She's Gotta Be Mine by Jasmine Haynes, Jennifer Skully Page A

Wylie had definitely been listening when he’d refused to hang Nick’s donated paintings in the hallowed halls of the newly renovated city building, known around town as the Taj Ma’Wylie . Of course, all Wylie had really done was whitewash the building and replace the scrubby lawn with drought-resistant plants. As far as Nick knew, the walls were still bare.
    “Then again, if something happens to Bobbie Jones, it could be the husband. I wonder if Brax has thought of that.”
    Nick squeezed the rubber end of the ball cock. His old buddy, Sheriff Tyler Braxton. They hadn’t spoken much since high school. Since Mary Alice had to leave town. Except when Brax threatened to arrest him over that misunderstanding with Jimbo .
    “I wonder if he used to beat her,” Eugenia mused. “You have to admire a woman who doesn’t air her dirty laundry in public.”
    Right, just like Eugenia never aired her dirty laundry.
    Then, with an audible wheeze, she continued. “What if she whacks the husband?” Eugenia’s banshee wail resonated with what sounded like glee. “I mean, there’s got to be something wrong when a woman is that delighted with the divorce settlement. And why is she here anyway, if she’s so ecstatic?”
    And why had she been in Nick’s backyard?
    Unconsciously, he’d walked to the end of the plumbing aisle. Eugenia’s pontificating littered the air in the Rubbermaid aisle.
    “Mark my words, we’re going to have a murder in this town one way or another.”
    His naturally evil nature rising again, Nick couldn’t resist.
    “Excuse me, ladies, I’m looking for those containers, you know, the kind Jeffrey Dahmer had in his refrigerator for storing...” He paused, smiled, and pursed his lips around the word, “Parts. It has to be something really strong. Something acid won’t eat through.”
    Eugenia dropped her basket, the contents rolling out across the floor. Her companion, Marjorie Holmes—as his high school drama teacher, she sure as hell had never been that silent—stared at him through her tortoise-shell glasses.
    “Oh, sorry, maybe I should ask Sylvestor . But since I heard you over here...” He trailed off.
    Eugenia collapsed to her knees, her mouth open, pudgy fingers grappling with the plastic goods strewn about her on the linoleum. Ms. Holmes continued to stare, as if keeping him within her sight would prevent him from slicing her head off with a scythe like the Grim Reaper.
    “Let me help you clean that up.” He took two steps before Eugenia threw up her hands in the sign of the cross.
    “No, no, I can get it.” She tugged on Marjorie’s sagging nylons and hissed, “Help me down here.”
    “Well, if you’re sure.” He started to back away, wondering how the thin, frail-looking Marjorie was going to get Eugenia’s plentiful body up off that floor.
    “Oh yes”—Eugenia sucked in a breath—“I’m sure.”
    His fun over, he decided to leave before the lady hyperventilated. He smiled, gave them both a wave, and headed to the checkout counter. Yep, he was a bastard. But sometimes it felt good.
    The women’s harsh whispers followed him.
    “Did you see those eyes?”
    “Inhuman. Maybe he’s a vampire. He just might suck the lifeblood from this town if we’re not careful.” He hadn’t known Ms. Holmes believed in vampires. But then again, she had staged Bram Stoker’s Dracula—twice.
    “I’ll have nightmares, mark my words.”
    He plunked down his purchases on the counter. “Afternoon, Mr. Sylvestor .”
    Sylvestor ignored the greeting. Nick counted out the dollars and change. The old man’s crab-like fingers, shaking with Parkinson’s, grabbed and recounted. It would be easier to do his shopping at the minimall’s Home Depot. But Sylvestor needed Nick’s business. At least Harry Bushman’s parents had retired to Florida before Cottonmouth’s economy had gone down the toilet. Mr. Sylvestor , on the other hand, was stuck. Shit.
    Call it a sense of loyalty to his