A Bad Day for Sorry

before settling his lanky frame into Ollie’s old La-Z-Boy.

Damn, but the man was tall, Stella couldn’t help thinking for the thousandth time. Had to be six foot four, with acres of muscle running along his broad shoulders visible even under that homely tan uniform shirt. In his spare time, Goat had what was generally viewed as a strange hobby: he liked to lash his kayak to the top of his pickup truck and drive to any of the hundreds of put-in spots along the northern shore of the Lake of the Ozarks, as close as twenty miles away as the crow flies. Then he’d spend the day paddling around the inlets and channels and bights along the jagged shore.

All that paddling clearly built up a man’s physique.

“Nice to meet you, Sheriff… sir,” Chrissy said, a rosy blush stealing across her pale, full cheeks, and she looked at the carpet rather than at Goat. Stella might have thought the girl was shy, but she knew better: stammering uncertainty was the blood-dictated response that all the Ralph Lardner kin had to the law. She guessed that the idea was that if your pa or brothers weren’t guilty of something at this particular juncture, odds were good that they had just come from or were plotting to soon commit some sort of law-skirting activity.

“Chrissy’s a good girl,” Stella said, hoping to head off any conclusions Goat might be tempted to draw.

“Oh, I’m sure she is. I’m sure you are,” he repeated, giving Chrissy a reassuring smile.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you over,” Stella said.

“Well yes, Dusty, I am, but I’m also wondering if you’re planning to offer me a glass of that tea.”

“Oh!” Stella felt the blood flow to her cheeks as she hauled herself up out of the couch. “I meant to, I’m sorry, I just, ah…”

She retreated to the kitchen to fetch another glass, cursing under her breath. Damn, damn, damn. She had the hardest time keeping her wits about her when Goat was around, and that annoyed her plenty. She possessed, after all, a slick and hardened criminal mind; she’d committed any number of misdemeanors and felonies. She generally stayed icy cool in sticky situations, so why was she such a stuttering mess around the man?

It wasn’t like she was afraid old Goat was going to put two and two together anytime soon. Those who knew her business weren’t talking. Those who suspected… well, they weren’t talking much either, and Stella figured they all had their reasons: some didn’t want to end up on her bad side; others figured the world was a sight better place if she was left in peace to do her job.

Of course, there was the small and niggling problem that Goat, she suspected, was far smarter than he let on. And eventually, someone was going to break the time-honored rule of small-town living and engage in a little conjecturing with him—outsider or not. When that day came, it would be the sort of reckoning that would make all of her previous brushes with the law look like playground entertainment.

Yet another reason to spend as little time with the man as possible.

“Here,” she said accusingly, thrusting the glass at him.

“Well, I suppose I’ll just pour myself,” Goat said, accepting the glass. He reached for the pitcher, raising his pinkie in an exaggerated fancy-schmancy pose. “Don’t you exert yourself none, Dusty. Am I allowed to have a cookie, or are those just for the ladies?”

Stella picked up the plate and smacked it down in front of him. There were only three or four cookies left. Poor Chrissy had eaten most of them—who could blame her? “And stop calling me Dusty.”

“Why’s he call you that, anyway?” Chrissy stage-whispered in a perfectly audible voice, still keeping her eyes cast down.

“ ’Cause he hasn’t got any manners, I guess,” Stella said.

Goat laughed. “That’s not right. It’s just ’cause she’s a bad old Hardesty. Get it—‘desty,’ ‘dusty.’ She’s not like a regular gal, Miss. Why, she frequents disreputable taverns, cusses a blue streak, probably chews tobacco when nobody’s looking. Can’t exactly call her ‘Rosebud’ so—”

“That’s enough,” Stella said sharply, and she must of put a little extra mean-it in her voice because suddenly everyone was very quiet and Goat slowly lowered his iced tea glass to the coffee table and gave her a long, studied look.

“What I mean to say is, I think I’m a little old for some juvenile nickname, so if you don’t mind, you can just start calling me Stella, like every other person in this town. Goat.” Maybe it wasn’t necessary to add that last bit, but Stella was steamed enough to go for it.

“Well, why d’you call him that?” Chrissy asked the carpet. Clearly, she was no student of conversational subtext.

Stella sighed. “Now, hon, why don’t we just lay this whole names business to rest. We got plenty else to talk about here.”

“No, Miss, I don’t mind answering,” Goat said, but he kept his gaze trained steady on Stella, and by the wicked sparkle in his eyes Stella could tell she’d managed to get his ire up. Smart, she chided herself, way to provoke the law when she needed him most. “See, when I got divorced, my first wife saw fit to tell everyone that the problem was that I’m as randy as a—”

“Stop right there,” Stella snapped. Chrissy might be one of the dimmer bulbs in a family that wasn’t lit up bright with smarts to start with, but Stella didn’t think it was right to take advantage of her gullible nature with any sort of teasing. Not to mention the terrible day the poor girl was having. “It’s just that the sheriff has been stubborn from the day he was born. It was his own mama who gave him that nickname.”

“What kind of stubborn?” Chrissy asked, darting shy little glances in the man’s direction. Her mama had obviously not gotten around to teaching her that it wasn’t polite to talk about people right in front of them as though they weren’t there.

“Well, the wrong kind, of course. Like a goat. You ever try to lead one around? Wherever you try to drag it, the goat figures it wants to be headed the other way.”

“Oh. I see.” Chrissy nodded. “Well, Sheriff, I imagine I’ll just call you ‘Sheriff Jones,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

“That’d be just fine, Miss.”

After that there was a brief silence while Stella’s two guests stole polite glances at each other.

“Chrissy’s husband, Roy Dean, has run off,” Stella said. Time to get down to business. “He’s been gone since yesterday morning. And he took little Tucker with him.”

“Who’s Tucker?” Goat asked.

At that, Chrissy’s features, which had been schooled into her best approximation of mindful interest, melted into a blubbery puddle. Stella handed her the box of Kleenex she kept at the ready on the side table next to the couch; smacked-around wives often found it came in handy. “Tucker’s my little baby boy,” she wailed. “He’s not even two years old yet.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s only been one day—”

“And Tucker ain’t even his!” Chrissy continued to sniffle. “Roy Dean never paid that child any mind before. I don’t know why he’d want to go and run off with him!”

Goat looked at Stella, eyebrows raised.

“Chrissy was married before,” she explained. “To Pitt Akers, from the Akers over up south of Sedalia.”

“But he wasn’t the father either,” Chrissy cut in, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She was getting herself under control a little.

“No?” Goat asked politely. “I think I might ought to start noting some of this down.” He pulled out a little notebook and flipped to a fresh page. “Now, whose boy is your Tucker?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure, see, because that was right about when I broke up with the fella I’d been seeing after Pitt and I split up, and there was this one night out at my cousin’s—”

Goat held up a palm to stop her. “I guess I don’t need to know that,” he said.

“What Tucker is, is a child from a previous relationship,” Stella clarified, hoping to save Chrissy a little embarrassment.

“That’s right,” Chrissy said, nodding. “That’s exactly what he is.”

“Now, had your husband been talking about taking any trips, going to visit kin, anything like that?”

“Oh, no sir, Roy Dean’s not one for a lot of visiting. And his folks are all around here.”

That was an understatement; Shaws were firmly rooted in Prosper. Some of them probably hadn’t left Sawyer County in years. Roy Dean’s daddy had a painting business he’d got from his own daddy, and now Roy Dean and his brother Arthur were on the books. Tucker, if Roy Dean’d taken more of a shine to the boy, could have looked forward to a painting career himself.