced, she has another think coming. I’ll show her. I’ll put on the charm and win her back.

  Country music blasted as he opened the door, turned his head, and spit in disgust. She literally can’t be let her out by herself. Just look where it got her: kidnapped and almost killed.

  His daughter had told him they’d been staying at his mother-in-law’s house. He should have figured. He’d always known Louetta to be a meddlesome old biddy. She lied to me when I called looking for my wife and daughter. She aided and abetted a woman leaving her husband. She allowed nefarious suitors to court my wife. Both of them must have literally stopped to think and forgotten how to start again.

  And then there was his no-account, good-for-nothing brother who, upon learning of the impending divorce, wanted to know if Lenny would mind if he dated Martha Maye. Boy, I’m gonna slap you so hard, when you quit rolling your clothes’ll literally be outta style. My baby brother and my wife. Yeah. Over my dead body. How could he even ask such a thing? Both of them were nothing but a bunch of backstabbing traitors.

  He hitched up his jeans under his overflowing beer belly, swaggered into the bar, and ordered a Colt 45. The jukebox was playing, “I Want a Beer as Cold as My Ex-Wife’s Heart,” and he thought that was pretty darn perfect for his life at the moment.

  Looking around the room, he spotted a hot blonde giving him the eye. He sucked in his gut—a move that didn’t yield the desired result—and looked back, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. She brazenly smiled back at him.

  How dare Martha Maye leave me? I can literally get any woman I want. And two on Saturday.

  A football star in high school, homecoming king, and voted best looking his senior year, Lenny was used to women coming onto him, not leaving him. He put the bottle to his lips and downed half of it.

  That woman was literally lucky to have me. Sure, I’ve put on a little weight, but only in the gut. I practically have to fight women off with a stick. Looking around the room again, he saw female eyes on him from several tables in the room. Yessirree, sir, I still got it.

  Lenny started to lift his bottle to his mouth again but halted midway when two men sat down heavily on barstools on either side of him; they looked capable of eating their young. Both men were muscular and tough. One was as tall as a telephone pole. One was as short as a gnat’s tail. The taller man had black eyes under bushy eyebrows, and the other man wore aviator sunglasses on a flat, wide nose. He pushed the glasses to the top of his head to give Lenny his best glare.

  “We’ve been looking all over Hell and half of Georgia for you, boy.” Eyebrows scooted his stool in close, crowding Lenny.

  “Shoot.” Lenny’s hand automatically moved to his ankle holster, checking for his knife. “That don’t surprise me none. You literally couldn’t find oil with a dipstick.”

  “Solly says he’s had about enough of you,” Eyebrows said.

  “Yeah,” Mr. Gnat joined in, “he’s had about enough of you.
”

  Lenny snorted. “You can tell Solly to blow it out his butt,” Lenny said boldly, more boldly than he felt. He shelled a peanut, popped it in his mouth, and threw the shell into Mr. Gnat’s face.

  “Solly says not to let you off the hook this time.”

  “Yeah, not to let you off the hook.” Mr. Gnat’s left eye twitched.

  “What’s with Mr. Echo over here?” Lenny pointed his thumb at the short man.

  The telephone pole ignored him and said, “Solly says you’ve screwed him over for the last time.”

  “Yeah, the last time.”

  “I didn’t screw him over the first time.” Lenny drained his bottle. He felt like his mouth was full of cotton. “Solly wouldn’t tell the truth to save his life from dying.” Lenny tried to stand up, but the men had him penned in.

  “You can’t talk about Solly that way.”

  “Yeah, not that way,” Mr. Gnat echoed.

  Eyebrows looked behind Lenny to his friend. “This boy has the mental agility of a soap dish, Joey.”

  “Yeah, a soap dish.”

  Lenny leaned in real close to Joey, who said, “Whatta you think you’re doing?”

  “Just wondered if I got close enough if I could literally hear the ocean.”

  “Boy, what you need is an education,” Eyebrows said.

  “Yeah, an edj-ee-cation.” Gnat strung the word out.

  The men grabbed Lenny’s arms, lifting him off his stool. The song on the jukebox had ended, and Lenny heard the crunch of peanut shells as the men propelled him toward the door.

  “Boys, y’all best not be messing with me,” Lenny snapped, trying to break free.

  “That’s mighty big talk for a punk like you.” They stepped aside as someone came through the door, and then they threw Lenny through it. He landed on the ground but sprang right back to his feet, his dukes up, ready to fight.

  Eyebrows was fast. He knocked Lenny to the ground again with a left hook. Joey followed up with two kicks to the ribs.

  Lenny pulled himself into a ball, both to protect himself from further harm and to have better access to his ankle holster. But Joey saw the knife and kicked it away as Lenny drew it from his pants leg.

  The men both grabbed Lenny by an arm again, pulling him upright, and Eyebrows punched him in the gut, causing him to double over. They double-teamed him and left him on the ground bloody and beaten, as cars whizzed past on the road in front of the bar.

  Right before Lenny passed out, he thought: Tomorrow I’ll pack up and head for Goose Pimple Junction to reclaim what’s rightfully mine. I’ll literally be a devoted husband and father and get my family back. I ain’t gonna let that woman leave me. Nobody leaves Lenny Applewhite.

  A mule can be tame at one end and wild at the other.

  ~Southern Proverb

  Late-afternoon sun filtered into the room as Martha Maye kicked off her pink flip-flops and sank into the couch, emitting an exhausted sigh. She looked around her new living room in silent contentment, even though it was full of unpacked boxes. Sure, it was a rental house, but she felt like it belonged to her—her and Butterbean.

  She’d left most of her things months ago when she and her daughter had fled her husband and their home in the middle of the night. After Lenny threatened to kill her if she left him, she knew what she had to do. The tragedy of her great-grandmother’s murder years earlier had taught her to never underestimate a jealous man.

  And finally, things were looking up. She had landed a teaching job, rented a house, and furnished it with garage sale and flea market finds. The mistake of taking up with the wrong man was starting to be a faint memory. A slight breeze caused the drapes to billow. Laying her head against the couch, she listened to the soft giggles of Butterbean and her friend playing outside.

  The front door opened into the living room, and Martha Maye watched as Johnny Butterfield came in carrying another box. He stood six foot five, had a thick neck, sculpted shoulders and arms, and he reminded her of Paul Bunyan. His heart was every bit as big as his body. Martha Maye couldn’t help it—she was smitten, but she’d learned her lesson about jumping in too fast with a man, and besides, she was technically still married.

  “This is the last of it, Martha Maye,” the new police chief said, putting the box down. He joined her on the couch, his bulk taking up more than one cushion. Martha Maye turned toward him, tucking her feet underneath her, looking at the muscles straining the sleeves of his Goose Pimple Junction Police Department T-shirt.

  “I can’t thank you enough for all your help.” She reached for the beer she’d gotten out for Johnny and handed it to him. “But here’s a start.”

  “Aw shucks, Martha Maye, my pleasure. I know you’re excited to be on your own again. Your mama’s house was getting a might crowded, huh?”

  “I’ll say. There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat. But she likes it that way. Mama’s happiest when she’s busy, and she always did like a full house and taking care of people.”

  Her eyes went to the service revolver on his hip. He noticed and asked, “Does the gun bother you? I usually wear it, even when I’m not on duty.”

  “Well actually, I’m scared to death of guns.” She hugged a throw pillow. “Always have been. Maybe it’s on account of my family history. Too many murders, all by gunfire.”

  “And at the filling station? Before you got free?”

  She was quiet a moment and then said softly, “I can still hear the sound of bullets hitting the Co’Cola machine in the office where Tess and I were holed up.”

  “You must have been scared out of your mind.”

  “You know, that Jim Bob wasn’t a career criminal, but he had a gun, and I can still remember the stark-white fear of that day.”

  “You think about that day often?” His voice was soft and sympathetic.

  “A little. Not much.” Her face brightened. “I try to only think about the good stuff. You know, like you kicking in the door and standing there in your state police uniform and . . .” Her voice trailed off into a giggle, remembering how she flew into his arms once they’d broken free of the building.

  “That sure was a way to meet, huh?” He stretched his long legs out in front of him, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  She nodded. “That was some way to meet.”

  He shook his head slowly and exhaled theatrically. “It’s a tough job rescuing beautiful women, but it was all in a day’s work.” His smile filled his face, lighting up his dark brown eyes.

  Martha Maye wondered if Johnny was as interested in her as she was in him. Their eyes locked and held until the moment was broken by the sound of the wall clock chiming five times.

  “So, Martha Maye . . . tell me some things.”

  “Like what, Johnny?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’d just like to get to know you better. What’s your favorite food?”

  She tapped her lips with a finger. “Hmm. Probably fried chicken. Yours?”

  “A big juicy steak.” He tore off some of the label on the bottle of beer. “Movie?”

  “I don’t know if I could narrow it down to one. I love movies.”

  “So do I!”

  “Maybe …” She rubbed her bottom lip with her thumb and forefinger as she thought. “Maybe Driving Miss Daisy.”

  “That was a good one. I liked The Green Mile.” His thumb rubbed at the leftover label residue.

  “Ooh, yeah, that was a good movie.”

  “Okay, what about TV?”

  “I don’t watch much, but I do love Justified.”

  He sat up, excited, and leaned toward her. “Me too, Martha Maye. Sounds like we have a lot in common.”

  They were silent again, and Martha Maye stood and walked to the window to check on her daughter and to put an end to the awkward moment.

  “I’m so glad Butterbean has a new friend.” She pulled the drape aside and looked out into the yard.

  Johnny cleared his throat. “It was a lucky stroke when this house open
ed up right next door to Honey and her daughter.”

  He joined Martha Maye at the window, standing so close behind her she could smell his aftershave. That man always smells so good.

  “I think the Lord’s watching out for us.” Martha Maye pretended not to notice how close he was to her. “The way I met Honey at school and us having so much in common, the luck of this house being available . . . when she told me about it, I jumped at the chance. It’ll be real nice having her for a neighbor. And the Bumgarners on the other side of us are good people, too.”

  “What do they do for a living?” Johnny placed a tentative hand on her waist.

  Inside, every nerve ending was on high alert, but outwardly, she tried to show no reaction. “Hector’s retired and Estherlene has always been a homemaker.”

  “And what about Honey? What does she teach up at the school?”

  “She’s the phys ed teacher.” She craned her neck to the right. “And speak of the devil.” Martha Maye abruptly moved away from the window.

  Honey Winchester knocked three times and opened the screen door, calling out, “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”

  “Come right on in, Honey. Have you met Police Chief Johnny Butterfield?”

  “Well, hidee-do, Chief,” Honey crooned. “Martha Maye said you were as big as Paul Bunyan but yowza, Paul ain’t got nothing on you, darlin’.” She sidled up to him and held out her hand. “I’d fight tigers with a switch in the dark for you.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” Johnny blushed. He tried to get his hand back, but Honey now had it between both of hers and showed no signs of letting go.

  “Now what’s a big honking man like you doing blushing?” Honey teased. She got closer to him and whispered, “You come on over to my house sometime and I’ll give you something to blush about.” She took one hand away from his and squeezed his enormous bicep. “Ooh. Now that’s what I’m talking about,” she murmured. “Big muscles.” She looked down at the hand she still held. “Big hands.” Her eyes met his. “Big eyes . . .” Her voice got husky. “Got anything else—?”