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“In a minute.” Montoya had come this far, out to this bayou away from town, and just suffered Eileen’s cruel and dangerous sense of humor, so he wasn’t quite ready to take off just yet. “All I really need to know is if you sell snakes.” Montoya’s heart was still thudding in his chest, his blood pumping, his muscles tight, and he kept his eyes trained on Eileen. She was small, but he didn’t trust her, didn’t know what else she might find amusing. Or worse.
“I sell ’em when I can.” Ned lit up. “If I got any.”
“You don’t smoke in here!” Eileen said, her voice in the stratosphere. “You take that vile habit outside!”
Ned ignored his mother’s screech and took a long drag, before shooting smoke from the corner of his mouth.
“You go outside,” she ordered, and the dogs were already at the door again, whining and dancing, ready to shoot out across the deck once more.
“What about recently?” Montoya pressed, his eyes still on Eileen as he asked Ned, “Anyone come wanting a snake?”
“Careful,” Eileen warned, her voice low.
“Matter of fact I did sell one,” Ned said, bragging as he defied his mother and blew another cloud of smoke toward the dingy ceiling. “A nice sized cottonmouth. Just last week.”
CHAPTER 38
Scritch.
Scritch.
Scritttcchh.
“What the hell?” Reggie said, slamming her book shut. She’d been sitting by the window readingThe Stand,by Stephen King, one of her favorite novels of all time. The window was cracked and she had been vaguely aware of the rush of the wind through the magnolia tree in the yard and the soft sound of crickets, but now . . . a grating, scratching noise that was so damned irritating and distracting. She’d heard it somewhere before. She was certain of it. And it had always, always bothered her.
Thankfully, it had stopped, and she wondered if it was her husband. Hamilton had been so twitchy lately, anxious to the point of paranoia. And that interview on television, what a cluster-fuck that had been. Reggie had thought, or hoped really, that the interview would showcase Dr. Hamilton Cooke, the wrongly accused surgeon who was desperate to return to medical practice to help the ailing, to once again become a stalwart pillar of the community.
It could happen.
He was after all handsome and charming, or could be when he wanted to be. None of his attributes had been shown in the television gig however.
That calculating bitch of an interviewer—Renee-Claire—had set them up to allow Kristi Bentz in the same studio. Of all the nerve! As if Reggie would ever agree to be on television with that twisted little bitch! Even now, just thinking of the interview and how it had been derailed, a near disaster, made her blood boil. She reached for her glass of wine, took a final swallow, then called to the kitchen. “Hamilton, be a dear and pour me another?”
When there was no response, she turned her head toward the kitchen and said a little louder, “Hamilton?”
An hour before, she’d left him at the stove where he’d been creating some kind of late dinner that neither one of them needed. She always fought her weight, ran six miles every morning, then worked out with weights three times a week to keep her figure as lean as it had been at twenty. Lately she’d noticed, though she hadn’t mentioned it too many times of course, that Hamilton, always athletic and trim, had started developing a bit of a paunch. It wasn’t too bad, yet, but this new hobby of his—trying to master the art of French cuisine—wasn’t helping. He needed to step away from the gas range and hone a strong workout routine that included either swimming or biking daily as well as basketball and golf. He needed to get back into sports and paying attention to his physique rather than worrying about creating the perfect boeuf bourguignon or worse yet, crème brûlée. Good Lord, how many calories were in that tempting but evil dessert? Like seven million—give or take?
“Ham?” she called again, but obviously he couldn’t hear her over the megawatt, industrial-sized fan that he’d insisted they install. It rose above the eight-burner gas range and the pot filler he’d had plumbed into the wall. That of course, required a new backsplash for the entire kitchen, all with imported tiles.
No doubt about it, Hamilton and his new interests were starting to bug her.
She reminded herself not to fall into that trap. He was just going through a rough patch and once he was focused again—and it better be soon—all would be well.
Although, he did have a wandering eye. She knew that all too well. It worried her, sometimes consumed her. Tonight though, right now, she pushed those wayward thoughts aside. At least for the moment.
She and Hamilton, they were on the right track. She knew it. Once he had his medical license reinstated, he’d return to the fit, suave, ultra-handsome, athletic man she’d married so eagerly. His practice would take off and he might become a celebrity doctor, have his own podcast, even a cable TV show. Why not?
Shoot for the stars! That had always been her motto and she saw no reason to abandon it now.
She kicked away the ottoman as she stood and stretched. Leaving her novel dog-eared and open on the side table, she picked up her empty glass and walked through the dining room. In the kitchen the fan was roaring and the smell of tangy bouillabaisse tickled her nostrils. Her traitorous stomach even rumbled. She ignored it. This decadence had to end!
“Hamilton?” she called.
Only the light over the stove was illuminating the kitchen.
How odd.
Also, the pantry door hung open.
