Finding Floyd (17 page)

"Hey, there's Julia's pecan pie with whipped
cream for dessert!" Ralph said, changing the subject. "And I
understand the secret ingredient is Bourbon."

Diane looked relieve when the talk turned
back to food.

While everyone else was busy with
conversation, John made eye contact with Bella and surreptitiously
tossed her a chunk of chicken. She caught it in mid air with
practiced ease and her tail thumped the floor in gratitude.

"Did you know that nutty Agent Rodriguez is
snooping around here too? We saw her in Floyd last night with some
creepy looking big dude. Maybe it was another FBI guy," offered
Jack.

"You're right. That cinches it," said John
decisively. "They still think we're guilty. I'm convinced, no
matter what you guys say. If Owen were here now, I'd have no
problem telling him so."

"Chris couldn't possibly think I'm mixed up
with the man he's looking for down here." Diane looked alarmed. "I
think that must have been the guy who was shooting at us. Chris
doesn't think..."

"All I'm saying is, don't take anything for
granted. Things aren't always what they appear to be, and don't
trust any of these government weenies," said John.

Diane picked up her plate and slipped from
the room.

Chris Owen sat parked in the driveway of the
B & B, assessing the situation. He rolled the two spent shell
casings thoughtfully around in his fingers and wondered about
Diane. Rodriguez did have a valid point. What were she and all her
friends doing here at the same time The Blowtorch was in the area?
Could Diane be linked to that mobster? As soon as the thought crept
into his head, he dismissed it. That was impossible. Diane wasn't
even a good liar. I can't remember who first suggested going to see
my house, but she'd never lure me out to where The Blowtorch was
hiding. She has to be innocent, but maybe her friends aren't?

There were four cars parked in front of him.
One belonged to Jack and Vicky. One he recognized as Julia Blake's
sedan. The Ford Explorer he easily identified as crazy John Van
Wart's because of the odd combination of 'NRA' and 'Save the
Ta-Tas' bumper stickers adorned with pink bows. The fourth had
Florida plates and he had no idea whose it was. With that group,
whatever was going on inside must be interesting.

All of them, in one way or another, had been
linked to Tony DePalma and his stash of laundered drug money. When
the money was discovered in Ralph Spangenberg's tavern, Rodriguez
had suspected him as well, but he'd been certain of the man's
innocence. If Spangenberg showed up in Floyd too, it would close
the deal for Rodriguez. He rubbed his forehead and frowned. The guy
had gone off and retired somewhere. Where was it? His eyes rested
on the fourth car with its Florida license plate. Holy crap. The
guy went to Florida.

He marshaled his thoughts, ticking off the
facts as he knew them. Diane was an old friend of Sandy's, or at
least that's what she said, so it was understandable she'd be here
at the B&B. He'd have to verify that with Sandy. Immediately,
he hated himself for even considering that Diane could be involved.
When he'd shown the photo of Toricello to Jack and Vicky, he'd
watched them closely and detected no sign of recognition, a point
in their favor. They were here in Virginia, why? They said they
were on vacation. So, why was Van Wart here? Is that little
spitfire Theresa Buonadies here too?

Most important, where was Bruno Toricello
now? With a sigh, he realized that he had more questions than
answers. He'd have to find a way to unravel everything and get to
the truth without letting his attraction to Diane get in the way of
doing his job.

Chris smiled as he thought of her thick wavy
blond hair, those perfect breasts with their little erect pink
nipples, and her long slender legs. He knew his desire for her was
affecting his judgment, but he wasn't sure he even cared any
more.

He sighed, got out of his SUV, and made his
way slowly to the porch. From inside came the sound of voices.
Quietly he eased open the kitchen door, and was met with the warm
aromas of barbeque chicken and baking bread. His belly growled at
him in protest.

Diane looked up startled with tears in her
eyes.

"Are you all right? What happened?" he asked,
resting a hand on her shoulder.

She leaned against the sink, giving him a
watery smile. "I was just worried about you. I wondered where you
were. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, but..." He turned toward the dining
room and listened to the laughter and talk. He easily identified
the voices of Van Wart, the Conners couple and Ralph Spangenberg.
So the big jolly tavern owner is here. He sighed. The strange
coincidences were piling up once again.

"Some of my friends in there still think you
don't trust us." She followed his gaze for a second and turned to
him, blinking back tears. "I think you do. At least, I think you
trust me. You do, don't you?"

Chris looked into her questioning eyes and
grinned. "You know I do."

She looked beautiful with her moist eyes and
trembling lips. She took a step towards him and suddenly they were
in each other's arms. She buried her face in the crook of his neck,
clasped her hands at the small of his back, and held him
tightly.

His strong hands moved over her back and
stroked her hair. Breathing in her scent, he sighed, relieved to
hold her at last. "Let's go outside," he whispered in her ear.

Diane lifted her head, pushed her hair off
her forehead and nodded. They slipped silently out the door and
Chris closed it behind them with the faintest click of the
latch.

In the dark at the end of the porch was a
glider. Chris drew her down next to him, as he gathered her in his
arms, kissing her deeply. The intensity of her response surprised
them both, as she moved restlessly against him. Running her hands
through his hair, she pressed him to her, deepening their kiss.
Breathing in ragged gasps, he hooked one arm under her knees and
lifted her across his lap, crushing his lips to hers once more. A
whimper of pleasure sounded deep in her throat. One hand held her
close, while the other caressed her hips, thighs, and finally her
breasts, where his hand lingered.

This time when their lips parted, they gazed
into one another's eyes as Chris gently moved her shirt aside and
lowered the lacy bra, revealing her soft round breasts. Diane
gasped at the intense sensation as he dropped his head to tongue
one hard nipple, while he gently teased the other.

A door slammed and Diane tensed. The
conversation grew louder as the others left the table and noise
spilled into the kitchen. At the sound of running water and
clattering plates, they reluctantly parted. Chris slid her clothing
back into place and sighed.

"I suppose, with so many guests here, there
isn't a vacant room," he whispered.

For a moment she hesitated, gazing into his
deep blue eyes. Her brain urged caution, but everything else within
her pulled in the opposite direction. She threw caution to the wind
and whispered, "I know where there's one room with a vacancy."

He brushed his lips ever so lightly across
hers, his hand slipping higher on her thigh and resting just below
where her legs met. She quivered beneath his touch.

"Which one is that?" he murmured.

"Mine," she answered and kissed him. She felt
his hand move higher still and she shuddered with excitement.

"If you're going to puff on them foul
smelling things, you can take yourself right on out to the garage
like you always done." The old woman gave him a forbidding look.
"My eyes are starting to burn already. Go ahead and take that
chicken from the icebox if you want. I've had my fill of it."

Who does she think I am? It sounds like she
thinks I'm her husband. The guy must be long gone, thought
Toricello.

"Go on with you now. Take that stinky cigar
and get yourself out to the garage. While you're about it, clean
yourself up. Look at them muddy footprints all over my kitchen
floor." She pointed with her cane and he glanced at his mud
encrusted shoes and a trail of muddy prints from the back door.

The old bat is crazy. This is great. I can
take advantage of this. His lips parted in a wide grin, but he held
the cigar firmly in place between his teeth. Not wanting to give
anything away, he shrugged and grunted. Allowing the refrigerator
door to close after removing the plate of chicken, he took a step
back.

"Go on! Get out to your room over that garage
and don't come back 'til you're fit company." The old woman
gestured with the cane toward the back door.

He grunted, grabbed the chicken and retreated
across the porch and down the steps. Not knowing what else to do,
he made for the garage.

At the back of it, he looked up a flight of
steps to the second floor. Must be the doghouse the old lady sent
her husband to when she was pissed off at him. He gnawed a
drumstick and tossed the bone onto the ground. He was wet, tired
and sore from his long trek through the woods and his wet trousers
chafed him. Might as well break into this place and see what I can
find.

He mounted the stairs and stood for a moment
peering through a dirty pane of glass, as he finished the fried
chicken and carelessly tossed the bones over the railing. If the
door was locked he could easily break in. It looked flimsy enough.
To his surprise, when he turned the handle it opened with a painful
squeal of long unused hinges.

The atmosphere inside was stale and fetid.
Everything was coated with a furry dust layer. He set his duffle on
a chair and began to explore. Making a circuit of the room, he
opened the windows to let in fresh air. On one wall was a small
closet and next to it a small bathroom with a shower stall and
toilet. There was an alcove with a sink and tiny kitchen area.
Against the far wall an ancient couch and two chairs bracketed a
stained and chipped coffee table. A dirty beige rug of
indeterminable origin covered most of the floor.

Without thinking, he turned on the water.
Startled, he stepped back as the faucet erupted in a paroxysm of
rattles and thumps. With one last groaning shudder it coughed out
an unsteady stream of brown water. This spurted, stopped and
started again and finally flowed freely. Guess it hadn't been used
for a while. As he watched, the stream gradually cleared, but he
wasn't sure he wanted to actually taste it. Trying a switch on the
wall, an overhead light came on. At least the apartment still had
running water and electricity.

"This is perfect," muttered Bruno, looking
around the room. "Yeah, my new home, for a while. Just dumb luck
finding this place. And all I gotta do is keep that old bat
believing I'm her husband. Yeah, I'll be Henry Shackleford, he
announced to the silent room.

Systematically, he began investigating
drawers and cupboards. He found an ashtray and stubbed out the butt
of his cigar. In a cabinet above the sink, he discovered three
quart mason jars filled with clear liquid. Taking one down, he
unscrewed the rusted lid and was rewarded with an alcoholic aroma
wafting up from the contents. He sniffed at it.

"It's booze," he said amazed. He shrugged,
lifted the jar to his lips and drank. Gasping, he sucked in about a
gallon of air, as the fiery moonshine burned all the way down,
landing in his stomach with a hot explosion. He coughed and wiped
his mouth with the back of a hand.

"This shit would take some getting used to.
Its booze all right, but it ain't exactly Napoleon brandy," he
said, screwing the cap on and returning the jar to its place on the
shelf. "Maybe in a pinch..."

He crossed to the other side of the room,
rooted in the duffle bag until he found his box of cigars and sat
on the couch. He opened the box and selected one of the Arturo
Fuente Gran Reservas. Flicking his lighter, he rolled the stick in
his mouth, putting flame to the edge all around until it was lit to
his satisfaction. He puffed, sat back and lifted his muddy shoes to
the coffee table. He'd have to think about what to do next, but for
now it was enough to know he had a warm dry bolt hole to hide
in.

"Yeah, I'm Henry Shackleford," he said aloud.
The old lady obviously lives alone. For now, she could be useful.
At some point, I'll probably have to eliminate her. I could snuff
out the old bag and burn the place down with her inside and nobody
the wiser. It looks like an old firetrap anyway. He removed his
aviator sunglasses and dropped them onto the table. Drawing smoke
into his mouth he held it for a few seconds and let it out in a
great cloud, sighing with satisfaction. Ignoring the ashtray, he
flicked ashes onto the carpet.

4 cups whole milk, scalded

1 cup fine white cornmeal

4 tablespoons butter

1 1/2 teaspoons salt

1 tablespoon sugar

4 eggs, separated

Beat the eggs whites until stiff and set
aside.

Whisk the cornmeal into the scalded milk and
cook, stirring constantly until thick.

Remove from heat.

Whisk in yolks, butter, salt and honey.

Fold in the egg whites and pour into a
greased soufflé dish

or deep round casserole about 1 1/2+
quarts.

Bake in a 350 degree oven for about 40
minutes.

Serve hot.

"I tell you, Henry was here! Didn't I say all
along, he never did drown in that lake? I just knew that rascal
would show up here sooner or later," said Granny, thumping the
floor with her cane for emphasis.

"I reckon, Granny, if you say so," said
Sarah, her eyes growing wide.

"If I had my druthers, he'd stay away, but
I'm still married to the no-good sorry excuse for a man. Don't look
at me like that. I saw him I tell you. He was right here in this
kitchen smoking one of his stinking cigars and raiding that there
icebox!" she insisted.