Page 197 of Love Bites

CHAPTER7

Two snowmobiles, a muddy four-wheeler, and a Toyota pickup sporting beefy tires and a “Wish You Were BEER” bumper sticker sat in the Wymonds’ front yard. The driveway was empty, except for potholes. I bounced to a stop and shut off my Bronco.

The engine ticked as I stepped onto the dirt-packed drive. The noon sun heated the top of my head, the smell of dust and baked pine thick in the still air. My sandals clapped along the front walkway, past several fly-covered garbage cans, past Kelly’s pink Huffy bike, past a pair of dead Thuja saplings.

The Wymonds’ single-story clapboard home reminded me of some of the houses up in Lead—the ones Homestake Mining Company threw together to accommodate some of their miners during the gold rush glory days. Unadorned little square dwellings lined up block after block, interspersed periodically by elaborate Victorian and brick neighbors.

Duct tape criss-crossed the Wymonds’ screen door, holding the mesh together. The front door stood open. A booming voice rang out, shouting something about a wrestling “smackdown” coming up next on channel 7. The doorbell lay in three pieces in a dirt-filled flowerpot near my feet.

I shook off the urge to sprint to my Bronco and scurry back to the office. I owed it to Addy—and Kelly—to give the Wymonds family the benefit of the doubt. Not judge them by the single combat boot dangling from their gutter, nor the decapitated Barbie head nailed to their porch railing.

Straightening my shoulders, I knocked twice on the screen door and held my breath. Twenty seconds passed by with the only movement coming from a fly that found me interesting. I knocked on the screen door again, this time harder and longer.

“Kelly!” A gruff-sounding voice yelled out from somewhere inside the shadowy interior. “Get the goddamned door!”

I winced. Strike one against Addy’s sleepover request.

I heard the slap of bare feet on linoleum, then Kelly’s sad face appeared on the other side of the dust-crusted screen. I worked up a smile for her. “Hi, Kelly. Is your mom or dad here?”

Her round eyes widened. “Why? Am I in trouble?”

“Uh, no.”

“Kelly!” The gruff voice hollered. “Who is it?”

“If it’s about the kitten puke,” Kelly said in a loud whisper, leaning closer, “I told Addy we shouldn’t feed them the peanut-butter fudge ice cream.”

“You fed themmyice cream?” I whispered back, my teeth grinding as I thought about Addy’s denial of any knowledge on the whereabouts of my pint of ice cream.

“Kelly!” The voice roared, making us both jump.

“It’s nobody, Dad.” Kelly held her index finger to her lips.

I choked down my Addy-instigated anger and whispered, “I need to talk to your parents, Kelly.”

She shook her head, motioning for me to leave, going so far as to start shutting the steel door in my face.

“Kelly, wait,” I said at my usual volume.

A large hand grabbed the door from the inside. I heard a squeal of protest and then the door opened. A grizzled-faced bear of a man in a stained white T-shirt filled the frame. Jeff Wymonds, I suspected, in the extra-large flesh. I could see hints of Kelly in his round eyes and narrow face.

“Who are you?” His voice sounded slightly slurred and full of suspicion, his eyes drilled me through the screen. “Did the sheriff send you?”

The smell of alcohol mixed with body odor slammed into me, knocking me back a step. Nice—drunk by lunchtimeandexpecting a visit from the law. Strike two, Addy dear.

My cheeks trembled with the effort to hold up my smile. “You must be Kelly’s father, Jeff. I’m Violet Parker. My daughter is friends with Kelly. I’ve come to say hello.”

His whole face crinkled into a glower. “Kelly doesn’t have any friends anymore.”

His reply surprised me so much that the niceties I’d practiced all the way there from Harvey’s place jetted right out of my head. The only thing I could think to say was, “Is your wife here?”

His glower scrunched into a snarl. “She’s at her mother’s.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

His laugh sounded harsh. “When hell freezes over, as far as I’m concerned.”

Now I’d heard Deadwood winters could be pretty brutal, but I didn’t think he was referring to the snowy season.

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