The Wiles of Watermelon (Scents of Murder Book 2) by Lynette Sowell

Author:Lynette Sowell [Sowell, Lynette]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2015-02-17T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

People usually heard Junker Joe Toms coming before they saw him. At Honey’s small graveside service, he’d shown up thirty minutes late, his rust bucket of a truck chugging and snorting and spewing a smoky cloud from the tailpipe. Joe’s truck looked bad and ran worse, and it was a wonder the vehicle ever passed inspection.

At the funeral, he’d been well-lubricated with his favorite brew and said nothing to us. Today he was the next stop in my search for Bobby Johnson. Joe and Honey had a curious relationship, and I never understood why they didn’t just get married.

I pulled my Jeep up to Joe’s storefront, which was actually the front of his house on a quiet side street near downtown. It looked like a perpetual yard sale. If you weren’t careful, you might get lost in the maze of yard ornaments and old farm equipment. Somehow he’d gotten his property zoned commercial, and as long as he kept price tags on the stuff, nobody could complain about his yard. That, and no one wanted to see a flash of Honey’s wrath if they complained.

A handpainted sign, JJ’s Junk, didn’t seem necessary. The place was self-explanatory. I approached the chainlink gate to the front yard, realizing in all my years of growing up in Greenburg, I’d never crossed the threshold of Junker Joe’s.

The hinges complained as I entered the yard. Somewhere inside, a dog barked. Guitar music filtered to the screened-in front porch. The front windows were open, and a box fan roared in one of the openings that happened to lack a screen. I placed one foot on the front step. The guitar music stopped.

“About time you came by,” a crusty voice said from inside the house. “C’mon in and get a sodie.”

I entered the porch where Junker Joe had a desk set up and shelves along every wall. Wherever there wasn’t a window, the shelves stretched to the ceiling. “Hi, Mr. Toms.”

“Go ahead and call me Joe. I don’t mind none.” Joe came onto the porch. He wore the same plaid shirt he’d had on the day of the funeral. Once I really looked at him, I realized he was no more than fifteen years older than I was. Years of hard living had etched a map across his face, noticeable despite the shadow of beard. That was unusual. He’d shaved his customary hairy face for Honey’s funeral. I imagine she’d have flipped if she knew. On more than one occasion I’d seen her tug on his beard before giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Now it looked like Junker Joe was trying to get the beard back.

“Okay, Joe.” I glanced at a shelf. Did I need an old waffle iron? Still in its original box, a bargain at five bucks. A film of dust on the cover begged me to run a finger across the surface. Momma would be running around with a dust rag and throwing all the boxes and old magazines in the trash.

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