A Shred of Truth by Eric Wilson Page B

women?”
    “Honesty’s the best policy. Isn’t that what they say?”
    “Now hold on. I saw the girl leave out the front, but you went hurrying out the back. And why’d you run from me when I told you to stop?”
    “Ah, that’s what this is about.” I chuckled. “Sorry for the confusion. I wasn’t running from you, not intentionally.”
    “I saw you with my own two eyes, so don’t even—”
    “I was trying to find her.”
    “Out the back door?”
    “First I had to go find the gift I’d hidden for her.”
    “On the trail?”
    “It was supposed to be romantic. A surprise.”
    “You trampled the flowers and ignored me to grab a gift? Didn’t I tell you to save yourself some heartache?”
    “Well, look. Now she’s gone.”
    The guard showed no sympathy.
    “This is her last day in town,” I explained. “I wanted to make it special.”
    He shook his head, and his cheek bulged where his tongue worked its way around. As another guard arrived at his side, his nostrils continued flaring like bellows, wheezing with each intake of air.
    “Trouble?” the reinforcement asked.
    There was that word again.
    “This man”—the guard lifted his meaty arm in my direction—“ran off from the museum and refused to obey my orders to stop.”
    “He’s not running now.”
    “Well, I wasn’t going to let him get away, Jerry. Look at his pants. The grass stains. He was up to something.”
    “Didn’t mean to cause such a … a hullabaloo,” I said.
    Hullabaloo?
Where had that word come from? I’d hoped to sound less threatening, but that was bordering on backwoods.
    Jerry lifted his eyebrows. “What’s that in your hand?”
    “This?” I removed the Fauxbergé from the bag. “A gift for my girlfriend.”
    “So he says.” The first guard huffed, then gave a recap of my story.
    Jerry’s face took on a bemused expression, and I got the feeling that a power play of sorts was at work here, that the first man had a habit of exaggerating situations to boost his own stock with his boss—cool-headed Jerry—who to his credit, listened all the way through before taking a step toward me, his palm outstretched.
    “If I’m not mistaken, that’s from our shop. Let’s see a receipt.”
    Home free.
    “Here you go.” I fished the paper from the bottom of the bag, handed it over.
    “Well, there you go. Purchased this afternoon in cash. See, Chuck? Nothing to get worked up over.”
    “But he was running away! He—”
    “Look at him.” Gazing my direction, Jerry draped a hand over his subordinate’s broad back and spoke in a winsome tone. “He’s a lovesick soul, Chuck. Maybe, just maybe, he can still catch up to this girl and win her back.”
    I nodded. “I appreciate that, sir.”
    “Just a bit of advice: think before you speak next time, and wear blinders if you have to.” Jerry gave a melodramatic nod to the gardens on his left, to the daffodils on the right. “Beautiful flowers are easy enough to find. But true love? That’s something special. Don’t go tossing away a rose for a peek at the latest blossoms.”
    “Easier said than done.”
    “But worth it, son, I assure you.” He tapped his wedding ring. “Nineteen years.”
    “Wow. Way to go.”
    “Like anyone wants to hear this,” Chuck interjected.
    “Thanks,” I told the other man. “You’re a true romantic.”
    “Actually, just another wannabe songwriter. Hey”—Jerry lifted a shoulder—“doesn’t hurt to dream.”
    We all laughed, even taciturn Chuck. Guitar-packing troubadours come to Nashville by the thousands, many to be quickly chewed up, spit out, and crushed underfoot. Stardom’s a fleeting thing, as my brother can testify. He spent years paying his dues, earning his keep, sharpening his chops.
    Johnny Ray. I’d left him waiting at Black’s. At least he’d be safe.
    And what about Felicia’s part in this?
    I thanked the guards for their understanding, then darted toward the parking lot—the picture of a man chasing