Notorious Page 4

  "Shit." Hayley blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Okay, tank top," she muttered, and letting the seams go, turned away from the mirror to rummage through her dresser. "I planned to go for the tips, but I’ll just have to wear one of these babies underneath instead." She held up two for Kurstin's inspection. "What do you think, black? Or this little ecru number with the lace?"

  "Take off your bra."

  "Huh?"

  "Let's see what the vest looks like without a bra."

  "Are you crazy? I’ll spill out all over the damn place."

  Kurstin snorted. "Have you had a boob job since the last time I saw you?"

  "Well…no. But how rude of you to mention I’m not very busty. Okay, okay," she said in response to her friend's sardonically arched eyebrow and unbuttoned the vest. Pulling it off, she tossed it on the bed next to where Kurstin lounged. "I was hoping to avoid displaying the ratty condition of my underwear in front of the Olivet heiress, but I can see that’s a futile wish." The bra was flung after the vest and Hayley snapped her fingers at her friend. "C’mon, c’mon, don't just lie there. Pass me the damn thing." She pulled the proffered vest on over her bare skin, buttoned up and turned to face her reflection. "Oh," she said weakly. "My. I don't know about this."

  "I do. Now that is a look guaranteed to bring in tips."

  Hayley turned left and right to inspect her image. Her gaze kept returning to the exposed side curves where her breasts lifted away from her ribcage and were revealed above the armholes. The vest’s lapels decently covered the rest of her small boobs except for the subtle hint of her inner curves revealed in the V neckline.

  "Sweet suffering Mother Mary. Could it be any more obvious I’m naked under here?" She tweaked up the shoulder seams again, trying to make the fit more conventional.

  "That's the beauty of it," Kurstin said. "Basically, you are all covered up; yet there's that hint of bare skin that’s so sexy. It’s rather interesting, really, if you stop to analyze it. Who would’ve guessed the tiny bit of boob you’re showing would be ten times sexier than a push up bra could ever be? No acres of cleavage. Just a suggestion here and there of unfettered boobage. It's subtle…like you. Quit messing with it," she ordered and indicated the pair of black skinny jeans and the long black Indian gauze skirt neatly laid out next to her on the coverlet. "Which will you wear with it?"

  "I don't know. Hand me the skirt and I'll see how it looks." She tried it on first and then modeled the jeans. A few moments later she turned to her friend. "What do you think?"

  "The pants. The skirt looks good—it’s pretty—but pants are loads more practical. Well, either those or a straight skirt. All that material is just going to get in your way."

  "Yeah, you’re probably right."

  "Of course I am."

  Rolling her eyes, Hayley scooped her flyaway hair away from her face with both hands. She gave it a side part, sectioned out three hanks and deftly assembled a waterfall braid. She leaned into the mirror to check her makeup, stood back to assess the overall effect and then turned to her friend. "Whataya think? Do I look all right?"

  "You look great. I like your hair like that," Kurstin said, indicating the French-type braid starting near the side part and looping around the back of her head to her opposite ear—and the cloud of dark waves and “waterfall” sections below it made by dropping some of the braid sections. Then her friend raised her eyes to study Hayley's expression. "You’re nervous, aren't you?"

  "A little." She blew out a breath. "I had better get going. I want to arrive a few minutes early to go over Bluey's pricing policies and be checked out on the cash register."

  Kurstin climbed off the bed. "Knock 'em dead, toots."

  "Oh, I intend to." She sent a cocky smile winging her friend's way. Then, picking up her purse, she sailed out of the bedroom.

  The smile faded before she reached the kitchen door and was barely a memory by the time she parked the Pontiac in the gravel lot fronting Bluey’s.

  She knew what happened in this burg when new meat hit the street. Word got around fast and small town folk assumed they had the right to know all your business. If there were two people in the bar tonight who remembered her past history or knew of her current woes, word would spread like wildfire.

  Not that she gave a great big rip what people said about her.

  But she sure was tired of having her every breath dissected for people’s entertainment.

  Mouth arid, heart thudding against her rib cage, she sat in the car for a few tense moments, staring up at the cobalt neon sign blinking the establishment's name.

  Then she straightened. What the hell. It was what it was. She had known what she was in for the moment she’d decided to come back here. She would get through it just like she did her First Day stage fright every new school year. She drew a deep, calming breath. Hey, she had her moments of being engaged in the world. Sometimes she was even downright gregarious. But at heart she was private and a bit introverted, so she had to work at new situations involving crowds. It was just a fact of life.

  But she could do this. With another calming breath, she shook out her hands, climbed from the car and exhaled gustily.

  Show time.

  Three

  The lighting inside Bluey’s was the first thing Hayley noticed when she pushed through the doors. It was geared toward dim and atmospheric with recessed spotlights that reflected off the bottles behind the bar. Candles flickered in red glass votives on the tables and a few strategically placed neon signs cast a tinted glow down the walls. A blue spot was trained on the small stage, which held instruments but no performers.

  The singer on the jukebox crooned that she got her whiskey from a bottle and some cocaine from a friend as Hayley crossed the room. Bluey was behind the bar, an unlit, drooping cigarette glued to the corner of his lip as he lined up glasses. Perched on stools in front of the bar owner, two women sipped drinks.

  They wore turquoise vests identical to Hayley's.

  The plump brunette wore hers over a white cotton tank top paired with black polyester pants and sensible shoes. The blonde next to her had dyed the bottom third of her hair jet black. She’d combined her vest with a black lace push-up bra, a long, slim, black skirt slit to mid thigh, black lace-patterned stockings and black motorcycle boots. Plus an onyx nose stud, Hayley noted as she approached the bar. Her own self consciousness at the tiny bit of flesh she displayed dropped several notches.

  Bluey looked up as she drew near, squinting at her through the column of grey vapor he exhaled from what she saw was an e-cigarette. "Good. You're early," he commented gruffly. "I can show you what you need to know before your shift starts. Meet Marsha," he said, indicating the mild-featured brunette. He jerked his head toward the two-tone blonde. "And that's Lucy. Hayley is the new bartender I told you we were getting’."

  "Well, thank God for small favors," Lucy said and flashed Hayley a cheerful smile. "Getting the grump out from behind the bar can only improve our tips."

  "Go touch up your roots," Bluey suggested in a tone both abrupt and rude. "Damn smart-mouthed brat," he muttered. But Hayley was beginning to understand his actions were not as unkind as his speech suggested. He looked up to catch her watching him speculatively and impatiently waved her around the bar. "Well, c'mon; I ain't got all night," he groused. Rattling off the price list, he showed her how to use the cash register and then tested her on how well she had absorbed the knowledge.

  "Waitresses get comped two well drinks a night," he informed her with his habitual brusqueness. "One at the beginning of their shift and another at the end. The same goes for you. Band members pay for their own liquor but can have all the free soft drinks they can handle."

  He showed her where everything was stocked behind the bar. "We get a pretty decent crowd in here as a rule," he informed her. "But if anyone gets too loaded, cut 'em off, no excuses. If they give you trouble, call for me. If I'm not available, call the sheriff. And if you're ever threatened and none of those options
seem viable, lay 'em out with this." He reached under the bar and pulled out a sawed-off wooden oar handle. He eyed her slender-boned, medium-height frame. "Just give 'em a good hard rap upside the head," was his ultimate recommendation. "You ready to get started?"

  "Yes."

  He grunted. "Then make me a tall water."

  She reached for a glass but he stopped her. "Wait a minute. Where the hell's your bow tie?"

  Hayley's hand went to her throat and she whispered a swear word that would have rolled her mother over in her grave had Mom heard it coming from her lips. "On my dresser at home," she admitted contritely. "I'm sorry, Bluey."

  He grunted again. "Go get another one out of the closet," he ordered. You silly bitch seemed to be the unspoken subtext. Yet when she set his drink on a coaster in front of him a moment later, he stuffed the first dollar bill into the brandy snifter set on the bar for her tips.

  People started drifting in, and by nine o'clock, when the band was due to begin their first set, Hayley was elbow deep in orders. She could hear the musicians noodling and tuning up their various instruments but was too busy to spare them more than a distracted glance. She’d seen more than one customer stare at her before leaning over to talk furiously to the person next to them. She would take a wild stab here and guess the word was out. The only question was whether it was regarding her past history or her current woes.

  She looked up when Lucy came to the end of the bar. The waitress slapped her tray down on the polished wooden surface and said, "I need a Lemon Drop, a Vodka Collins, a Cutty's on the rocks, two house wines—one white, one red—and a Bud Light." Straightening the bills in her cash box, she absentmindedly rubbed her cheek against her hunched up shoulder to smooth back a blonde and black strand of hair. She blew out a weary breath and watched Hayley for a moment as she efficiently poured the wine and grabbed a cold beer from one of the refrigerated units under the mirrored shelves of bottles. Hayley popped the top off the beer, set it on the tray next to the glasses of wine, and reached for a hi-ball glass.

  With a little sound of contentment Lucy eased her butt onto a newly vacated bar stool. "Oh that's nice." She looked at Hayley again. "Band's about to start up," she commented. "It'll quiet down a bit then and you can take a break."

  Hayley looked up from her work and smiled. Stabbing a lime wedge and a maraschino cherry with the little plastic spear, she added it to the vodka Collins. She placed the drink on Lucy's tray and reached for a martini glass.

  "I love this band," Lucy said. "Ragged Edge, they play here week nights, then Bluey has out-of-town bands most Fridays and Saturdays. You ever heard 'em play?"

  "No, I've only been in town for a couple of days and he said they were local talent."

  "Yeah, they are. But he told me you knew one of the musicians."

  Hayley shot her a puzzled glance and Lucy's brows elevated. "No?"

  "No, I had never even heard the name until Bluey mentioned it this afternoon."

  Lucy shrugged. "Huh. I suppose I could have misunderstood." Her expression said she doubted it, though. Eyebrows scrunching delicately above her nose, she scrutinized Hayley for a moment. "You are from Gravers Bend originally, aren't you?"

  Marsha squeezed in next to her. "I need a pitcher, Hayley."

  Hayley cocked an eyebrow at Lucy.

  "Go ahead. I can use another moment off my feet."

  Hayley set down the Martini glass and grabbed a pitcher, sliding it into place and pulling the tap, pouring beer in a careful cascade down its side. She glanced up at Lucy. “I was born and raised over on Oakley Street, but it's been a long time since I've lived here," she said.

  "You graduated from Lincoln High, though, right?"

  "Um hmm."

  "What year?"

  Hayley told her and released the tap, angling the pitcher out from beneath it and sliding it across the bar to Marsha. She reached for the abandoned glass to complete Lucy's order.

  "Then you probably do know a couple of the band members, by name if nothing else. Brian Dorsey?"

  "Oh sure. He was a year ahead of me but I remember him." Hayley's voice was light, but her stomach tensed up. Brian was once a friend of…

  "He's the band's singer, plays guitar. He's a pretty good lookin' guy. But my personal favorite is the saxophone player. Yummy build; the guy's got a stomach on him like corrugated steel."

  The image her description conjured up was so vivid that Hayley flashed a big spontaneous grin, and Lucy blinked at her owlishly.

  "Jeez, killer smile," she commented. "You oughtta do that more often."

  "So, the guy with the washboard abs…is he by chance a close personal friend of yours?"

  "I wish. Nah, he just sweats under the lights and has this tendency to use whatever shirt he's wearing to wipe it away. I try to be there to catch the show. As a matter of fact he's the musician Bluey thought you knew…graduated the same year as Brian. Jon-Michael Olivet's his name. Sound familiar?"

  The martini glass in Hayley's hand slipped through her fingers and bounced into the stainless steel sink.

  Another package was at the post office box today and I’m going to explode if I cannot open it soon. I picked the damn thing up at noon. But it has been one of those days when everything that can go wrong has. It has taken me nine long hours to get to the point where I can almost, almost, satisfy my curiosity about what the service sent this time.

  But not quite. Because I am not alone.

  Lately the spouse never seems to be at home. So doesn’t it figure that tonight when a smidgen of solitude would be appreciated, it is the one evening the better half took forever getting ready to go out?

  But the spouse finally leaves and immediately I retrieve my package from its hiding place. I rip it open with a few efficient flicks of my hands and carefully bury the wrappings deep in the garbage where they won't be noticed.

  Then I skim the enclosed clippings while still standing in the middle of the kitchen. Impatience I know better than to show even when I’m alone simmers deep in my gut as I take the stairs two at a time up to the rarely used third floor room.

  I pore over the articles a second time with avid thoroughness. Then I unlock the secret closet, remove the cap from the tube of acid free paper cement and painstakingly brush the backs of the articles with it. It only takes a moment to add them to the existing collage lining the closet's interior. Then I pop the DVD included with the clippings into the player. Anticipation building, I sit back to view the results.

  The screen turns blue for a second, then opens to a man on a talk-show set. "Good evening and welcome to Inside Forum," he says. "I am your host Graham Sturgis and tonight's subject is capital punishment in the state of New Hampshire."

  He makes a subtle adjustment that leaves him facing the camera more fully and recaps everything I already know about Lawrence Wilson: brutal murder of Dennis Prescott, slated to be executed, first since 1939, yadda, yadda.

  I tune back in when he says, “And once again the capital punishment controversy is heating up.

  "The question, abolitionists contend, should not be whether Wilson will die by hanging or lethal injection. They argue that both the specific method of execution and capital punishment by its very nature are cruel and unusual punishment and are therefore prohibited by the Eighth Amendment.

  "On the opposite side of the issue are families of victims and victims advocate groups. They argue that putting offenders to death is the only way to ensure that these heinous crimes are not allowed to become habitual. Join our guests David Sparks of Amnesty International and Marian Berg of Advocacy For A Safer America after these commercial messages—and you be the judge."

  I feel vaguely cheated after watching the entire program. It dealt with Hayley Prescott but Hayley herself wasn't on it. And it is she, after all, I tuned in to see.

  Not that she has ever voluntarily participated. But, still.

  I didn’t realize my teeth were clenched until I heard my impatient exhale. Sucking in a calming b
reath I reach for one of the older DVDs. I substitute it in place of the newly received selection and sit back once more, fast-forwarding the news clip filmed outside a courtroom until Hayley's face appears. My small grunt of satisfaction sounds loud in the otherwise silent room.

  Now there is the face of a person who understands life can get screwed up through no fault of one's own. That is the face of a survivor, a savior, someone infinitely kind and compassionate.

  "I'll kill her," Hayley said between her teeth as she reached for a clean glass. Her hands, she noticed with furious self-disgust, were trembling slightly. Perfect. That was. Just. Freaking. Perfect. "I will personally put my hands around her throat and squeeeeze the life out of her." She scooped fresh ice into the glass and reached for the bottle of Cutty Sark.

  "Who?" Lucy wanted to know, fascinated by the calm delivery of violent words.

  Hayley hesitated, but, really, what was the point in keeping her own council, even if she and Lucy didn’t know each other? "My good and great friend," she said. "Kurstin McAlvey."

  "Kurstin Olivet McAlvey?"

  "Oh, yeah. The one and only."

  "Ooh." Lucy's mouth stretched into a slow grimace of comprehension. "You, uh, do know Jon-Michael then, I take it."

  "Yes, indeed," she agreed. "In the Biblical sense, you might say," If the looks she had noticed earlier were anything to go by, the entire town would have her every move from cradle to the current moment chewed up and spit out before she got off shift tonight. Seeing no reason to try keeping the unkeepable a secret, she informed the barmaid flatly, "Jon-Michael Olivet relieved me of my virginity when I was seventeen years old." The story was bound to be resurrected and make the rounds again anyway, given their close working proximity. Which would supply yet another reason to keep her notoriety alive and well and at the forefront of everyone's minds.

  She was going to kill Kurstin, pure and simple.