Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(62)

“That takes some of the fun out of it, don’t it?”

“Sure does. I stopped hopin’ Callie Kendall would get a star after I found out all about it. Still sad though.”

“Quite the rolly coaster. One minute she’s missing. Then there’s this bloody sweater and she’s dead. Then along comes that faker girl… What was her name?”

“Dunno. Fake Callie’s what we call her ’round the dinner table.”

“Along comes Fake Callie, and we all bust out the celebrations thinking she’s alive and well. Now this. I gotta say, this feels like a letdown.”

“How you think the Bodines are feelin’ today?”

“I’m hoping they’re feeling right guilty.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say! Why should they feel guilty?”

“Their daddy done did it, didn’t he?”

“No one knows for sure.”

“The evidence is there. In my mind, Jonah Bodine Sr., may he rest in peace, was a drunk and a murderer.”

“I for one don’t agree with the whole ‘sins of the father’ bullshit you’re selling. That’s like sayin’ you should be responsible for your papa causing Mott’s heart attack when they got in that hollerin’ fit over at The Lookout twenty years ago.”

“Pfft. That wasn’t Pop’s fault. Mott was the one who got all uppity about his bingo card.”

“Still. I don’t think it’s fair that people are looking to point the finger at those Bodine kids. They’re just as much victims, ain’t they?”

“How y’all figure?”

“They grew up with Connie and Jonah, may they rest in peace, for parents. Them kids are lucky they didn’t come out more screwed up.”

“I bet that Jonah Jr.’ll be moving on now.”

“If he does, it’s ’cause old biddies like you telling everyone he’s the son of a murderer.”

“I’m just speaking my truth.”

“You’re speaking bullshit. There’s a difference.”

“Speaking of Jonah Jr., did you hear that he’s dating that sweetheart Shelby Thompson?”

“Well, ain’t that nice?”

“I heard he showed up at Springs Sundries and bought out just about everything in the bath section for her. Put together a real nice gift basket.”

“Well, I heard that she went to Build A Shine and made herself up a recipe called Bootleg Boot Camp. Obviously, she was pokin’ fun at him for being hungover after the moonshine tastin’.”

“Oh, for sure. It’s damn adorable.”

“They’re all puffed up about not being serious and about movin’ on at the end of summer. But a lot can happen in one summer.”





*



Q. What is your most reliable source for community news?



Cassidy Tucker: A five-minute walk down the street with your ears open.





34





Shelby





With a few notable differences, the Bootleg Springs Community Library was just like every other small-town library. Its book stacks were neatly organized in rows containing hundreds of volumes on everything from classical poetry to farmer’s almanacs. The children’s nook was too noisy. And the whole building smelled like furniture polish and old books.

Where it differed from most other libraries was in the people and the services. The head librarian, Piper Redman, was a pink pixie-haired walking billboard for piercings and tattoos. She was painfully cool. Literacy rates were on the rise just because she made reading look so darn cool.

She’d built programs not just around story hours and book clubs but expanded community services. There was a volunteer squad of tech support teens who every weekend walked some of Bootleg’s less tech-savvy residents through problems with their mobile devices.

Then there was the free weekday shuttle that picked up elderly residents and brought them in to socialize and volunteer. And, of course, the monthly spaghetti dinner, the proceeds of which went toward new books, better computers, and more comfortable reading chairs.

In an age when community libraries were struggling for funding and in some cases relevancy, Bootleg’s library was thriving.

There was also an extensive local history section, which I was in the process of devouring.

I’d started out with good intentions. Jonah and my brother were off doing some fat-busting boot camp for two hours today. I planned to use the time to put together a timeline of defining events in town history.

But when I walked through the front door, the community bulletin board was different. There was no missing flyer of Callie Kendall where it always was. I’d guessed that flyer, or one like it, had been at the top of that bulletin board since the girl disappeared.

That made it even sadder, in my opinion. The surrendering of thirteen years of hope.

I pretended it didn’t matter and settled in to the matter at hand. But in my cursory search of local newspapers on microfiche, I came across an article about the Kendalls after Callie’s disappearance and then another. And another.

The disappearance had helped shape the community, I rationalized. I’d be doing a disservice by ignoring the tear that moment and the years that followed had ripped in the town’s fabric.