Read Online A Bad Day for Sorry: A Crime Novel by Sophie Littlefield - Free Book Online
Authors: Sophie Littlefield
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the shadow of a wide black-and-blue bruise that stretched across her rib cage. “He’s got more careful about hitting me on the arms, ’cause sometimesit showed. Done this one with his fist though. And got me right above the butt, too, here.”
“All since that fight in the bar?”
Chrissy sighed. “Yes, these ones . . . they’re taking their time fading. I never do heal up very quick. But before that it kind of seemed like things might be looking up a bit, you know?”
Stella didn’t say it, but she remembered well. How you’d go a week or two, a month, sometimes maybe three with nothing. Start thinking things had changed, that your man wasn’t really so different from other guys, that he’d just come through a bad patch, that was all. That if you were just a little extra careful, a little more attentive, it would be different this time.
Until one day he saw fit to remind you.
“Okay. Well now, look. I want you to go on home and try not to worry, just like the sheriff says. If he calls you, you tell him whatever he wants to know. But then you call me up and tell me about it, hear?”
Chrissy nodded, only a little wobbly. “I just want Tucker back. I’ll do anything to get Tucker.”
“Me too, sweetheart. And I’m going to work hard to make that happen. We’ll get your boy. But if Roy Dean comes back too, then we’re going to be right back where we started. And we need to make sure that you’re still ready to do what needs done. Do you follow what I’m saying?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re gonna whup Roy Dean’s ass.”
For the first time that day, Stella managed a smile. “That’s right,” she said. “That’s the spirit.”
THREE
B y the time Stella pulled into the Parkade Elementary parking lot, the day had moved into asphalt-melting, breezeless midafternoon. The place looked to be locked down tight as a drum, but there were a few cars in the lot, and Stella figured the handful of teachers and administrators still hanging around during summer vacation had themselves barricaded in with the air-conditioning.
Over at the far end of the parking lot was a white pickup with SHAW PAINTING spelled out in a mostly straight line in black stick-on lettering. It wasn’t a bad-looking truck, maybe six or eight years old, with a recent-enough wash. A nice Dee Zee aluminum toolbox was bolted in the bed, and a utility rack had a variety of tools and ladders lashed to it, neat and orderly. Stella’s dad always said you could tell a lot about a man’s character by looking at his workshop. If he didn’t respect his tools, according to Buster Collier, then he likely didn’t respect himself either, and you could forget about him respecting anyone else.
Well, this sure as hell wasn’t Roy Dean’s truck, then.
Stella got out, lugging her water bottle—she was trying to be mindful of staying hydrated in this heat, and she figured the iced tea had worn off by now—and leaving the gun behind in the box. She took a discreet sniff under her arm: not too bad, considering that this was one of those days when you’re sweating two minutes after you get out of the shower. This meeting wasn’t any beauty contest, of course; but the morning’s encounter with the mirror had Stella in a self-conscious frame of mind.
Stella ignored the VISITORS, PLEASE CHECK IN AT THE MAIN OFFICE SIGN and started across the campus. In addition to the main building, there were several others, a two-story gymnasium and a science lab and a long, low shed labeled FUNBEARS AFTER-SCHOOL CARE .
It was around the far side of this last one that Stella found Arthur Senior, up on a ladder painting the trim a creamy color a few shades warmer than white. In contrast, the old paint looked dingy.
“That looks nice,” Stella said. “Amazing what a fresh coat of paint can do.”
Arthur set his paintbrush carefully down on the pan that was attached to the ladder, and backed his way down. Once his feet were on the ground he
“All since that fight in the bar?”
Chrissy sighed. “Yes, these ones . . . they’re taking their time fading. I never do heal up very quick. But before that it kind of seemed like things might be looking up a bit, you know?”
Stella didn’t say it, but she remembered well. How you’d go a week or two, a month, sometimes maybe three with nothing. Start thinking things had changed, that your man wasn’t really so different from other guys, that he’d just come through a bad patch, that was all. That if you were just a little extra careful, a little more attentive, it would be different this time.
Until one day he saw fit to remind you.
“Okay. Well now, look. I want you to go on home and try not to worry, just like the sheriff says. If he calls you, you tell him whatever he wants to know. But then you call me up and tell me about it, hear?”
Chrissy nodded, only a little wobbly. “I just want Tucker back. I’ll do anything to get Tucker.”
“Me too, sweetheart. And I’m going to work hard to make that happen. We’ll get your boy. But if Roy Dean comes back too, then we’re going to be right back where we started. And we need to make sure that you’re still ready to do what needs done. Do you follow what I’m saying?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re gonna whup Roy Dean’s ass.”
For the first time that day, Stella managed a smile. “That’s right,” she said. “That’s the spirit.”
THREE
B y the time Stella pulled into the Parkade Elementary parking lot, the day had moved into asphalt-melting, breezeless midafternoon. The place looked to be locked down tight as a drum, but there were a few cars in the lot, and Stella figured the handful of teachers and administrators still hanging around during summer vacation had themselves barricaded in with the air-conditioning.
Over at the far end of the parking lot was a white pickup with SHAW PAINTING spelled out in a mostly straight line in black stick-on lettering. It wasn’t a bad-looking truck, maybe six or eight years old, with a recent-enough wash. A nice Dee Zee aluminum toolbox was bolted in the bed, and a utility rack had a variety of tools and ladders lashed to it, neat and orderly. Stella’s dad always said you could tell a lot about a man’s character by looking at his workshop. If he didn’t respect his tools, according to Buster Collier, then he likely didn’t respect himself either, and you could forget about him respecting anyone else.
Well, this sure as hell wasn’t Roy Dean’s truck, then.
Stella got out, lugging her water bottle—she was trying to be mindful of staying hydrated in this heat, and she figured the iced tea had worn off by now—and leaving the gun behind in the box. She took a discreet sniff under her arm: not too bad, considering that this was one of those days when you’re sweating two minutes after you get out of the shower. This meeting wasn’t any beauty contest, of course; but the morning’s encounter with the mirror had Stella in a self-conscious frame of mind.
Stella ignored the VISITORS, PLEASE CHECK IN AT THE MAIN OFFICE SIGN and started across the campus. In addition to the main building, there were several others, a two-story gymnasium and a science lab and a long, low shed labeled FUNBEARS AFTER-SCHOOL CARE .
It was around the far side of this last one that Stella found Arthur Senior, up on a ladder painting the trim a creamy color a few shades warmer than white. In contrast, the old paint looked dingy.
“That looks nice,” Stella said. “Amazing what a fresh coat of paint can do.”
Arthur set his paintbrush carefully down on the pan that was attached to the ladder, and backed his way down. Once his feet were on the ground he
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