Only Good Yankee Read online

  Praise for Jeff Abbott’s

  previous Jordan Poteet

  mystery,

  DO UNTO OTHERS

  “For ages I’ve been saying that fame and fortune awaited the man who could write charming and funny mysteries set in small-town America. When I read Jeff Abbott’s Do Unto Others, I knew that the position had been filled.”

  —SHARYN MCCRUMB

  “A haunting story of a small Texas town overflowing with decade upon decade of dark secrets.”

  —R. D. ZIMMERMAN

  “Abbott’s debut has both light and dark tones, is thoroughly readable, and presents a well-drawn gallery of suspects.”

  —Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

  “Jeff Abbott is a major new talent, Jordan Poteet a refreshing and delightful new series character, and Do Unto Others a powerhouse debut”

  —SUSAN ROGERS COOPER

  “A promising debut and a fine new author I shall watch with interest.”

  —MARGARET MARON

  “Abbott’s debut mystery is a bright, often funny portrayal of the social mechanics of a small town where, as the narrator/accused/ detective quickly discovers, everyone has something to hide.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A wonderful blend of craftsmanship, complexity, and compassion.”

  —M. D. LAKE

  “A delightful continuation of the cozy mystery by an author who expresses an engaging voice and sense of humor..”

  —Mystery News

  “There are some nice comic touches, Jordy is a likable fellow, the action is flashy, and the ending is heartwarming.”

  —Booklist

  By Jeff Abbott

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  DO UNTO OTHERS

  THE ONLY GOOD YANKEE

  PROMISES OF HOME

  DISTANT BLOOD

  This book is for my mother,

  Elizabeth Norrid,

  one of the truly great steel magnolias,

  and for my father,

  Roland Abbott,

  for the love of books he gave me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For their contributions to this book, I’d like to thank: my agent, Nancy Yost, for her unending enthusiasm; my editor, Joe Blades, for his continuing encouragement and helpful suggestions; and the staff at Murder By The Book in Houston, Texas, for their support and friendship.

  I’d particularly like to thank Robert Power, M.D.; Kelly Peavey; Megan Bladen-Blinkoff and Paul Messina; Karen Bell of the Smithville, Texas, Public Library; Sergeants Corky Marshall and Jim Nilson of the Austin Police Department Bomb Squad; and Smithville Chief of Police Lee Nusbaum for their expertise. Any errors are my fault, not theirs.

  And as always, Austin’s Black Shoes: Jan Grape, Susan Rogers Cooper, and Barbara Burnett Smith, for their willingness to visit Mirabeau repeatedly (despite its lack of a really good bar).

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Since Mirabeau is a fictional place, the stretch of the Colorado River it sits on is also fictional, and therefore is not under any environmental protection other than the laws of Mirabeau itself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THERE WASN’T MUCH TO BEGIN WITH IN Mirabeau, so I was awful surprised when someone started blowing up parts of town. I mean, we did need a little excitement—but no one in his right mind thought explosives were required.

  The first local landmark to go was Fred Boolfors’s toolshed. Early one Monday morning it popped open like a jack-in-the-box on fire—spewing trash, back issues of Playboy, and Fred’s unparalleled collection of borrowed lawn-care tools fifty feet in the air. No one was hurt, but I think his immediate neighbors were pissed that their trimmers were returned in small pieces.

  The police were investigating the remains of Fred’s shed when Pepper Tepper’s doghouse got blown sky-high. I should explain that no one here calls Pepper by her full name except her owner, Clyda Tepper. Pepper’s the most spoiled, orneriest French poodle you can imagine. No wonder the French are so rude with dogs like that around.

  Pepper is Clyda’s pride and joy—and that woman has spent unholy amounts of money to make that canine look as stupid as possible. It’s fortunate Clyda never had children. God only knows how she would have sent them dressed to school. Probably adorned with giant bows on their heads and asses. Clyda also spared no expense on Pepper’s doghouse. It was a miniature version of a French château, complete with wood trim, a slate roof, and a little tiny flagpole with French and Texan flags. Rumor had it that Clyda had installed a little stereo system to play “La Marseillaise” when Pepper entered.

  Anyhow, about three days after Fred’s toolshed kissed the sky, so did Pepper’s château. Fortunately Pepper was off at Le Pooch Salon in Bavary getting her nails clipped. She was undoubtedly put out at having to sleep in a common dog bed. Clyda was sure Pepper was the target of some anticanine campaign and claimed to see poodle-hating Iraqis lurking around every corner.

  At that point, with two pipe-bomb explosions in town, people began to get a mite nervous, myself among them. My name is Jordan Poteet and I run the library in Mirabeau. I found myself checking if anyone had borrowed books on explosives or if any returned tomes featured wires sticking out of them with attached timers. (The answer was no.) I wondered if someone bore long-buried hatred for Clyda (or Pepper) Tepper or Fred Boolfors. I didn’t wonder long.

  I’d spent the night at my girlfriend Candace’s house and I wasn’t quite over the guilt. I don’t feel contrition about spending time with Candace; her company is pure pleasure. But I felt guilty about not pulling my weight at home by staying out all night. See, I came back to Mirabeau several months ago to help take care of my mother. She’s dying a slow death from Alzheimer’s. I’d given up a good career in textbook publishing in the faraway land of Boston to come home to this little river town halfway between Austin and Houston. My sister Arlene (who I just always call Sister) and I split duties on taking care of Mama. Fortunately, we’d had the recent help of an in-home nurse, so Sister had been able to go off the night shift at the truck stop she cooked at and enjoy a more normal life. But whenever I was away from the house, and not at work, I felt like a shirker. Even when I was lying in Candace’s arms.

  It was a beautiful Thursday morning, with early-summer light beginning to stream through the louvered shades in Candace’s bedroom. The first rays fell across my eyes and woke me gently. I could pick out the details of the room: her white frilly lamp shade, the clump of friends’ pictures on the wall (I was glad it wasn’t Kodachromes of her parents staring down at us on the sweaty sheets), the delicately flowered blue-and-yellow wallpaper, the comforter that we’d crumpled in the night. Men won’t admit it, but they love sleeping in a woman’s room. There’s an indefinable feeling of lying on a lady’s sheets, resting on a lady’s pillow, even breathing the air a lady breathes when she’s in her private place. I rolled against Candace, buried my face in her sweet-smelling brown hair, and began to nibble at her ear.

  She gave up playing possum. “I never should have let your long legs in this bed,” she said, pushing me away playfully. Since she’s barely five feet two and I’m a whole foot taller, she can’t push me too far.

  “It’s not my long legs you should be worrying about,” I said innocently.

  “Hmmm. Is that so?” She kissed me and it turned into one of those five-minute, ignore-the-morning-breath affairs, full of heat and groans and raw-edged laughter deep in the throat. Our relationship was new enough, I told myself, that this fervor made sense. I kept waiting for the boredom to set in. Except for one other relationship, monotony had always entered the picture, but it hadn’t yet with Candace. That worried me no end. This could be love. I thought of saying just that to Candace, but the words caught hard in my throat
and instead I kissed her. I’m a show-er, not a tell-er.

  I broke the kiss and smiled down at her. “I probably should get over to the house and check on Sister and—” I started, but didn’t get to finish.

  “I don’t want to hear about your duties right this minute, Jordy. You have your own duty, right here.” She was right—I was standing at attention, so to speak.

  “I know, honey, but—”

  “No buts. Look, y’all have that nurse now, so quit worrying so much. You and Arlene are getting a break. Now you can enjoy it, can’t you?”

  I shrugged, leaning back on the pillow. “I’m trying. But it’s not easy, even with all this generosity coming from Bob Don.”

  Candace rolled over in disgust. “I’ve always counted patience as one of my few virtues, Jordy, but you have just about exhausted mine with Bob Don Goertz.”

  I’d learned a lot since I came home. I’d learned just how exhausting it was to be a caretaker. I’d learned being a librarian was a tough job that was underappreciated. And I’d learned my daddy wasn’t my daddy. Two months ago I’d landed in the middle of a murder investigation where I found myself a suspect, along with Bob Don Goertz, Mirabeau’s reigning car-and-truck czar. One of the unpleasant secrets that had come out during that investigation was my mother’s long-ago (hell, not that long ago, I’m only thirty-two) affair with Bob Don when she and Lloyd Poteet were briefly separated. I was the product of that affair, and Lloyd (who I thought was my daddy) raised me with kindness and love and never let me know. Since Lloyd had died several years ago, Bob Don had been aching to be a father to me. Now Bob Don was trying to make up for three decades in two months. He’d nearly killed me with kindness. Part of his help was hiring the nurse to take care of Mama so Sister and I could pretend we had normal lives. Candace had been a pillar during that tough time, but I think she was sick and tired of hearing about Bob Don.

  She spoke from beneath her pillow. “Now what has he done?”

  “He insisted on giving me some land. Several acres down by the river.” Mirabeau sits on a curve of the Colorado River, pretty and lush and verdant. The river winds through the gently rolling hills and the stately loblolly pines that encircle Mirabeau and never fail to surprise folks who think Texas is one big desert. The eastern half of central Texas is like a garden that God made just for us fortunate few that call places like Mirabeau and Smithville and La Grange home.

  A blue eye peered at me from under the pillow. “And him giving you land is a problem?”

  “I feel funny about it. I never owned land before. What do I do with it?”

  “Well, I own plenty and it’s no shame.” Candace’s folks are the biggest bankers in Bonaparte County. She works with me at the library on a part-time basis and fills the rest of her time with volunteer work. The small salaries that annoy librarians are of little worry to Candace. “What you do with land is simple. You keep it and let its value climb until someone wants to buy. Then you sell it and make a little money off of it.” Having completed her introductory lecture in Candonomics, she threw the pillow at me as I sat up and I caught it. “Does your guilt about not being a Poteet know any bounds?”

  “I haven’t changed my name yet and I don’t intend to,” I answered with dignity. Jordan Poteet was hardly melodious, but Jordan Goertz? It sounded like a Danish laxative.

  “Well, sugar, if you’re not coming back to bed, go get the paper and scandalize the neighbors.” Her smile was warm and inviting. Damn her for complicating my life more. She was smart, funny, and—with her blue eyes, thick brown hair, and pert nose—gorgeous. Well, if she was a complication, let my life stay forever difficult.

  I leaned down and kissed her rosebud mouth. “How about I go get the paper, come back in here, open the shades, and then we scandalize the neighbors?”

  “Mmmm. Maybe we’ll make the society page.”

  I stumbled over to where I’d shed my clothes last night and kicked into a pair of jeans. Out of consideration to the blue-haired moral vigilantes of Candace’s neighborhood, I pulled on a shirt. I brushed my blond hair out of my eyes and opened the door.

  The morning sky was hazy with summer clouds and the promise of later heat and humidity. Birds sang in the trees, obviously early and already gorged with breakfast worms. A gentle breeze stirred against me as I walked barefoot across the dewy grass. I savored the early coolness—it wouldn’t last long on a July day.

  I saw the curtain in the house across the street dance back slightly, then settle. Miss Twyla Oudelle undoubtedly had me in her binoculars as I made an immoral spectacle of myself, appearing on Candace’s lawn, fresh from a night of unblessed debauchery. Miss Twyla was basically harmless and sweet, but she’d been one of my science teachers in high school and I felt a little self-conscious with her watching me on my girlfriend’s lawn. I bent to get the paper, wondering if I should turn and wiggle my butt at Miss Twyla. It was just then that the first mailbox exploded.

  Across the street and two houses down, a half-oval white mailbox burst open like a flower of dynamite. I jumped up, stunned, staring at the wooden stump where the mailbox had been. The percussive noise rang in my ears.

  I’ll never admit to having catlike reflexes, and I was so surprised I didn’t move. I just gaped at the chunks of hot metal that were now in the street. I hadn’t had the requisite five seconds to find my voice when the neighboring mailbox, this one in Miss Twyla’s yard and right across the street from me, detonated. Miss Twyla was fond of country decor and she’d mounted her olive-green mailbox on an antique metal milk tank. The cylindrical urn blew apart like a rocket running into the ground. I’d halfway turned when I felt a hot pain in my arm and I fell to the ground.

  I heard but didn’t see the next two explode. Pain shot through my arm and I felt Candace’s hands on me, her voice screaming in my ear. She pulled me inside right before her own mailbox erupted and peppered her front door with shrapnel.

  I’d suffered enough. Not from the pain in my shoulder or arm, although I’d been hit by flying pieces of Miss Twyla’s milk urn. My suffering was Candace smothering me with the pillow of overworry.

  I’d been rushed to the Mirabeau hospital, where I was pronounced damned lucky. The shrapnel that hit my arm tore no muscle and severed no artery. The wound was explored and cleaned. Candace had wrenched my arm pulling me into the house, so I was awfully sore from my wrist to my shoulder. When I woke up, my arm was bandaged and slinged and Candace was holding my hand. It didn’t take long for the police and the reporters to show up. I had been the only person outside at the time and consequently was the only casualty and witness, making me the hub of inquiry. The attending physician made me stay an extra day to be sure I wasn’t in shock.

  When I got out of the hospital, I wanted to see the mess that was in Blossom Street. Candace walked with me, holding my hand as we surveyed the shattered stumps. Six mailboxes had exploded in their weird dance, one right after another. Candace’s fingers trembled against mine.

  “God, sweetheart, I think of what could have happened to you…” she said, and I squeezed her fingers. I didn’t want to contemplate that myself. I felt luckier than the guy who falls into the outhouse and finds a gold mine. I poked a sneakered foot at the remains of Candace’s mailbox.

  “Hell, now I don’t know where I’m going to have my dirty magazines sent.” I pretended to pout.

  She laughed, nervously, and caught herself in time from giving my arm a playful punch.

  “Jordy, dear, I’m so relieved you’re all right.” Miss Twyla’s booming alto nearly made me jump. Miss Twyla herself had toddled up behind Candace. She was still a large woman at seventy, tall and full-figured, with her heavy plait of gray hair pulled back into a long ponytail. No other elderly lady in Mirabeau wore her hair like that and I always thought it looked great on Miss Twyla.

  Miss Twyla hugged me hard and I embraced her back as best I could. Stepping back, she turned her chocolate-brown eyes on me and set her big hands on her broad hips. In
her trademark khaki skirt and white button-down shirt she looked as formidable as she’d been when you screwed up your lab assignments. “Jordy, I cannot tell you how upset I am that my mailbox injured you. I just feel terrible.”

  “Good God, Miss Twyla, that’s not your fault. We obviously have some lunatic running around town.” I tend to gesture when I talk, and when I forgot, motioning with my hurt arm, I winced. Miss Twyla frowned in sympathy. Maybe I’d get some of her famous pecan-spice cookies out of this.

  “First a toolshed, then a doghouse, now mailboxes.” Candace shook her head. “I don’t get this at all. What’s the point?”

  “Maybe we just have an unambitious terrorist in our midst,” Miss Twyla conjectured.

  “Or he’s working up to something bigger.” The implication of that comment hung in the air. Candace squirmed and Miss Twyla frowned again.

  One of Mirabeau’s police cruisers pulled up slowly in front of us, driven by Junebug Moncrief, our resident chief of police. Junebug and I grew up together in Mirabeau and had been close as children. We’d drifted apart as teenagers, and there had been an old competitive tension between us when I’d returned to town. After all the hoopla over that murder in the library a couple of months ago (where Junebug had thoughtfully not arrested me although I’d been the prime suspect), our friendship had started up again, albeit a little uneasily.

  “Hey, Jordy.” He nodded to me in his unhurried drawl. “How you feeling today?” He adjusted his eyeglasses to the light, looking every inch a small-town officer with his immaculately pressed uniform, his brown burr of hair, and his weathered Stetson. His face was a well-crafted one, strong with character, and one that people trusted.

  “Fine, thank you. So what was it? Dynamite? Tomahawk missile? Nuclear detonator?”