“What?” Harriet Landers yelled from her wheelchair. “Speak up, for pity’s sake.”

Maddie sat in an old iron chair in the small garden at the Samaritan Villa. Looking at the old woman, it was hard to gauge her age. Maddie would guess somewhere between one foot in the grave and fossilized. “My name is Maddie Du pree! I wonder if I might be—”

“You’re that writer,” Harriet interrupted. “I heard you’re here to write a book about them Hennessys.”

Wow, news traveled fast even on the nursing home circuit. “Yes. I was told that you once lived at the Roundup Trailer Court.”

“For about fifty years.” She’d lost almost all of her white hair and most of her teeth and she wore a pink housecoat with white lace and snaps. But there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her mind. “I don’t know what I could talk to you about.”

“How about living at the Roundup?”

“Humpf.” She raised a knobby and gnarled hand and swiped at a bee in front of her face. “Not a lot to say that anyone wants to hear. Folks think that people who live in trailer houses are poor trailer trash, but I always liked my trailer. Always liked having the option of packing up the house and moving the whole damn thing if I wanted.” She shrugged a bony shoulder. “Guess I never did, though.”

“People can be very cruel and dismissive,” Maddie said. “When I was little, we lived in a trailer, and I thought it was the best.” Which was true, mostly because the trailer had been such an improvement over the other places she and her mother had lived. “We certainly weren’t trash.”

Harriet’s sunken blue eyes gave Maddie the once-over. “You lived in a trailer?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maddie held up the tape recorder. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

“What for?”

“So that I don’t misquote you.”

Harriet put her skinny elbows on the arms of her wheelchair and leaned forward. “Go ahead.” She pointed at the recorder. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you recall the summer that Alice Jones lived at the Roundup?”

“Sure, although I lived down the road from her and not next door. But I’d see her sometimes as I was driving past. She was a real pretty thing and had a little girl. That little girl used to swing all day and half the night on the swing set in her front yard.”

Yes, that part Maddie knew. She remembered swinging so high, she thought her toes touched the sky. “Did you ever talk to Alice Jones? Have friendly conversations?”

A frown pulled at the wrinkles in her forehead. “Not that I can recall. That was a long time ago and my memory isn’t so good these days.”

“I understand. My memory isn’t always in the best of shape either.” She looked down at her notes as if to remind herself of what to ask next. “Do you recall a woman by the name of Trina who may have lived at the Roundup at that time?”

“That would probably be Trina Olsen. Betty Olsen’s middle girl. She had flaming red hair and freckles.”

Maddie wrote down the last name and circled it. Do you know if Trina still lives in Truly?”

“No. Betty’s dead, though. Died of liver cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why, did you know her?”

“Ah…no.” She put the cap back on her pen. “Is there anything else you can remember from around the time Alice Jones lived at the Roundup?”

“I remember lots of things.” She shifted a little in her chair, then said, “I remember Galvin Hennessy, that’s for sure.”

“Loch’s father?” Maddie asked, just to clarify. What could Galvin have to do with Maddie’s mother?

“Yep. He was a handsome devil, just like all the Hennessy men.” She shook her head and sighed. “But a girl would have to be an idiot to marry a Hennessy.”

Maddie skimmed her notes looking for Galvin’s name. She thumbed past a Founders Day flyer she’d been handed at the front desk, but as far as she could recall, he’d never been mentioned in any of the police reports.

“I dated that man off and on until the day he dropped dead in the backseat of my Ford Rambler.”

Maddie’s head came up. “Pardon me?”

Harriet laughed, a crackling, rattling sound that left her in a fit of coughing. Maddie became so concerned, she set her notes on the grass and rose to thump Harriet on the back. When Harriet got herself under control, Maddie asked, “Are you okay?” Gee, Harriet was old, but Maddie didn’t want to be the reason she keeled over.

“I wish you could have seen your face. I didn’t think it was possible to shock anyone in this town anymore. Not at my age.” Harriet chuckled.

“So?” Maddie sat back down. “Did Galvin have anything to do with what happened at Hennessy’s Bar?”

“No. He was dead before all that happened. Loraine never forgave me for Galvin dying in the back of my car, but shoot, you can’t throw a rock in this town without hitting some woman who hasn’t slept with a Hennessy.”

“Why?” Maddie asked. Lots of men had looks and charm. “What makes the Hennessy men so irresistible to the women of Truly?”

“They’re beautiful to look at, but mostly on account of what they got in their pants.”

“You mean they’ve got…” Maddie paused and held up a hand as if she couldn’t think of the word. She could, of course. Her favorite word, heft, came to mind, but for some reason she just couldn’t say it in front of an old woman.

“They’re blessed,” Harriet provided. Then, over the next hour, she proceeded to give Maddie the details of her long and illustrious affair with Galvin Hennessy. Apparently, Harriet was one of those girls. No matter that she was well into her nineties and no more than a raisin with eyes, Harriet Landers was one of those girls who loved to talk about their sex lives with a perfect stranger.

And Maddie, lucky girl, got it all on tape.


Wednesday night at Hennessy’s was Hump Night. In an effort to help the citizens get past the hump in the week, Hennessy’s offered half-price well drinks and dollar drafts until seven. After seven, a few people left, but most stayed and paid full price for their booze. Galvin Hennessy had been the brains behind Hennessy’s Hump Night, and the custom had been carried through the following generations.

There were those who’d feared the demise of Hump Night when Mick had taken over the place. After all, he’d done away with panty-tossing at Mort’s, but after two years of cheap well drinks and dollar beers, Truly could breathe easier knowing that some traditions were still sacred.

Mick stood at the far end of the bar, weight resting on one booted foot and pool cue in hand as Steve Castle bent over the table and took a shot. Steve was slightly taller than Mick and wore a baby-blue Attention Ladies: I loved The Notebook T-shirt stretched across his barrel chest. Mick had known Steve since flight training. Back then, Steve had had a full head of blond hair. These days he was as bald as the billiard he sent down on the table.

When Mick had gotten out of the army, Steve had stayed in until his Black Hawk had been shot down over Fallujah by an SA-7 shoulder-fired missile. In the crash that had killed five soldiers and wounded seven, Steve had lost his leg. After months of rehabilitation and a new prosthesis, he’d gone home to Northern California to find his marriage in ruins. He’d gone through a real rough time and a bad divorce, and when Mick had asked him to move to Truly and manage Hennessy’s,

he’d climbed into his truck and arrived in days. Mick had never expected him to last in the small town, but that was a year and a half ago, and Steve had just bought a house near the lake.

Steve was the closest thing Mick had to a brother. The two shared the same experiences and visceral memories. They’d shared a life that civilians did not understand, and their time in the military was something they never talked about in public.

The six ball landed in the corner pocket and Steve lined up the two ball. “Meg was in here yesterday looking for you,” he said. “I guess the whole town is buzzing like a wasp nest because that writer talked to Sheriff Potter and Harriet Landers.”

“Meg called me about it last night.” Steve was the only person Mick had ever spoken to about Meg’s unpredictable emotional outbursts and mood swings. “She isn’t as upset about this whole book business as I thought she’d be.” At least she hadn’t freaked out, which was what Mick had expected from the woman who’d been known to lose it over the sight of a wedding ring.

“Maybe she’s stronger than you give her credit for.”

Maybe, but Mick doubted it.

Steve shot, but the two hit the corner of the pocket and bounced back. “I meant to do that.”

“Uh-huh.” Mick chalked his cue and hit the remaining ten ball into a side pocket.

“I better get back behind the bar,” Steve said as he placed his cue in the rack. “Are you going to be here until close?”

“No.” Mick put his cue next to Steve’s and looked out over the bar. On weeknights, both Hennessy’s and Mort’s closed at midnight. “I want to see how the new bartender is doing at Mort’s.”

“How’s he working out so far?”

“A hell of a lot better than the last one. I should have known better than to hire Ronnie Van Damme in the first place. Most of the Van Dammes are worthless.” Mick had had to fire Ronnie two weeks ago for always coming in late and standing around jerking his gherkin when he had been there. “The new guy used to manage a bar in Boise, so I’m hoping he works out.” Eventually Mick’s goal was to find a manager for Mort’s so he could work less and make more money. He didn’t trust government pensions or Social Security to provide for him for the rest of his life and he’d made his own investments.