Beard Science Read online

  Beard Science

  (Winston Brothers, #3)

  by Penny Reid

  http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2016 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Caped Publishing

  Made in the United States of America

  eBook Edition: October 2016

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-942874-24-9

  DEDICATION

  For Cletus.

  CHAPTER 1

  “So the unwanting soul

  sees what's hidden,

  and the ever-wanting soul

  sees only what it wants.”

  ― Lao Tzu

  ~Jennifer~

  On any given day, I woke up and I baked cake.

  If I had to bake cake I preferred not to bake in large batches. That’s like batch-raising kids, expecting them to think and behave exactly alike, or trying to swim across every lake in East Tennessee at precisely the same time.

  I preferred to focus on one cake. Each and every cake had its own personality. If you ignored a cake’s personality the cake would ignore you. It’ll be a rude, boring cake.

  I avoided making rude cake. These days, I avoided making cake, period. But if I had to do it, I made great cake. Fun cake. Cake with big dreams, difficult to ignore. Special cake.

  “Are you finished with the Knoxville order yet?” my momma bellowed from the other room. I hadn’t heard her come in. Her tone was sharp and edged with panic, and that made me panic. “And, I swear on your grandma Lilly’s fried chicken livers, if you’re making one cake at a time again, I’m going to wring your neck.”

  I squared my shoulders, swallowing the rush of nervous saliva in my mouth. Grandma Lilly’s fried chicken livers were no joke. Not only were they delicious and a closely guarded family recipe—like most of our infamous family recipes—they could also maim if thrown with enough force and deadly intent.

  Employing great care, I placed the last of the cakes—the cakes I’d just baked and decorated one at a time—into a bakery box.

  That’s right. I’d baked one cake at a time. Did that mean I had to wake up at 0-dark-thirty and start baking? Yes, it did. Did I need to admit as much to my momma? No, I did not. Better to wake up at the butt crack of dawn than sell the good people of Barbern boring cakes.

  “I’m just finishing up,” I called and jumped into action. If she saw my six-quart mixer she’d have a fit. I stuffed the small-batch bowls and measuring tools into a tall cabinet at the back of the large, industrial kitchen. I returned for the six-quart mixer, hoisting it in my arms and stumbling under its weight.

  The click of her heels grew closer and I knew I didn’t have time to hide the machine like I wanted, so I lowered it to the ground and covered it with my apron, spinning around just as my momma appeared in the doorway.

  “Thank goodness.” Her hands were on her hips and she looked perfectly put-together, as was her habit.

  Her blonde waves resembled a helmet, and in many ways they were. Her makeup was spotless and as thick as a layer of frosting, and as impervious as a hockey mask. A cloud of Chanel No.5, nail polish, and Aqua Net hair spray arrived three seconds after she did.

  The way she made herself up was both weapon and armor.

  She assessed the state of the kitchen, lingering for a long moment on the large-batch mixer. It was spotless.

  “Where is everyone? Who cleaned all this up?”

  “I did.” I stepped over the smaller mixer, hoping she wouldn’t spot it. “I sent the team home early, since it was just the one special order.”

  Her eyes cut to mine, vexation written on her features. “What are you wearing?”

  I glanced down at myself, having forgotten what I had on. “Uh, overalls.”

  “Oh, Jennifer!” She said my name low and rough, as though it were a swear word. “A lady does not wear overalls.”

  “Nancy Danvish wears overalls.” Nancy Danvish supplied our eggs and milk; her hens and cows were very happy, therefore they made the best eggs and milk. Happy eggs and milk make happy cakes.

  “Nancy Danvish is a farmer.”

  “But she’s still a lady.”

  “That’s debatable . . .” my mother grumbled, almost rolling her eyes before catching herself. “And, goodness, your hair. And your face, ugh.” Under her breath she added, “You know I wonder what planet you’re from; Lord knows it ain’t this one.”

  I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t say, “Thank you.”

  I tried my best to pretend unkind words were actually just erroneously expressed compliments, as it just made everything nicer for everybody. For example, my momma’s latest comment could be rephrased to, You’re cosmically stellar.

  This habit of purposefully misunderstanding insults has served me well over the course of my life, around town, and at home. I’m sure it would have served me well if I’d gone to public school, but my momma homeschooled us kids instead.

  For example, when Rhea Mathis called me “stranger than a vegetarian at a barbeque” during junior choir practice at church, I decided it was her own special way of saying unique. And when Timothy King called me a frigid prude outside the jam session when I was fifteen, I thanked him for praising my coolness and modesty. And when two of my fellow baking finalists at the state fair told me I was a no-talent hack, I smiled and accepted their kind remarks about my work ethic.

  “Hello? Earth to Jennifer. Stop cotton picking and get a move on.”

  “What?”

  My momma had retrieved her phone with one hand and was snapping at me with the other. “You have an appointment at the station with Sheriff James.”

  “I do?” This was news to me.

  “Yes. You do. I ran into him at the Piggly Wiggly parking lot this morning and asked how he and his deputies enjoyed those cupcakes we sent over. And, of course, he couldn’t stop talking about how amazing they were. One thing led to another and he agreed to a video testimonial.”

  “Oh . . .” I nodded faintly, my throat suddenly dry. I attempted a smile.

  “What is wrong with your face? Do you have tummy trouble?”

  “No.” I tried harder to paste on a convincing smile. “But, Momma, you know I don’t like doing those recordings.”

  “Speak up, Jennifer. You’re low talking again. You know I don’t like it when you low-talk.”

  I lifted my voice. “I don’t like doing the recordings. I get nervous and the comments—”

  “Don’t read the mean comments, baby. There’s always going to be nasty people, bless their hearts.” She crossed to me and placed her hands on my shoulders, giving me a gentle shake. “Focus on how well the lodge is doing since we launched the social media campaign last year. Focus on how business is booming. Focus on all the money we’re making. Focus on how famous and admired you are all around the world. You’re a star.”

  “But it’s so public. And people in town—”

  “People in town don’t matter. You and I, we’re meant for bigger things. Come on now, you know you look pretty in those videos, and our subscribers eat it up. The camera loves your face, when you’re wearing your makeup and don’t look like a farmer, of course. Go on and change, there’s a good girl. I told the sheriff you’d be there this afternoon.”
>
  “But can’t you—”

  “Jennifer!” My mother’s fingers dug into my arms and she closed her eyes for a long moment before speaking. “You are trying my patience, baby girl. Do you know how many things I need to do today? Do I need to remind you we have investors coming for the lodge at the end of this month? I need you, Jennifer. You are the key. You fail me, everything fails. With your brother gone . . .” My mother’s chin quivered and she glanced up at the ceiling, tears shimmering in her eyes.

  Immediately, I was awash with regret for causing her distress. I knew how she struggled with my brother’s defiance. I knew how hurt she had been—and continued to be—when Isaac cut himself out of our lives. My father seemed to get over the loss quickly, but my momma still grieved. My heart ached just thinking about how I missed my brother; I couldn’t imagine how my parents felt.

  She exhaled a shaky breath and sniffled, bringing her eyes back to mine. “Just, please, Jenny, please be a help to me. Please don’t fail me.”

  I swallowed the last of my protests and rearranged my features such that my clenched jaw resembled a closed-mouth smile.

  Her sigh was laced with relief and she cupped my face, giving me a cherishing smile. “Good, good. Go get dressed, get a video of you and the sheriff. Afterward you can spend the rest of the day however you like.” Behind her mask of makeup I perceived her eyes soften with concern. “What time did you get up? You look tired.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She inspected me for a moment longer with maternal eyes before her watch buzzed; she glanced at it, huffed, and released my shoulders. “I have to get this call. Go see the sheriff. Perhaps write a letter to one of those pen pals of yours, or take a nap.”

  Maybe for the ten millionth time in my life I said, “Okay, Momma.”

  But she wasn’t listening, she’d already brought the phone to her ear. “Hello? Hello, yes, this is Diane Donner-Sylvester. Yes, thank you for calling . . .” She left the kitchen, her voice diminishing along with the click of her heels.

  Like the good girl I was, I did as I was told.

  ***

  I’m a people watcher.

  Partly because people, the things they do and say when they think no one is watching, are truly odd. But mostly, I’m a people watcher because hardly anyone in town talks to me about anything but cake.

  “It’s the Banana Cake Queen,” Flo McClure announced in a flat voice. She was manning—er, womanning—the front desk of the police station and her eyes barely moved from the computer screen as I approached. Not looking at me or waiting for me to speak, Flo McClure instructed, “Take a seat, gorgeous. The sheriff is expecting you, but it’ll be a few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Miss McClure.”

  The older woman’s pine-bark brown eyes crinkled and her polite smile widened just a touch, letting me know she’d heard me but was too busy or disinclined to engage in small talk.

  I live in a small town and everybody knows everybody. As an example, Flo—or Florence—McClure is known as the stubborn spinster sister to Carter McClure, the fire chief. People said she never married despite her string of would-be suitors because she didn’t want to give up her independence.

  I suspected it wasn’t her independence she was afraid of losing. After watching her and Nancy Danvish engage in a furtive yet passionate argument at a Fourth of July parade five years ago, my money was on Flo McClure being firmly in the closet.

  Anyway, everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows me. I’m the Banana Cake Queen. I make other kinds of cake, but I’m famous for my banana cake. I know this as fact because, when I’m introduced, it’s usually like this:

  “This is Jennifer Sylvester. You know, the Banana Cake Queen? She’s famous for her banana cake.”

  But I digress.

  I turned from Flo McClure and found a seat in the corner of the small lobby of the police station, setting the wrapped zucchini walnut bread I’d brought on my lap. I crossed my legs at the ankles and waited.

  I liked the sheriff. He was nice. Despite being a man of few words, he asked after my well-being. His smiles were genuine and kind. I liked that he was a good father and husband. And he cared about the folks under his jurisdiction. He was a good person, so I made him baked goods whenever I knew we’d be crossing paths.

  I spent the next fifteen minutes people watching, avoiding the social media notifications on my phone. I wasn’t in charge of the accounts, but I still received all the alerts.

  Hannah Townsend walked in, stormed to the desk, and argued with Flo about a speeding ticket.

  A few moments later, the King brothers exited the big door leading to the main offices, whispering in hushed tones. I stiffened, bracing for an insult or an evocative proposition. It never came.

  They looked ragged and maybe a little scared. Luckily, the pair didn’t even notice me as they bolted for the exit, paying no mind to Flo and Hannah either.

  I wasn’t surprised to see the King brothers at the station. As low-ranking members of the Iron Wraiths—the biggest and most troublesome of the local motorcycle gangs—they were always in and out of jail. Ever since I was a teenager, when they spotted me on my own, I could count on aggressively suggestive remarks.

  Not today, apparently. I exhaled my relief.

  I turned my attention back to Hannah and Flo, their interaction becoming friendlier as the conversation turned to the subject of Hannah’s momma.

  Hannah’s momma had been a car accident several years ago and Hannah, even though she’d been just seventeen at the time, took care of her. Hannah had been working two jobs since: as a hostess at the local steak house and at the Payton Mills. About two years ago, she’d quit her job at the mill in favor of becoming a stripper at the Pink Pony.

  The desk phone rang and Flo held up her finger as she brought the receiver to her ear. “Just a second, Hannah. Let me get this. Yes?” The older woman’s eyes darted to me and away as she nodded, saying, “Yep, she’s here.”

  I straightened in my seat because Hannah glanced at me. Her eyes flickered over my form and she stopped just short of rolling her eyes before looking away.

  I didn’t blame Hannah. I really didn’t. We were the same age and in choir together growing up. I understood her scorn.

  Outwardly, I was ridiculous: big, wavy bleached-blonde hair; acrylic nails always painted pink; high heels. My momma had me in full makeup (inclusive of false eyelashes) at sixteen, younger if you counted the pageants I’d participated in as a child. In public I was always attired in yellow or green—my signature colors since the age of four—and I always wore a knee-length dress and pearls.

  I owned one pair of jeans and a pair of overalls, but had been forbidden long ago from stepping outside the house in anything other than Sunday garb. Momma said I was the face of the business, and pedestrian attire was bad for business.

  I was a superficial caricature of a southern stereotype, but our customers loved it. They even hired me for parties. I’d stand behind the dessert table and serve cake with a bright smile and shaking hands. Nobody ever noticed my hands.

  “Okay, I’ll send her back.” Flo nodded again, her gaze cutting to mine as she hung up the phone and flicked her wrist toward the door to the main offices. “The sheriff is ready for you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She didn’t respond, instead turning her attention back to Hannah. “Did you see that news crew up at the Winston house?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did,” Hannah responded on a whisper easy to overhear. “It’s on account of Jethro Winston getting married to that movie star.”

  Jethro Winston and Sienna Diaz, the Hollywood actress, had met at the beginning of the summer and subsequently become engaged two months ago. He was the oldest of the seven Winston siblings. After Jethro came Billy, next was Cletus, Ashley (the only girl), the twins—Beau and Duane—then Roscoe the youngest. Roscoe was my age and, if I’d attended school, we would have been in the same grade.

  “Jethro alr
eady marry that lady?”

  “No, not yet.” Hannah leaned farther over the desk and lowered her voice. “But the rumor is she’s already pregnant.”

  My heart twisted with envy.

  It’s not that I was jealous of Ms. Diaz. Not at all. I’d had no designs on Jethro Winston. Though he’d seemed nice enough to me, my father always said Jethro was the wrong sort and that I should avoid him.

  And by wrong sort, my father meant Jethro wasn’t ever going to be wealthy. A man was nothing to my father if he wasn’t rich or had the potential for notoriety.

  The truth was, I was jealous of Sienna and Jethro. If the rumors were true, despite meeting just five months ago, they were starting a family. They were having a baby, a little perfect person to love and take care of and cuddle and hold.

  More than anything, I wanted that. I wanted a family of my own.

  I crossed to the big door, my heels clicking on the linoleum, leaving the two women to their conversation while I fought to subdue my envy. I turned the knob and stepped through to the back office, scanning the space for Sheriff James. It was a busy place today, much busier than typical, and much bigger than what people might expect from a small town station.

  The state of Tennessee mandates that each county elect a sheriff to serve for four years. Sheriffs are public servants with full police authority in a particular county. But if the cities have their own police departments, Tennessee sheriffs (and their deputies) usually keep their patrol limited to unincorporated areas of their counties.

  Not so with Sheriff James. He and his deputies patrolled the entire county, were responsible for three incorporated cities within the boundaries of the county, plus had shared jurisdiction with the federal warden for the national park on the Tennessee side. He had a big job and a large team.

  The administrative staff were huddled around one desk, whispering anxiously. Usually, the majority of the officers were out on the road, on patrol. Not today. I spotted at least five deputies milling about impatiently. The workplace held an unmistakable air of waiting.