Ruth Ann eyed Shirley toe to head, from her well-worn sandals to her extra-large gray sweat suit to her hair, a tangled mess. She forced herself to look in Shirley’s steely brown eyes. “How do you propose to do that?”
Shirley smiled at her.
“Why do I have a bad feeling about this? An hour ago a humongous tick with an hourglass on its back bit me. Its head is still in my neck. I may not have long to live.”
“My sympathies lay with the tick.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Nothing, really. Stay here for a couple days.”
“That’s it? I guess I can do that.”
“When the killer comes here, I’ll nab him or her.”
Ruth Ann cleared her throat. “What makes you think the killer will come here?”
Shirley smiled again. “I sent out invitations.”
“Invitations? Shirley, honey, don’t take this the wrong way. Killers rarely answer invitations. They view those the same as going to the police and confessing.”
“I’m not your honey. I told everyone Daddy left all his money to you. My friend Darlene designed a fake will on her computer and I showed it to em as proof.”
“So everybody thinks I’m getting all the money?”
“Yes.”
“You think whoever killed Daddy will now come looking for me?”
“Amazing! Morally deficient with a degree of intelligence.”
“If the killer takes the bait and comes up here to kill me, you’re going to nab him with an empty pellet gun?”
“Yes.”
“Shirley, why didn’t you just get a real gun and shoot me? Same results.”
“I couldn’t get hold of a real gun. I was lucky to get this one. No one knows it’s a pellet gun. It’ll work.”
“I know! What if the killer comes with a real gun, then what? Huh? What you gonna do? The killer firing real bullets while you’re shooting blanks. No, you can’t even do that. You don’t have any pellets.”
“No doubt in my mind you’re the scariest-assed woman ever snapped on a bra. Listen, this killer is cunning, organized, methodical. He’s not coming in with guns blazing.”
“Organized? Methodical? You finally got cable, didn’t you? Shirley, I really think we should let Sheriff Bledsoe handle the investigation.”
“Sheriff Bledsoe? Ha! He couldn’t find smut on the Internet. I’ll be too old to enjoy the money by the time he figures out who did it.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’ll do anything but that. When Shane comes back I’m outta here.”
Shirley raised her chin and looked down at Ruth Ann. “You owe me and you are going to pay me! One way or the other.”
“Couldn’t you take a check?” Beseechingly: “I don’t like this, Shirley! I really don’t. Somebody could get hurt. Me!”
Chapter 33
Various birds chirped discordantly, hamsters and gerbils rattled exercise wheels, water-purifying machines percolated in aquariums. The entire pet shop, including the assistants, smelled of feces.
Robert Earl, a beatific expression on his face, stood in front of a large aquarium that housed an inert albino boa constrictor, the same color as Albert, orange-and-white. But by comparison, this snake made Albert look like a worm. Robert Earl judged it to be about twelve-feet long and as thick as a man’s arm.
He wanted it, desperately. He just knew this snake was much smarter than Albert. This snake could be taught a bunch of tricks. This snake wouldn’t belly-up under a little pressure around its neck. People would pay good money to see this snake.
“May I help you?” an assistant asked.
Robert Earl, eyes never leaving the object of his affection, said, “How much does he cost?”
“Three hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
Robert Earl looked at the young woman wearing a blue apron with the store’s name stitched on the pocket. “That’s not much,” he said, though he’d almost said, “Are you outta your mind?”
“I’m just looking,” he told her.
“If you need anything, give me a nod,” the woman said before moving on.
Robert Earl gave the snake another longing look before walking out.
Getting into his truck, he said, “Fuck!” He only had ten dollars and some change. All the snakes he’d owned someone had given him or he’d caught himself; he had no idea a snake could cost so much. Plus he’d driven all the way out here, Greenville, Mississippi. Fifty miles!
The gas hand was almost on E. “Fuck!”
He hadn’t tossed the F-bomb since his tour in the Marine Corps. “Fuck!” It felt good to say it. He started the truck and drove off. “Fuck!”
A rusty Ford pickup pulling a lone cow in a cattle trailer slowed him on the narrow two-lane bridge over the Mississippi River.
The Ford slowed to walking speed, and Robert Earl could see the driver looking right to left, admiring the picturesque view of gulls and pigeons gliding below an azure sky and above a collage of painted fields dotted with grazing cows and rusty tin buildings halved by a band of muddy-brown water.
Robert Earl blew the horn. The wind shifted and the stench of cow manure hit him full face. Blew the horn again. The driver, an elderly white man—
“Fuck!” Robert Earl shouted. “Get out the damn way, you coot!”
The Ford inched along even slower. For the next fifteen minutes it took to cross the half-mile long bridge, Robert Earl cursed and screamed, veins pulsing in his forehead, cow manure assaulting his nostrils, and the old fart up ahead waving and strolling along as if he were lead float in the Rose Parade.
At the foot of the bridge, just past the sign that said Arkansas, The Land of Opportunity, Robert Earl jerked his truck in the opposite lane, an eighteen-wheeler approaching less than a quarter mile away, and drove alongside the Ford. “Get out the damn way, grandpa!”
The eighteen-wheeler less than a block away now, air horn blaring, Robert Earl jerked his truck in front of the Ford, narrowly missing the bumper.
Maybe I should have let that big rig hit me, he thought.
Instead he had to walk out in shame, the assistant well aware he didn’t have enough money to buy a guppy, much less an expensive boa constrictor.
He and Estafay had a little money in a cookie jar, but he couldn’t get it, not with the rent due and the light bill two days past the shut-off notice. Estafay would blow a fuse if she had to sit in the dark while he trained his new high-dollar snake in the backyard.
“Fuck!”
An hour later Robert Earl trudged up Maumelle Trail. The time had come for him to take matters in his own hands. He would convince Ruth Ann to give him some of the money; would not take no for an answer.
He patted the back pocket of his overalls. The knife was there. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he wouldn’t return to his truck without a guarantee he’d get some of that money.
The sun would be setting soon, and though he knew these woods like the back of his hand, he didn’t want to be out here at night. Ruth Ann’s boy didn’t have good sense; no telling what he might do if there were a full
