“Because,” Flossie sighed. “We couldn’t have it at the Magnolia since . . . well,” she stammered.
“Is it Tucker?” Jolene asked.
“We’ll be draggin’ out a lot of wine and maybe some whiskey, and we don’t want . . .” Dotty hesitated. “We understand why Tucker drinks on weekends, what with Melanie’s death, but . . .”
“I thought tomorrow after Sunday dinner,” Flossie said. “The sooner the better. You got any ideas about how to get her out of the house and down here, Jolene?”
Jolene fought against rolling her eyes. Sure, it was sad that Melanie had died and that Tucker couldn’t seem to get over it, but he didn’t need to be mollycoddled. He was a grown man. And he’d probably hate that these old gals were feeling so sorry for him.
“You’ve had these talks before?” Jolene set a couple of daiquiris on the bar.
“Yep.” Dotty nodded. “They had one for me after my husband died. I was drownin’ my sorrows in the wine bottle. So I was speaking from experience when I said that I understood Tucker’s problem. He’s been in here real often, chère, like almost every Saturday night, and he drinks a lot. Don’t bother nobody, and he’s never drunk enough that I have to take his keys, but still he don’t need to be in on what we’re about to do with Lucy.” She leaned over and whispered, “I’ve been told that he drinks a lot at home after he leaves here.”
“Why don’t you drop that chère shit?” Flossie said. “You’re in Texas and have been for more than sixty years, so say darlin’ or honey like the rest of us, Dotty.”
“Don’t bitch at me over my endearments,” Dotty said.
“There’s a lot of difference in pouring out a bottle of wine and talkin’ a woman out of what she sees as the love of her life,” Jolene said. “And Tucker is a big boy. I don’t know why you couldn’t talk to her while we have dinner at the Magnolia.”
“Bottle, nothing.” Flossie almost snorted daiquiri out of her nose. “We poured out six of them cheap boxes of wine. There was enough for us to baptize Dotty in, as little as she is.” Flossie gasped and pointed. “Do you see who’s sittin’ at the end of the bar now?”
Jolene tiptoed to see over their collective heads. When she did, she locked eyes with Tucker.
“Sweet Jesus,” she muttered. “He’s here.”
“She’s prayin’ in a bar,” Flossie laughed. “We might need to have a long talk with her and Lucy both.”
“And he’s on my end of the bar, so don’t you worry about it.” Dotty hurried off to take care of her customer.
Tucker took a sip of his drink and blinked. He was seeing things. That couldn’t be Jolene. She was working at the Southern Comfort. She was way too classy to be tending bar in a honky-tonk like the Gator. He blinked again.
Well, Dotty owns this place, and she’s Sugar’s friend, so why wouldn’t she give Jolene a job? Melanie was back in his head.
Dammit! He should have asked Jolene for more details. He racked his brain trying to bring back the conversation he’d overheard. She’d said that she worked in a bar Friday and Saturday nights. She didn’t say which bar. He had made a rookie detective mistake and assumed it would have to be a club and not the Gator. He started to slide off the stool and simply leave, but it would seem awkward, and besides, he liked this place.
But what about next week? Melanie’s voice whispered. I’ve told you that you shouldn’t be using liquor for an escape.
“Now you talk to me,” he mumbled.
That’s all he got from Melanie, and after another whiskey and Coke from Dotty, he gave his barstool to a guy who’d just arrived. He nodded at Mickey on his way out and bypassed the house when he got home. He sat in the truck for several minutes before he got out, went inside the cold trailer, and slumped onto the sofa.
He finally dumped a dozen pens from a mug that Melanie had given him and poured it full of whiskey. “Who needs a bar?” he muttered.
Sometime after midnight he staggered from the trailer to the house. The key went into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn no matter how many swear words floated away on the cold wind. Finally, he figured out that he was trying to open the door with the key that went