he’s got cooking. If the Chinese pulled out at this point, Beau could be ruined.”
“That makes sense.” I still recall Holland’s red-faced fury, and how Max stopped him with his flattened hand.
“Why does Warren Lacey hate Jet so badly?” Nadine asks.
“Before you can open a nursing home or surgical center in Mississippi, the state has to issue a certificate of need. They’re worth more than gold mines. Lacey was trying to fiddle one in Jackson, for a city where there’s no legitimate need. A state official ended up going to jail over it. Lacey kept himself insulated enough to stay out of prison—barely—but Jet almost got his medical license revoked. He’s never forgiven her.”
“I think he’d strangle her if he could.”
“He won’t. You don’t bite off a piece of the Mathesons if you plan on living the rest of your life outside a wheelchair.”
“So . . . Max protects Jet?”
“That’s the only explanation I can figure for why she’s not dead.”
Nadine looks over at me for several seconds. “Max is a real son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
“You know the stereotype about Vietnam soldiers committing atrocities? Ninety-nine-point-nine percent never did. But Max did. Worse, he’s proud of it. When I was playing football at ten years old, he told us, ‘War is hell, boys, so I made it as hellish as possible. That’s the way you win.’ When I was younger I thought that was just Patton-type bluster. But later I found out he meant it.”
Nadine is nodding. “He’s hit on me a few times in the store.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen him flirt with other women, too. He’s got an instinct for weakness.”
“I know. We’re about five minutes from my house,” I tell her, hoping to change the subject.
“Is Paul an alcoholic?” Nadine asks.
“Yeah. Has been most of his life.”
“I feel like his public persona is a mask. Like underneath, he might be a little nuts.”
“He might be. But he’s basically a good guy. At least he used to be. He’s not living the life he hoped for.”
She gives the windshield a pained smile. “Are any of us?”
I shrug. “I figured you are, if anybody is.”
She doesn’t reply for some time. We’re on a lightless stretch of Highway 61, a black ribbon of asphalt stretching through thick forest on both sides of the road. There’s not much to see.
“This isn’t where I thought I’d open my bookstore,” she says at length. “But it’s been interesting. The social life leaves a bit to be desired, though.”
“You do more than your share to make the town interesting.”
“I try.” Her fingernails tap the window glass again. “Are you sure I’m not putting you out? Staying at your place?”
“I’ll sleep a lot better knowing you’re safe.”
“I can move to my friend’s house tomorrow.”
“Whatever you want. You’re always welcome.”
She smiles. “You gonna tell me about that shirttail?”
“Oh. Jet was crying. She’s afraid Paul might be mixed up in Buck’s murder. I wiped her face with my shirttail.”
Nadine nods slowly. “Did she notice something suspicious about Paul?”
“Not specifically related to Buck. But she’s around those Poker Club guys a lot.”
“No kidding. It’s hard to believe she’d be surprised that her husband might be involved.”
I suddenly feel defensive about Jet. “She’s done more than anybody else to punish them for illegality.”
Nadine watches me expectantly but says nothing.
“I think she sort of wears blinders when it comes to her husband,” I venture.
“Maybe they both do.”
I look back at her, but Nadine is staring through the windshield.
Three minutes later, I click us through the security gate with my remote and drive the long road through the woods to my house. Nadine seems to like the isolation, and once we get inside the house, I show her to my spare room. It’s nothing special, just a queen bed, a dresser, and a chair that came with the house.
“Bathroom’s in the hall, I’m afraid, but I have my own in the back. So nobody will be knocking on the door while you’re in there.”
“Thanks. Hey, is that your guitar by the wall?”
I’d forgotten I moved Quinn’s gift to the spare room before heading for the party. “Um, I guess it is now. That belonged to Buck. Quinn gave it to me this afternoon.”
“Wow. Which one is it?”
I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s curious about Buck’s guitars, especially after we played at her store. Nadine isn’t merely a music fan, but a promoter. “That’s Buck’s personal guitar. One he built himself.”
“The baritone?”
“That’s the one.”
“I love that guitar! It almost sounds like a