This ain’t the first time that no-good Larell Wilkes came round. Last time we saw him here he’d stumbled over from the county fair, shirt smeared black with pie-stains and drunker than a sack of bricks. Climbed up on the porch and started rapping on the front window.

And what do you think he was looking for? I’ll tell you. Shelley Dawson, that’s what. My Shelley Dawson.

That was last April. Truth is, I figured that bullfrog-sized lump on the head I gave him would’ve kept that boy away for good. I’d kept the skillet by the door ever since then, just in case. Hadn’t had to use it again till tonight.

To the boy’s credit, Larell cleaned up pretty good. I was struck dumb when I opened up the door to his fresh-pressed trousers, red suspenders and a bowtie, hair slicked back with a snazzy pomade. He even shined up his penny loafers for whatever it was he had in that mind of his.

“Evening, Miss Hawthorne,” he greeted. I caught the scent of whiskey.

“Evening.”

Larell smirked. “Say, is Shelley ‘round tonight?”