Hotter than Helen (The "Bobby's Diner" Series) (3 page)

“It’s gonna be a good day, Tanner.” He stood tall, all six-four of him, all two-twenty, like a wall he stood, dwarfing the club and shooting Martin Tanner a knowing grin. “I’m gonna give you a butt-whoopin’ today, old buddy.”

“What makes you think that, Biggs? You couldn’t do beans to win in college. What makes you think you can beat me now?”

“Well if I don’t, I’m gonna wrap this club around your head, that’s what makes me think so.” His eyes smiled, but had a serious hint behind them. He chortled to take the edge off his comment.

“Just tee off, for Chissakes, Biggs.”

He pulled out a golf ball and gently balanced it on top of the tee. Standing up, he set his feet to address the ball. “Hello, ball.” He chuckled deep in his throat.

“Jeez. Hit the dang thing.”

He knew his set up drove other golfers crazy and Tanner was no different.

“Hit it! You’re driving me nuts.” Tanner grumbled.

Bigg’s favorite straight line finally spoken, he turned to Tanner. “That’s not a drive, buddy. That’s a short putt.”

“Screw you.” Tanner grabbed the club like a baseball bat acting as if he wanted to club his friend and Hawthorne acted like he was scared putting his arms in front of his face.

Then they both laughed it off and Hawthorne turned back to the ball and paused briefly this time, taking a long hard look at the green where the flag wagged soft in a morning breeze, the fairway dog-legging to the right, some four hundred yards off. “Yes, sir. A good day.”

After turning his attention from his target, he addressed the ball, concentrating for a few seconds. Then he pulled the club back fast, cranking the club high behind him and swinging through in a swift, choppy motion down at the ground where the ball sat perched on its tee. He barely noticed lifting his eyes up before striking it. The club connected with a crack, sending the ball skewing off to the right, cutting off the dog-leg, screaming straight for the pin and high over the barren desert floor that contrasted so starkly with the brilliant green fairways.

“Heavens to Betsy!” Hawthorne slammed his club head into the earth, denting the ground where it landed. The ball soared over saguaros, prickly pears, chollas and a few barrel cactus that lived in the light sandy brown earth. As the ball spun through its route, both men noticed it pass over the desert and take a lucky bounce about fifty yards off the green and onto the fairway. He accidentally sliced the ball and it turned out perfect for Hawthorne, like most things.

Hawthorne turned to Tanner. “Never lay up! That’s my motto!” He bellowed out a hard, round laugh that echoed over the rolling landscape of the golf course, pissing off Martin Tanner.

“I can’t believe it!” Tanner was angry but still smiling.

“Believe it, son. And, nimrod? What did I say about your language?” He tugged off his golf cap revealing a curly bush of salt and pepper hair across his tanned, almost red forehead. He scratched a spot near his hairline. “I told you it’d be a good day!”

“You lucky son of bitch.”

Hawthorne walked over smartly to the back of their golf cart and shoved the driver back into his bag like the killing thrust of a swordsman in a duel. “Take that!”

“How ‘bout here. You’ll never forget this hole.”

“Yea, here’s good.” He patted his right pocket and after again tracing the edge of metal between his fingers, he pulled out the VIN plaque. He held it up for Tanner to see, his last piece of evidence tying him to the truck.

“Off the edge of the tee box next to the gold tee-markers, we won’t forget that.”

“Very symbolic, Tanner. Nice touch.”

The two men smiled at each other, proudly.

Tanner backed off the flat short grass into the thicker fringe of the teeing area and toed the ground. “How ‘bout right here? He said ‘hide it’ right? This seems like a good place to hide something… in the wide open.”

Biggs looked around in a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. “Perfect.”

Bending down near Tanner’s foot he set the thin galvanized steel upright, sliding it back and forth, cutting with the edge of the metal through the grass until hitting dirt. Then, he jammed hard like a knife. The metal stopped halfway. He stood, placed his foot on the plate, pressed his full weight on it and shoved it all the way into the ground.

“So, it’s been drilled off the engine block?” Hawthorned asked.

Tanner nodded fast.

“Drilled out of the wheel wells?”

Tanner continued to nod as Biggs continued to question.

“And, we replaced the window shield and the trunk, did you check the trunk for the number anywhere in there.”

“Yep. All gone. The truck is clean.”

“Well, then, this should do ‘er.”

“That should do ‘er, boss.”

“Let’s finish this game, shall we?”

And, like Alvin of The Chipmunks fame, Tanner responded, “Let’s shall!”

6

The thick planking of the rugged raw pine table where they all sat shrunk in comparison to Hawthorne Biggs. A low growl of thunder bumped over the roof, causing the chandelier to jingle. Blinking tapers danced in the dim room, reflecting in each of their eyes, adding a hypnotic element to the evening.

Hawthorne daubed his mouth like a ranch hand. His big paw looked odd holding the gold-rimmed beetle motif napkin. The fabric played opposite his craggy, thick fingers that held the thing. He set it down with flair.

“My goodness, woman,” he bellowed. “You are the finest chef this side of the Salt River. And that’s a mighty large expanse.” Hawthorne laid his fork seductively onto his tongue and licked it clean.

His ample shoulders jiggled when he laughed. Hawthorne’s physique challenged the size of the tree he was named after.

His tall sturdy frame made him look like a man in charge. His chameleon eyes danced when he spoke, sliding from silver blue to teal in a matter of seconds depending on his mood. Teal meant he was happy. They shined daringly teal tonight.

But what most attracted Georgette to Hawthorne was his huge laugh. His laugh turned her head that first day they met at Bobby’s Diner.

“Hawthorne. You exaggerate.”

He shook his head fast, denying the accusation. “Now, wait one second, young lady. I’m not the only guest here tonight. What do you think of her cooking, Helen? Fabulous, right?”

Helen pulled back a misbehaving strand of hair behind her ear and nodded. “He’s right, Georgette. This is wonderful.” Her ears were her giveaway. They flushed pink when she felt uneasy. Georgette noticed how her ears always seemed to be trimmed in pink since her return. Something she hadn’t remembered noticing before, when Helen was married to Harold Pyle.

“You two.” Georgette’s emerald eyes glimmered in the candlelight.

“Pretty too, wouldn’t you say, Helen.”

“Now, Hawthorne. I’m only going so far with my compliments. It sounds like someone’s smitten.”

“Have you seen her ring?”

“Yes, Hawthorne. I’ve seen her ring.” Helen rolled her eyes and she and Georgette smiled at each other like sorority sisters.

“He just likes my food. He always tells me I’m pretty when I feed him.”

“That’s not true. I tell you you’re pretty other times too.”

“Yes, well, let’s not go into that, now, okay?” Her eyes opened wide for fear he’d let out some intimate detail.

“Oh, come on, honey. Let’s talk dirty.” He snickered and shoveled in a heaping piece of salmon between his wide smiling lips.

“You’re awful.” Georgette giggled.

“You both are awful.” Helen shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Did Georgette tell you, Hawthorne?” Helen looked at Georgette wide-eyed. “About the diner?” Nudging her, she saw Georgette remembered.

“That’s right! I’ve been so busy I almost forgot.” Georgette set her glass down. “Hawthorne. It’s wonderful news, really. Helen thinks she may want to buy into the diner.” She smiled at Helen and then looked at Hawthorne for approval.

“You don’t say.” His eyes lightened.

“We do say. Plus, I’ve given Roberta every opportunity but I think she’s too busy at the mayor’s office.”

“Well, isn’t that something. Don’t you think we should’ve discussed it first?”

The women glanced at each other for the briefest second, then Helen dropped her eyes to her plate and Georgette’s eyes went to Hawthorne.

“Why, Hawthorne? You always said you would leave decisions about the diner up to me.” Her arm rested on top of the table and she leaned in on it toward him. “I think this is a fabulous idea.”

Helen placed one hand onto her stomach and rubbed. “I’m stuffed.” She acted like she wanted to leave and slid her chair out a few inches.

Hawthorne stopped her.

“No. You’re right. Of course it’s fabulous. Couldn’t be anything but.”

Helen shifted her eyes down from the two of them to her glass when Hawthorne looked her way. She had just taken the last sip of her chardonnay when Hawthorne lifted the half empty bottle from its chilly bucket and refilled her glass.

“Let’s toast.”

“Hawthorne, you’re going to get me drunk.”

“Now wouldn’t that be fun.”

He flashed a bright smile at Helen. His smile caused Helen to relax. She smiled back.

Georgette looked up. Both of their teeth grinning that way at each other put an exclamation point on his words. He flirted terribly with her and other women, even men sometimes. She knew that about him. It hadn’t ever irked her until now.

“I’d like another glass too, Hawthorne.”

“Of course, darling. We’re toasting.”

Helen looked back down to her dish. She poked food onto her fork and kept eating.

“Helen. Aren’t you just the little wonder.” He spoke as he filled Georgette’s glass. “Georgette was surprised to hear you were coming back to Sunnydale. Happy but surprised. And now, this.” They all exchanged a few restless glances and sips of wine. “I mean. You were in Seattle for a long time. Right? Why did you decide to come back here?”

“Seattle, although beautiful, Hawthorne, just didn’t suit me.”

“But, it’s the literary capital of the U.S., isn’t it? Timothy Egan once said of the area that it is ‘militantly literary.’” Hawthorne always enjoyed showing people how much he knew about different subjects. “Or something to that effect.”

“Now, Hawthorne. Don’t pry. It’s rude.”

“But, I would think a writer like yourself would prefer it there. That’s all.”

“Yes. Yours are good points.” She picked up her wine glass and sipped. Her brown eyes dimmed and doubt coursed over her forehead. By the time she swallowed she had recovered. The same strand of hair had loosened again and fallen by her cheek, framing her petite face, giving her normal proper look a sexy quality. “I guess, Hawthorne, I just like the dry weather.” She smiled in a way that ended the discussion.

Georgette had forgotten how good Helen was under pressure. She remembered her calmness when they spoke the night the mayor got into that fatal automobile accident. Even the mayor’s death turned out to be something designed by Zach Pinzer.

“Well, good. That’s good, Helen. You’ll get lots of dry weather now.”

“Helen? Don’t listen to him. He’s been nosy since the day we met. Always asking about things. At first, it bothered me, but then I realized he’s just a sponge. Likes to know all sorts of things. For what? Who knows. Maybe he’s thinking of writing a book too.” Georgette glared at her fíancé.

“Now, there’s an idea! Honey, it would be a love story … about you and me. Oh and Helen. You too. I hate to leave people out.”

“I bet you do.” Helen was no amateur. She could dish it like a pro.

“Oh ho ho! That’s good, Helen.”

“You two are horrible. Am I gonna have to separate you?”

“You  just  might,  honey.”  He  tipped  his  glass  toward Georgette. They clinked rims. Then he turned to Helen with his glass raised still. “Right, Helen? We’ll need to be separated, right?”

Helen looked at Georgette like Hawthorne was nuts, but she picked up her glass anyway. “You’re seriously marrying this guy, huh, Georgette?”

Her comment buckled Hawthorne. “Well, we already have our engagement party set for this coming weekend. A chance to kick up our heels, right, honey?”

The two women chuckled at how much fun he was having. He took a big gulp of wine then dug at the last couple of bites on his plate. “I’m almost ready for dessert! I bet it’s ready too. I’m guessin’ it’s blueberry brickle! I can smell it baking in the oven.”

Georgette pushed away from the table. “You’re guessin’, Hawthorne. He knows it’s blueberry brickle. It’s his favorite, Helen.” She grabbed his empty plate and moved toward Helen who was holding hers up. “He asked me to make it.”

“Do you need some help, Georgette?” Helen’s voice sounded strained and she began to stand. As Georgette was about to answer, to tell her she didn’t need any help, Hawthorne butted in.

“Helen, you’re our guest! You keep your fanny in that seat. I hate being all alone at the table. Georgette can handle this anyway. Right, honey.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t look up at Georgette for an answer but, instead, placed his hand on Helen’s arm pressing her down. When she sat again, he rubbed it gently.