Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (5 page)

Finally,
finally
Cletus looked at me. To my astonishment, the eyes I’d assumed were green were instead a fiery blue and he snapped, “You saw no such thing.”

“I did.” I nodded at my assertion. “In fact, I have a video of you doing it.”

He blinked. His expression and his voice, usually so controlled, both cracked with surprise. “You did what?”

“I recorded it on my phone.” I swallowed three times for no reason.

His gaze sharpened in such a way that startled me, as though clouds or an illusionary mist parted and revealed a slight glimpse of the real Cletus Winston beneath. These new eyes flickered over my person.

“Prove it.” His demand was sharp and quick, like a whip, and made my heart jump then gallop in my chest.

I pulled my phone from my pocket with trembling fingers. I knew why I was shaking. I wasn’t used to confrontation. I always figured I was a natural pacifist, preferring peace to sass. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

He snatched my cell once I’d unlocked it and tapped through the series of screens until he reached my videos. He found the one dated last week, the one I’d taken of Sheriff James talking about my cupcakes and hit play. As Cletus watched, a touch of color drained from his cheeks. He was seeing what I’d spotted last week when I reviewed the recording. One half of the screen was the sheriff. The other half of the screen was Cletus in the background, pocketing the evidence, looking around, then walking away.

Cletus made a strangled noise that sounded both frustrated and enraged. I eyed the door next to me, considering and immediately dismissing an escape. Meanwhile, he watched the recording again. When it ended for a second time, silence took its place, hard and heavy between us. I inspected him, endeavoring to parse his thoughts.

Cletus’s expression was blank, which—I abruptly realized—was highly unusual. He always wore an expression. Thoughtful, concerned, patient, bored, interested, somber, perturbed. How odd, for a person to always have an expression.

Unless that person wore emotions like a mask, meant to misdirect the true nature of his thoughts.

“You made a copy?” His tone, laden with ice and granite, made me shiver.

He didn’t sound at all like the bumbling but affable Cletus Winston who’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. He sounded dangerous.

I cleared my throat before I could speak. “I did. I made a few. Saved in a few places.”

The side of his mouth ticked up, but his eyes lacked humor as he turned them back to me. “That was smart. Otherwise I would have smashed your phone into a quantity of tiny pieces. Then it would have been your word against mine.”

“That’s right,” I said the words on a breath, the good sense of fear wrestling with determination.

But, damn it, I needed his help. And it had to be him. It just had to. He could make anything happen. Everyone in town and the surrounding areas owed him a favor. I'd heard the rumors. I'd paid attention. I'd put the puzzle pieces together.

And now I had the most powerful man in East Tennessee right where I needed him.

“The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”

― Roald Dahl

~Cletus~

I needed a
minute.

During the minute, I made various and sundry lists. Lists upon lists.

Jennifer Sylvester seemed to understand I was not yet inclined to talk, so she gave me the minute I needed. I appreciated her silence. Eventually, my pulse slowed to a nice, normal range, and the red spots of rage clouding my vision receded. I wasn’t going to lose my temper.

“Well . . .” I cleared my throat, adopting as calm an air as possible given the fact that this feeble puppet was threatening to single-handedly derail months of fastidious—not to mention risky—efforts.

“Well,” she squeaked, also clearing her throat, but then said nothing else. Her eyes were on her long, pink nails, which were digging into the knees of her jeans.

I scrutinized her. She was clearly nervous, afraid even. Her earlier backbone appeared to be disintegrating. The show of confidence had been completely out of character for meek and docile Jennifer Sylvester.

Granted, I didn’t know her very well. I didn’t need to. She was a weak person. Like most who were acquainted with her parents, I felt a degree of pity for her, yet thoroughly enjoyed her banana cake. She also made great sourdough bread, zucchini muffins, and quiche.

Actually, everything she baked—that I’d tried to date—was profoundly delicious. She had a gift. Her multiple blue ribbons and large trophies awarded at the state fair were warranted. But she was also a pushover. She was under the thumb of her ambitious momma and zealously irrational father. Her upbringing plus her frail temperament meant she was a tool, a means to an end.

And that was sad.

It was also none of my business.

How she lived her life—or allowed others to live it for her—was none of my affair. I’d hung up my cape; I’d sworn off rescuing lost causes. People didn’t want to be saved. All my meddling efforts were now focused on my family and their happiness, whether they liked it or not.

Which brought me back to now and the skittish Jennifer Sylvester. Her uneasiness was good news for me.

I prepared to unleash my somber nod. “You know, Jenn,I don’t think you want to do this.”

Her fingers flexed on her legs, she lifted her chin, then she spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

Okay. Wrong approach.

I tried something else, lowering my voice and making myself sound sinister. “If you give me your word you’ll delete the video, we can forget all about this.”

Two unhappy lines appeared between her eyebrows. “It’s too late for that.” I got the sense she wasn’t talking to me. “And, besides, I don’t trust you to forgive and forget. You’ll take revenge sooner or later, it’s what you do. No . . . I’m going to see this through.”

I stared at her, likely gaping. I was flummoxed.

You’ll take revenge sooner or later, it’s what you do.

How could she know that?

I sat back in my seat and stared out the windshield, much of what I knew about the order of the universe rearranging itself. Perhaps Jennifer Sylvester wasn’t feeble after all. Perhaps Jennifer Sylvester was fierce.

That makes no sense. Nobody is that good at playing possum. Well . . . nobody but me.

I’d often thought in the past that she resembled a neglected puppy, eager to please. This made how her kin treated her difficult to watch. I’d stopped watching.

My eyes slid to the side and I examined her anew. Jennifer’s jaw was clenched with determination, the little point of her chin made sharp by the set of her resolve. Her face was usually sad or shy.

A touch of guilt flared, like an old wound. I quickly extinguished it, suddenly anxious to finish this peculiar conversation and return to a world that made sense.

“All right, what is it that you want?” I asked plainly, dropping all pretense. “Why am I out here? Why did you record the video, and what are you going to do with it?”

She released an unsteady breath and then looked at me. Her eyes were in shadow due to the rim of her hat. Vaguely, I recalled Beau once saying her irises were purple. I’d dismissed this claim because, unless Jennifer was an albino—which she wasn’t—her eyeballs could not be purple.

Regardless, I’d never noticed before, but the shape of her eyes was surprisingly attractive. Now, forced to reassess my knowledge of this woman, I found myself trying to discover the color of her irises as she spoke.

“I didn’t record it on purpose. I was there to record the sheriff for a—well, that doesn’t matter. But I didn’t record you on purpose. When I reviewed the video later, after hearing about what happened at the station, that’s when I realized you were in the video.”

“Okay, fine. I believe you. You didn’t record me on purpose. Now what?”

“I need your help,” she said, her voice softer, timid; her eyes large and hopeful.

This was the Jennifer Sylvester I knew, not the one with grit and granite.

“Hmm . . .” I squinted, disliking the possibility that there could be two sides to this woman. As a rule, I don’t believe in hidden depths, where
hidden depths
were defined as admirable but previously unnoticed qualities. I noticed everything.

Manufactured depths? Yes.

Disguised depths? Perhaps.

But not hidden depths.

Jennifer swallowed fretfully under my examination. I caught the slight tremor of her hands before she balled them into fists.

“What do you want?” I asked, no use beating around the bush.

She gathered a large amount of air into her lungs, closed her eyes, and then bellowed, “I want a husband.”

I frowned.

She opened one eye.

I blinked.

She opened the other eye.

I parted my lips to request clarification, but then thought better of it and snapped my mouth shut.

“Hmm . . .” I nodded, quite somberly.

Again, she’d taken me by surprise. Jennifer Sylvester wasn’t fierce. She was nuttier than a pecan pie.

“Right.” I continued nodding, turning my attention to the darkness beyond my windshield, then repeated, “Right.”

“You think I’m crazy,” she said in a rush, her hands grabbing my arm and holding on like I was a life preserver.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

A sound of desperation escaped her throat, then she said, “I want a baby.”

Oh good Lord!

I closed my eyes, scrunching my face and shaking my head. “This is a joke, right? Jethro set this up? He’s seeking revenge because I made him tell the Tanner twins story at Christmas.”

“No. This is not a joke. I know I sound crazy, I know I do. I mean, I’m twenty-two and I live at home with my parents. Look at me. I’m a joke. I’m the Banana Cake lady. No one wants to marry the Banana Cake lady. But Cletus, I work seventy hours a week
at least
. When would I meet anybody I don’t already know? Someone who doesn’t think of me as a joke? Plus my father would never let me leave the house if he knew I was going on a date.” Jennifer’s voice cracked with emotion.

Crap.

She’s going to cry.

This was a situation that required neutralizing. I placed my hand over hers and gave her a squeeze.

“There, there.”
Fruit cake.
“Calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she screeched, wrenching her hands away. “I’m always calm. I always do as I’m told. I just want this one thing, this
one thing
for myself. Doesn’t everybody want to find someone? I don’t need love, just respect would do. And don’t most people want a family? Then why is it wrong when I want it? Why does that make me crazy?”

“It’s not the wanting part that makes you crazy. It’s the blackmailing-me-into-marrying-you-and-giving-you-a-baby that brings your mental health into question.”

Jennifer straightened her spine, her full lips parting in what looked like confusion at first, then horror. “Oh no, Cletus. No, no. I don’t want to marry
you
. No, not you. You misunderstand, I want you to find me a husband. I would never marry you.”

Uncertain if the situation called for relief or resentment, I stared at Ms. Jennifer Sylvester in abject bewilderment.

She huffed a tired laugh and buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, that came out all wrong.”

“No, it came out right. I wouldn’t want to marry me either.”

She laughed again, this time sounding a touch hysterical. “You know, you’ve always been really funny.”

“How would you know?” I gave her the side-eye. It was a serious question. “As far as I can recall, we’ve never spoken to each other directly before now.”

“Yes, but I listen.” Her response was muffled from behind her fingers. “No one talks to me, so I listen.”

“Jennifer, you’re not helping your case here, unless you’re trying to come across as a crazy creeper.”

She laughed again, less hysterical but maybe more desperate, her head falling back to the headrest. “Maybe I am a crazy creeper. Maybe it’ll never happen. Maybe I’m a lost cause. And if that’s the case, that’s fine. But I need to try.”

Jennifer brought her eyes back to mine; even under the shadow of her hat, the depth of sadness and resolve there startled me. “And you’re going to help me do it.”

“I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better . . .”

― Helen Keller,
The Story of My Life

~Cletus~

“I don’t like
her.” Beau’s announcement was punctuated by the office door clattering against the wall. He’d just burst through it.

I surmised my brother expected me to react to his declaration. I did not react. I was too busy booking a trade through eTrade Pro and had just ten seconds to finalize it.

“Cletus? Did you hear me? I don’t like her. She can’t work here.”

I confirmed the limit order, waited for the verification screen to load, then grudgingly presented Beau with my attention. “It doesn’t matter if you like her or not, Beau. What matters is whether Shelly Sullivan is a good mechanic. She is a good mechanic. Furthermore, thus, as such, vis–à–vis, and so forth. Fill in the blank.”

He’d caught me on the wrong day. Actually, the wrong week. I wasn’t inclined to field complaints. Though it was Thursday, four days after my uncomfortable encounter with Jennifer Sylvester, I was still fixating on it. I’d been distracted since Sunday.

The morning after Jennifer had made her demands, I’d neglected to introduce Beau—who’d returned from a work trip to Nashville that same morning—to our newest mechanic. He’d walked into the shop, they’d spoken, and he’d instantly disliked her. Akin to today, in an atypical exhibition of anger, Beau had stormed into the shop’s office, demanding she be let go.

I didn’t know what had passed between them. I didn’t care. I wasn’t firing her.

“She might be a decent mechanic, I’ll give you that. But she’s as prickly as a porcupine.”

“No, Beau. She’s not a decent mechanic. She’s a great mechanic.” Beau opened his mouth to protest, I spoke over him. “Duane is leaving before Thanksgiving. We have too much work as it is. We need the help. Now leave me be. I need to finish this up before my meeting with Drew.”

Things decided, I returned my attention to the laptop and scrolled through the stats of the principle trading account.

Meanwhile, my younger brother was attempting to drill a hole into the side of my head with his eyeballs.

“I’ll kindly ask you to stop trying to penetrate my brain with those laser beams you call eyes.”

“I’m not done talking about this.”

These stubborn people and their demands were like cracker crumbs in my beard: irritating and flaky.

I exhaled, frustrated, and twisted the swivel chair to face my brother. “Why don’t we talk about something else, like the preparations for Jethro’s bachelor party? Did you finish the scavenger hunt?”

“Yes, I did. Two weeks ago. Stop changing the subject.”

“Fine then.” I gritted my teeth. “Go ahead and talk about Shelly.”

“She’s rude. Not just to me. She’s rude to the customers.”

“Why’s she talking to customers? That’s your job.”

“What do you want me to do? Hide her under a car? She’s impossible to miss, Cletus. She looks like one of those- those . . . those models from the magazines.”

“Which magazines are these?”

Beau only read two kinds of magazines. Both had pictures of headlights. Only one was about cars.

He threw his hands in the air before bringing them to his hips. “You know what I mean. People catch sight of her, they want to talk to her.”

“You mean
men
catch sight of her and want to talk to her.”

“Fine. Yes. Men. Men want to talk to her. And then she insults them. Do you really think that’s a good business strategy? Hiring a gorgeous woman to insult our male customers?”

“No. No, I do not,” I said solemnly, but my mouth twitched before I could stop myself. It wasn’t good business, but it was amusing.

“Oh, is this funny?”

My shoulders shook because I was laughing.

“Are you
laughing
?”

“Nope,” I said through my laughter.

Beau made a sound of disgust and frustration. Then he knocked a cupful of pencils and pens, a stack of invoices, and the incoming mail off the file cabinet with an angry swipe. I ceased laughing.

“You’re going to pick that mess up, Beau Fitzgerald Winston.”

His laser-beam eyes narrowed into slits and he pointed his index finger at the mess. “I will pick it up when I’m good and ready to pick it up.”

Beau turned, slammed the door, and stomped down the stairs.

I stared at the spot he’d vacated, then I stared at the untidiness he’d left. If it had been any other week, I’d already be cooking up a quality idea for revenge. Something to both piss him off and make him laugh. I liked to keep my family on their toes, as it’s what they expected of me.

But not today.

Today I was tired. I was fixating. And I was tired of fixating.

It wasn’t the blackmail setting me on edge, not at all. I’d already neutralized the video—or rather, I’d already taken steps to neutralize the video.

I have very few friends. But one of my friends, who shall remain nameless, was an exceptionally talented hacker. He lived in Chicago and we corresponded every Sunday via the classified section of the
Chicago Tribune
. We’d been playing a chess match for three months using coded messages in the newspaper.

This week, I’d changed my usual message from a chess move to a request for assistance instead: he would hack into Jennifer’s computer, phone, and cloud account (or anywhere else she might be harboring the video), remove it, and leave no trace.

Thankfully, this friend shared my view of the law. He wasn’t the sort who believed in strict adherence. I just had to wait until Sunday. I would then schedule a rendezvous with the misguided young baker woman and explain that she was no longer in possession of the video.

And then I will . . .

Hmm.

Well, darn.

I didn’t know what to do. Which was why I’d been discombobulated all week.

“What happened in here?”

My attention refocused outward. Drew hovered in the doorway, having opened the door without my hearing. He donned civilian clothes rather than his federal ranger attire. This was odd because it was the middle of the week.

“Beau had a temper tantrum.”

“Beau?”

I nodded once.

Drew’s eyebrows lifted high on his forehead; he stepped inside and closed the door. “That’s unlike him. What’s got him worked up?”

“Our new hire.”

The big man’s mouth curved briefly, his smile elusive. “Shelly? Quinn’s sister?”

“Yes. He doesn’t like her.”

“Sure he doesn’t. Anyway, why’re we meeting?”

I liked this about Drew: always to the point when talking about business, but always philosophical when talking about life. Attending his birthday party had been a priority since I met him four years ago.

I turned to the computer screen and pulled up QuickBooks. “Momma’s accounts. I’m making changes you should know about.”

When my mother passed last year, she’d left the management of her family’s money to Drew as he was a good family friend. She didn’t want our malefactor of a father to get his hands on it.

Drew had asked me to help manage the primary investment; he’d been impressed with my day-trading returns. I obliged. Each of my siblings would receive their portion of the inheritance upon reaching their thirty-first birthday. So far, only Jethro was eligible to cash out and he’d opted to leave his money where it was, having no present use for it.

Drew grabbed a chair and turned it backward, straddling it with his arms resting on the back. He was too tall for most chairs. His legs were too long. Consequently, he was always straddling them.

“Cletus, you don’t need to give me any updates.”

“Nonsense. Momma appointed you as the executor of her estate and the trustee for our accounts. This is your business.”

He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable, and not because the chair was too small. “You know why she did that, and I was happy to help. But you’re better at fund management than I am.”

Drew Runous might not have been related to us by blood, but I considered him a brother. We all did. Except my sister, Ashley, of course. They’d been together since last Christmas and we were expecting a proposal any day now.

Any day now.

Any. Day.

I glanced at him, saw his eyes were squinted as he read the totals. He read them again, then flinched back, his mouth agape. I smiled because I’d never seen Drew gape before.

“Catching flies, Drew?”

He snapped his mouth shut, swallowed, and then pointed at the screen. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what did you do? How’d you do that? That’s got to be a return of, what, ten times the original investment?”

“Just about.” I steepled my fingers and leaned back in the swivel chair. “You know I’ve been dabbling in futures and forecasting for years. You can’t expect this kind of return often, and the original figure was just enough to piggyback on a hedge fund I follow.”

Some might consider my venture strategy risky. It wasn’t. I don’t take risks. The market had made atypical gains over the last ten months, just as I’d forecasted. We were due for a slowdown.

I pointed to the new accounts and the calculated forecast for the next four quarters. “But—see here—I transferred everything to a money market today and for the foreseeable future. Best to hold steady at three percent than take a gamble.”

Drew glared at the screen, clearly having difficulty accepting the figures, then moved his eyes to me. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“Just Jethro. But you know how he is about money.”

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t interest him much.” Drew scratched his beard. “You’re going to arrange things so none of your siblings will have to work. You’ll be a family of means and leisure.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I think we’d turn bad if we didn’t exercise or exorcise our demons with gainful endeavors.”

Drew’s eyes, which were silver in color, flicked over me. I was being assessed.

Apropos of nothing, he said, “Talk to me about the shop.”

“What about it?”

“Well, with these numbers, I guess I have a few questions about when you plan to buy me out.”

Drew had fronted the original capital for the Winston Brothers Auto Shop, so Duane, Beau, and I could open our own business. He’d astonished me at the time; his leap of faith had been the first time anyone other than our momma had believed in us boys. Drew had since earned my utmost respect and admiration, and was the only man alive worthy of my sister.

So his question surprised me. “You want me to buy you out?”

“Not at all, it’s been a good investment in more ways than one, supporting y’all. But you don’t need the capital anymore. You could close up at thirty with this kind of inheritance coming your way, open that dulcimer and pie shop you’re always talking about.”

I considered this, because I’d always wanted to open a dulcimer and pie shop, but then rejected it. “No. I don’t have anyone to bake the pies. You know I bake crap pies. My strength is sausage and Italian food, as I’m the savory sort. Besides, what would Beau do without me to oversee things? No. Shop stays open.”

“Really?” he pressed, his eyes still assessing, “even with Duane leaving?”

“Yeah. This is what we do. We fix things. We’re tinker-ers. If we didn’t tinker with cars, we’d tinker with people.”

Drew flashed a rare grin. “You already tinker with people, Cletus.”

“You are correct,” I sat straighter in my seat, ready to defend myself, “but only my family. And y’all deserve my tinkering.”

“Don’t get me wrong. You’re good at tinkering. Aside from those revenge plots, people are lucky to have you interfering in their lives.”

I narrowed my eyes on Drew. “Speaking of which, when are you going to ask Ash to marry you? What are y’all waiting for?”

His grin grew wider and he chuckled. “You’ve been asking me that since we became official.”

“That’s right.” I nodded once, leaning back in the chair and peering over my steepled fingers again. “Just what are your intentions toward my sister?”

His smile grew softer, and his eyes lost focus over my shoulder. He was quiet for several seconds, then said, “You’ll know one day, Cletus. You’ll discover what it’s like to find the other part of yourself. You’ll know it’s her, only her, always her. Maybe not right away, but eventually you’ll know. She’ll be your beginning, middle, and end. And your intentions won’t matter. Love brings its own intentions, and all other plans, hopes, and dreams fade to insignificance in the face of love.”

***

Friday night was
my favorite night of the week.

Every Friday evening in Green Valley musicians far and wide assembled. We jammed together at the community center, an old rehabilitated school converted into a general purpose meeting space. I always participated by playing either the banjo, guitar, fiddle, violin, or dulcimer.