Baroque and Desperate (17 page)

I nodded vigorously. It was a lie, I'm not ashamed to say.

“Oh. Well, anyway, I found some cocoa, and made myself a cup in the microwave, but I didn't find any crackers. I was just in time with the cocoa, too, because there was this real loud crack of thunder and the lights went off.” She paused, perhaps for drama's sake.

“Go on.”

“So, I was sitting at the kitchen table sipping my cocoa in the dark when I first heard the mouse squeak. Real high-pitched little cries, like this.” She demonstrated in falsetto. “I tell you, Abby, I was about to run, but then it squeaked a couple more times and I figured out it was Mrs. Latham crying for help, and that she had to be in Flora's room. So I picked up the kris and—”

“Hold it,” I ordered, risking her wrath, and losing her cooperation altogether. “Where
was
the kris at this time?”

“On the kitchen table.”

“Who put it there?”

“I did, of course. Abby, I had a lot of cupboards to look through. You wouldn't expect me to hold on to the kris the whole time, would you?”

“Where was the kris when you entered the kitchen?” I asked with remarkable patience. Thank heaven I had all that experience interrogating my kids when they were teenagers.

C.J. rolled her eyes. “In my hand, where else?”

I slapped the palm of my hand to my forehead. “When and where did you first pick up the kris?”

C.J. paled. “I couldn't help myself, Abby. It was so beautiful—that gold handle, and all those gemstones. I'd never seen anything like it before.”

“You
stole
the kris?”

Mozella clapped her filthy hands. “You go, girl!”

“I only borrowed it, Abby. I would have given it back, I'm sure. Only not right away.”

I put my hands on my hips, a stance stern mothers have taken ever since the first cave woman caught her child playing with flint too near the tinder pile after one too many warnings. Like the first reprimanded cave child, C.J. regarded me sullenly.

“Shame on you, Jane Elizabeth Cox! Stealing is stealing. What would your granny Ledbetter say if she knew you had stolen that valuable sword from a sweet old lady like Mrs. Latham?”

“She'd tan my hide.”

“You're darn tootin', dear. So think about your granny the next time you're tempted to steal.”

“You're absolutely right, Abby. I should have gotten something for her. Granny loves presents.”

“
What
? Didn't anyone ever teach you that—oh,
never mind! Now get back to your story. So you picked up the kris—which
didn't
belong to you—and then what?”

“Then I ran into Flora's room and stabbed her.”

“Y
ou're sure?”

“Yes. You saw Flora lying on the floor with the kris sticking out of her chest.”

I shuddered. The image was still very fresh. I could almost smell the sweet-musty odor of death.

“Yes, I saw her.” I breathed deeply. “But, C.J., honey, just a minute ago you said you didn't kill Flora. You can't have it both ways.”

The poor girl burst into tears and covered her face with her mannish hands.

“Now see what you've done,” Mozella said accusingly.

“Oh, shut up,” I said, causing generations of well-bred southern ancestors to simultaneously turn over in their graves. I swear the jailhouse began to rock.

“Why, I never!”

“I'm surprised ‘never' is even in your vocabulary, dear.”

“Please,” C.J. sobbed, “don't be mad at her. It's me who's all screwed up.”

I fished a wad of tissues out of my bra and
handed them to her. Don't get me wrong, I am not flat-chested, I just like to be prepared.

“You're not screwed up, dear, you're just confused. Did you, or did you not, stab Flora?”

“I don't know!”

Extracting information from C.J. is like tacking in a sailboat on a narrow canal. “Okay, let's say you did stab Flora. Then what? What did Mrs. Latham do or say? Was she hurt?”

C.J. shrugged. “I don't know. I guess not. She seemed all right this morning, didn't she?”

“But what about last night? Didn't Mrs. Latham say anything to you?”

“The funny thing is, Abby, I never even saw her.”

“But you must have! You saved the woman's life, for crying out loud!”

C.J.'s head shook like the paint mixer at Home Depot. “Actually, I didn't see much of anything. It was blacker than Granny's coal bin in that room. All I could see were shadows—this big shadow choking this little shadow, so I stabbed the big shadow and then boom, the next thing I knew, the lights went out. That's all I can remember.”

I slapped my young friend's cheek. Lightly, of course.

“Try to get a grip, C.J. You don't want to stay in here the rest of your life, do you?”

“What's wrong with here?” Mozella demanded. “The food is good and they got all the hot water you want.”

“You might try using some—with soap!” I hissed.

To her credit—and much to my surprise—it was C.J. who steered us back to the business at hand. “Abby, I think someone hit me on the head.”

“What?”

“Here, feel this.” She pushed aside a hank of hair near her crown.

I gingerly probed her scalp, which, too, was in need of a good scrubbing. Sure enough, there was a lump the size of an egg—well, a pigeon egg at least.

“Ouch!” I said sympathetically. “This is pretty bad, dear. I think a doctor should see this. Did you get this last night in Flora's room?”

“In her bathroom. I went in there to wash my hands—they felt kind of dirty on account of I'd killed with them. But the lights were off, because of the storm, and I had to feel around in the dark. I had just found the sink—or was it the tub—when the lights in my head went out.”

“The lights in your head?” If she meant what I thought she did, one could argue they'd never been turned on.

“Yeah, everything went black, and when I woke up my head hurt like the dickens.”

“And then what?”

“Well, it only hurts now if I bump it.”

“No, dear, what did you do when you woke up? When you came to?”

“I tried to get back in, Abby. But the door was locked.”

“What do you mean by ‘back in?' Where were you when you regained consciousness?”

“That's the really strange part. I was in the kitchen, sitting at the table again. Actually, I was sort of slumped over it, and my cocoa was spilled. The electricity was back on by then.”

“But you went over to Flora's room and tried the door?”

“Yes.”

“And when you found it locked, you didn't feel the need to call somebody? To wake me up and tell me what happened?”

C.J. hung her head. “This might come as a surprise to you, Abby, but I'm—uh—well, I'm a little bit different than most folks.”

“Oh?”

“She means to say she's a tomato short of a salad,” Mozella had the nerve to say.

I glared at Garden Lady. “Go on, dear,” I said to C.J.

“Mozella's right, you know. I've always been a bit different. Not crazy, mind you—but I see things in a different way. Haven't you ever noticed?”

“Some people call that a sign of genius,” I said, rather deftly sidestepping the issue, if I say so myself.

“
Really
?”

“Absolutely. Take Van Gogh, for instance. Or Robin Williams. Both geniuses, and both men with an unorthodox take on life.”

“Robin Williams cut off his ear?”

“Not yet, dear,” I said patiently.

“Wow, so I'm a genius. I always kind of suspected it, you know? I mean, sure a lot of people can read when they're two, but how many two-year-olds do you know who can do the
New York Times
crossword puzzle in ink?”

“None—and have it make sense. But C.J., dear, we seem to have strayed again. Why didn't you just come out and tell me what happened, when it happened?”

“But that's just it, Abby! I wasn't sure what happened. I thought maybe I'd fallen asleep over my cocoa and dreamed it all. When I discovered the door was locked, I knocked, but of course nobody
answered. So I cleaned up the mess and went back to bed—by then the thunderstorm had stopped. Anyway, on the way back to our room I passed by Mrs. Latham's room, and there she was, snoring away just as peacefully as could be.”

“You opened her door and peeked inside?”

“Don't be silly, Abby. This house has old doors, and they all have keyholes. I checked through the keyhole, you see. I'm actually very good at that.”

“I bet you are. When Flora didn't answer her door, did you peek through her keyhole, too?”

“Of course! I mean I tried—I'm a genius, remember? But I couldn't see into Flora's room, because there was a key in the way.”

“Hmmm.”

“Wish I'da been there,” Mozella muttered. “All you need is a paper clip. Straighten that sucker out and you've got the best lock pick in the world. It ain't nothing to push out a key and open a bedroom lock. Hell, them things was made to be jimmied.”

I smiled thinly. Of course, at my age, and without collagen injections, that's the only way I can smile.

“You don't say, dear?”

“Yeah, picking them's like taking candy from a baby.”

“I bet you're an expert at that, too.”

“Well, I don't need to stand here and be insulted,” Mozella huffed, but alas, she didn't budge.

“C.J., dear,” I said, and put my hand on her shoulder, “what did it feel like? I mean, when you stabbed Flora?”

“Geez,” Mozella said, “and you think
I'm
the lowlife!”

“That's not what I meant,” I snapped. I tried to
push C.J away from the vexing vegetable, but she also seemed rooted to the ground.

“You know, Abby,” C.J. said, her face lighting up, “that's a very good question, because now that I think of it, it felt kind of funny.”

“Funny ha-ha, or funny odd?” Face it, with C.J. you never know.

“Funny odd. I mean, back in Shelby I once helped Granny Ledbetter butcher a sheep. This didn't feel like that, at all.”

“You
stabbed
the sheep?”

C.J. grimaced. “Of course not! Granny made Elmer stick his head in the gas oven. But it was my job to cut him up afterward for chops and things. Stabbing Flora didn't feel at all like that.”

“How did stabbing Flora feel?”

“Fluffy.”

“Come again?”

“That's the best I can describe it, Abby. Flora was soft—like a marshmallow. Almost like air. Abby, that's why Mozella thinks I didn't do it. It didn't feel like I was stabbing a real person.”

I pictured C.J. stabbing a giant marshmallow. Despite a fish sandwich, a large order of fries, and a large chocolate shake, I was still hungry enough to smell the damn thing.

“I see. And how many times did you stab Flora—or the marshmallow, or whatever it was?”

“Just one.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

I patted her shoulder. “Good girl. I'm very proud of you.”

Mozella slapped her other shoulder. “Yeah, way to go!”

C.J. blinked. Her eyes were still puffy from crying. “Y'all are proud of me?”

“Of course, dear. You told me everything I need to know.”

“I did?”

“You most certainly did, dear. And I think I can prove now that you didn't do it. You didn't kill Flora.”

Mozella grabbed my arm again. “Y'see? I told you all you had to do was listen to her. And I was right, wasn't I?”

I wrenched free of Garden Lady's grasp. “As right as last night's rain, dear.”

As much as I hate to be rude, I had no choice but to drag my friend across the cell, and then threaten Mozella with my shoe when she tried to follow.

“I'm not a murderess,” C.J. chortled.

“I know, dear.” I lowered my voice. “But don't tell anyone, including the sheriff, what you just told me.”

C.J. gasped. “You don't trust him?”

“Honey, I don't trust anyone but myself, and sometimes I doubt the wisdom of that.”

You could have landed a small plane on C.J.'s lower lip. “You don't even trust
me
?”

I thought fast. “I can always
count
on you, dear.”

“Ooh, Abby, I love you!” C.J. threw her arms around me and gave me the granddaddy of all hugs.

“I love you, too, dear.” To an outsider—and quite possibly to Mozella—it looked like a scene from a B movie.

Then I reached into the right pocket of my jeans and pressed the buzzer Sheriff Thompson had
given me. It would have been much more fun to bang on the bars with a battered tin cup.

 

“So,” the sheriff said, leaning back in his chair, “you learn anything in there?”

“Not really. That awful woman kept interrupting us.”

He chuckled. “Adrianne's a case, isn't she?”

Adrianne
? “Sheriff, is she dangerous?”

“Only to herself. Adrianne Menlow is what I call a one-woman crime ring. She turns tricks when she can, sells a little drugs, steals with some regularity, but never anything violent. She does, however, step on other people's toes. I expect to find her floating face down in the Black River one of these days.”

“What's she in for this time?”

“Purse snatching. Some Yankee tourist got out of her car to take a picture of Adrianne's house—it's on the quaint side, by the way—and Adrianne came around the other side of the car and lifted her bag. The tourist is lucky Adrianne didn't take the car.”

Fortunately, I had left my purse with the sheriff. It was still there, in the middle of his desk. I reached for it and patted it just the same.

“I see. Sheriff, poor Miss Cox has a nasty bump on her head. I think you should have a doctor look at it.”

His face tensed. “Adrianne do that?”

I was tempted to tell the wrong lie. “No. C.J. fell and bumped her head while trying to reach the top bunk bed. You really need to put a ladder in there.”

Trust me, no mortal doctor was going to get the
truth out of C.J. I mean, when's the last time a doctor's listened to you?
Really
listened?

“There used to be a ladder,” the sheriff said wistfully, “but one lady inmate went berserk and decided to kill her cellmate with it.”

“Not Adrianne?”

He smiled and shook his head. “The coroner had a good time with that one. Death by wrung neck, is how he put it.”

“Sheriff, do you have Buster's work number?”

His smile froze. “Which Buster would that be?”

What an idiot I was! I had the temerity to warn C.J. not to blab, when the truth is, my lips are not only capable of sinking a ship, but the entire navy!

“Uh—the coroner. Floyd Busterman Connelly, I think it is.”

“And why would you be wanting that?”

“Uh—he invited me to lunch tomorrow. At his aunt's house. I turned him down, but I've changed my mind. I thought his aunt might need some warning.”

He nodded. “That aunt would be Amelia. She's a terrific cook. Be a shame to miss out on one of her meals—but that's not why you're hot to call Buster, is it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you don't mind me saying so, you and Buster would make a great little couple.”

I was too annoyed to be relieved. I snatched up my purse and stomped from the room—well, maybe stomping is putting it a bit strongly. When you are four feet nine and wear a size-four shoe, prancing is the best you can do.

At any rate, I pranced straight into the arms of danger.