A Pint of Problems - a Jake Burbank Mystery

Chris Lowry

A Pint of Problems - a Jake Burbank Mystery Thriller

Copyright © 2019 by Chris Lowry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Chris Lowry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Contents

JAKE

JOHN

MYRTLE

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JESSICA

JAKE

MYRTLE

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JOE

JAKE

SONNY

JAKE

JUNIOR

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

MYRTLE

JAKE

MYRTLE

JAKE

CAMO

JAKE

CAMO

JAKE

JUNIOR

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

CAMO

JAKE

JUNIOR

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JUNIOR

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JOHN

JAKE

JUNIOR

JAKE

JAKE

JAKE

JAKE

MORE WORK BY THE AUTHOR

JAKE

There was too much leg to take in at once. They stretched up like monuments to dance crafted perfection, long lithe and lean. There was a line along the outside of her calf as she shifted on the uneven dirt, highlighting the muscle beneath.

There were too few perfect legs in the galaxy, too few by far and the set standing in front of him attached to the red hair staring down at him knew she was one of the chosen.

She worked at it.

Take a picture, she smirked.

You burned all the pictures, Jake rolled over on his back and blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

He was on the porch again.

At least this time, his hand was on the door. He tilted his head to one side and groaned at the crack of pain that tried to split his skull apart.

Hair of the dog? Gretchen asked.

He blinked open again and spied his truck. It was parked in the yard, rear wheels on the gravel driveway. The driver’s side door was open and the lights were still on, though he couldn’t tell if they were dim because the battery was failing or it was the morning sun that made them look so pale.

Ah, he answered.

You got anything in the kitchen?

Ah, he repeated.

Of course you do, she stepped over him and opened the door.

The legs flashed over him, a swirl of skirt fabric that twirled around him a dizzy whirl of flesh and color and hope for what was hidden underneath.

Then they were gone and he hear the soles of her flats clacking on the hardwood.

When’s the last time you cleaned? she called.

Maid’s day off, he smacked the sandpaper taste of his tongue against his dry lips.

Last night hadn’t felt rough, not at the time at least.

Jake pushed himself up and leaned against the slat siding of his house.

It was an exercise in patience to get his eyes working right. He blinked one open and closed until the world beyond the drive started to come into focus, then switched to the second eye to make it right too.

Gretchen returned and handed him a coffee cup full of lukewarm liquid.

I didn’t want for it to finish brewing, she told him.

He took a sip of the bitter liquid and grimaced.

At least it made the sandpaper go away.

What are you doing here? he asked after a moment.

The coffee gurgled in his stomach and set off a cascade of growls and roars.

He wondered if he ate last night.

Hell, he couldn’t remember eating yesterday.

Food in the fridge? she asked and went back in without waiting for an answer.

Jake took a second sip of coffee and started the process.

He called it a process, a routine really, developed after many nights like last night.

And there were many nights much like last night.

He flexed and twisted foot, ankle, knee on one leg and switched to the next.

Then his hands, the free one first to check on fingers, wrist, elbow and shoulder before he held the coffee cup in the opposite hand to check that arm.

All was good.

He finished with a roll of his neck, slow to keep the dull throb of his headache from pounding through his gritty eyeballs or cracking the back of his head in half.

No blood anywhere and he hadn’t pissed himself when he passed out on the porch.

There were grass stains on his palms and knees.

He assumed he crawled from the truck. Or maybe he bent over to chuck up into the bushes next to the walkway.

Maybe both.

Gretchen did what she did in the kitchen.

He could hear the rattle of a pan on the iron rings of the stove, the clink and clatter of dishes and cups.

The smell of bacon wafted through the screen and he wondered when he bought bacon.

The smell tantalized him, and his stomach knotted with the thought of what was to come.

Jake pushed himself up the wall and was only half-surprised he could stand up somewhat straight.

Almost ready, Gretchen called out to him.

He hated how familiar it felt, how right.

She didn’t belong there, didn’t need to be in his kitchen cooking him breakfast, just being there.

The domesticity of it pissed him off, the way she breezed in just as easy as she left him before.

Jake took a deep breath and reached for the handle on the screen.

Coming, he said and had to clear the frog in his throat.

Damn her, he cursed himself. And damn him too for letting her make him feel this way.

Again.

JOHN

She squirmed on top of him.

Her taut stomach quivered under the tips of his fingers and he glanced around her to make sure the door was shut.

Nervous, she grinned and he wrapped his hands around her waist.

Do I seem like the nervous type?

She smiled deeper and moved more and he forgot for a moment to wonder about the door.

Ever since he arrived in Pine Bluff, John Matthews had double checked the locks.

Triple checked them sometimes.

Every night before he went to sleep, he checked the front and back door, even going into the garage and slipping the tiny metal locks on either side of the tracks to hold it in place.

He put a wooden dowel in the slider, and even though he hadn’t opened a window in the six weeks since he settled in, he checked each of them too.

It wasn’t paranoia, not exactly.

John was jut a man who wanted to be safe.

And he was, in fact, not a man who played it safe.

My husband is at work, she gasped in quick breaths. He won’t be home for hours.

That’s. Nice, he held and guided and helped where he could.

The woman controlling him was named Eva, though Eve might have been more appropriate, he thought.

Though, in that particular narrative, he would be the one tempting her, so Eva it was.

She had auburn hair, which he considered a particular weakness of his, and a body built by yoga and running, which he appreciated.

His was made by late night and whiskey, though stress had burned off twenty more pounds in the last six weeks.

He just didn’t have an appetite.

He wasn’t complaining.

Neither was the woman on top of him, as she shivered into a finish and collapsed across his chest.

He ignored the tickle of the auburn hair he found so compelling and buried his nose in the smell of her coconut and lime scented shampoo as he joined her.

Same time next week, she climbed off him and tossed a towel onto his lap.

John shrugged up in the chair as she moved around her living room and handed him his clothes.

He dressed in each piece as she passed it to him.

Worn jeans, button down shirt, wool socks and boots.

She saved the jacket for last, holding it on the end of her finger as she stood by the door.

Look at that, he said as he leaned against the doorframe next to her. I’m all dressed, and you’re not.

He ran his hand down the soft flat firmness of her belly and bent in for a kiss.

She gripped his short beard and pulled him in for a warm wet one, then shoved him toward the door.

Next week, she said and stepped behind the door as she opened it.

John slipped his jacket onto his shoulders and stepped out onto the porch.

She slapped him on the bottom fast before she shut the wooden door closed.

He heard the deadbolt lock and felt a small surge of satisfaction at the sound of it.

The shade was deep on the porch that blocked the afternoon sun and he adjusted his collar as he stepped into the sunshine and made his way to his old car parked on the street.

Brother John, his name caught him by surprise.

Leon, John drew up short.

A house visit? the crooked shoulder senior glanced up the walkway to the craftsman style home John had just left.

Counseling, John smiled.

The old fashioned way, Leon stepped past him and kept power walking. That’s the sign of a good preacher.

John smiled after the departing old man and took a deep breath of warm afternoon air.

A good sign.

He needed all of those he could get.

JAKE CHAPTER TWO

The smell of bacon was stronger inside the door and his stomach answered the crackle and sizzle with a roar of its own.

Gretchen took his cup from his hand as he stepped into the kitchen and steered him toward the bistro table in the breakfast nook. She waited until he was seated and topped off his cup.

Jake couldn’t help but put ups his guard.

People weren’t nice to him unless they wanted something, and Gretchen being nice was twice as bad.

She hadn’t been that nice to begin with.

Sure, she was nice to look at, an amazing treat for the eyes from her crafted fashionable hair to the tips of her pedicured toes. Grey green eyes that sparkled in laughter or burned with anger, depending on her mood, and topped off with an attitude and intelligence that came off as half sass and all brass.

Thank you, he sighed as he took the cup from her and cradled it in her hands.

She patted him on the back of the head and let her fingers drift down to the nape of his neck.

It’s nice to see you again Jake, she said his name with a purr.

He tried to repress a shiver and failed.

She noticed and didn’t say anything, just turned back to the skillet on the burner.

He watched her crack two eggs in with the bacon, and lower the flame to slow cook the yolk, just like he liked it.

Jake wanted to shake his head but it would hurt too much.

He sipped his coffee instead and waited.

She used a metal spatula against his non-stick pan and he kept his mouth shut.

Once upon a time when they lived together, he would have said something.

And she would have told him to go buy a new pan, because God knew he could afford it.

Not anymore, he snorted into his coffee cup.

That particular pan was going to have to last him for the rest of his life the way things had been going.

Something funny? she raised one manicured eyebrow in that way she had that seemed disapproving and curious at the same time.

You’re here.

I am, she smiled. And making breakfast.

She slid a hard fried egg on his plate and dripped three strips of bacon across it.

Crispy bacon, egg over hard, just the way you like it, she put the pan on the stove and turned off the burner before she sat across from him.

"Nothing for you?

She waved it away.

I ate before I came.

Jake glanced at the clock on the wall above the door.

We’ll call it brunch, he said and picked up the fork off the napkin.

Brunch was gone in four bites, maybe five. He didn’t count.

I forgot how much I like watching you eat, she said.

He patted the grease off his lips with the napkin and drained the cup of coffee.

I can’t remember you cooking for me, he confessed.

I meant when you took me out, she said and crossed her hands on the table in front of her.

Jake studied the manicured tips of her long fingers, lithe like the rest of her.

Meticulous, he thought. Calculated.

I don’t know if I can swing lunch today, he said.

I heard, she let him off the hook from confessing his monetary condition. Sorry about Po.

Jake shrugged.

It was a good service. You would have enjoyed it.

Does anyone enjoy a funeral?