Page 26 of The Sweet Spot
“Get out of my house,Sheriff.” He sneers that last word. “You have no business here.” He nods to the door. “Marguerite! Show the sheriff out.”
The housekeeper materializes out of nowhere as if she’d been lurking around the corner just waiting to be summoned.
“I’ll go,” I say. “But the minute you give me an excuse to return, I will.”
He points to the doors. “Get out!”
“Steer clear of Jennie—unless you actually want me to arrest you.”
“Youarrestme? Ha! I’ll believe that when I see it. The son of the town whore isn’t fit to step foot in my home, let alone think he can tell me what to do.”
He loves throwing the memory of my mother in my face. She was a sad case, that’s true. But at least she always made sure I ate three square meals a day. The real irony is, Dave’s father—David Braggart, Sr.—was a regular visitor at our trailer. “Tell your dad I said hi. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Get the fuck out, you crack-addict bastard!” Dave storms off in the direction of the kitchen. Halfway there, he throws his beer bottle on the ceramic tile floor, and the bottle shatters. “Clean that up, Marguerite!”
The housekeeper opens the door for me, and I walk outside. After my chat with Dave, I head back to Jennie’s place. I want to make sure she’s okay, but I also need to talk to her about going back to court to get a restraining order. I don’t want Dave anywhere near her.
* * *
When I arrive at Jennie’s house, I park in the driveway and walk up to her side door. I knock quietly and wait.
A few moments later, someone pulls back the curtain hanging over the window and peers outside.
I wave to Jennie, and immediately she unlocks the door and opens it.
“Sorry to come over unannounced,” I say. I keep my voice low because the lights are out and the house is quiet. I suspect that means Granny’s napping again. Jennie says she’s been sleeping a lot more lately.
“It’s okay,” Jennie says as she closes and locks the door behind me.
“Granny’s sleeping?”
She nods. “Can I get you something to drink? Or food? Are you hungry?”
“I am thirsty. I’d love some water.”
While she pours me a glass of water from the pitcher in her fridge, I study the kitchen. It hasn’t changed much since we were kids. There’s still the same floral striped gold wallpaper dating back to the seventies or earlier. The same oak cabinets. The same faded linoleum flooring. The same table and chairs. It’s vintage, but it’s clean. It feels homey rather than outdated.
She hands me the glass of water. “Let’s sit here in the kitchen. Granny is in her chair in the living room.”
She seems nervous.
“Hey. This isn’t an interrogation, Jennie. Relax. I just want to talk to you.”
She takes a seat. I take the chair opposite her and set my glass on the table.
“So, what do you want to talk about?” she asks. She crosses her arms over her chest in a classic defensive posture.
She’s not just nervous. She’s scared. But of what? Or of whom? Surely not me. “Let’s start with last night at the tavern when you rushed off the dance floor.”
She shakes her head, brushing off my concern. “I was just tired. That’s all. Don’t read anything into it.”
“Jennie.”
Her dark eyes flash defensively. “I’d had a long day at the diner.”
I’m used to interrogating suspects. Victims and witnesses, too. I know avoidance when I see it, and she’s avoiding the truth about last night.
“Last night, when we were dancing, I reached out to fix your hair, and you flinched.”
