Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 01 - Hurricane Season (10 page)

Deep dusk found Bo still at his post, the house still quiet. Just before dark, a car not using its headlights jounced down the dirt road and pulled up in front of the house. Bo heard the car door slam, followed by a knock and low voices. Soon, light streamed momentarily from the back door, and two men descended the steps and walked across the yard to the chicken house. They emerged carrying boxes from which came clinking sounds.

The door of the chicken house remained open. When the men disappeared around the side of the house, Bo left his hiding place, walked swiftly across the yard, and slipped inside it. A whirring restlessness among the roosting chickens was the only notice taken of him.

The car door slammed again, and the motor turned over and caught. Footsteps approached the chicken house. Bo remained motionless until a hand reached for the door. He lunged, grabbed the hand, pulled a man inside, and slammed the door amid alarmed clucks.

The man made a strangled sound as Bo’s thumb pressed into his Adam’s apple. Then he was necessarily silent, breathing heavily as he and Bo stared at each other.

“What say, Elmore,” said Bo. He leaned close. “I want you to show me the stock you’re keeping these days. If you’ll do that, give me a little nod right now.”

After a long moment, Elmore’s head moved forward slightly, and Bo loosened his grip. “Maybe you better put some light on the subject,” he said.

Elmore fumbled in his pocket, a match sparked, and a lantern hanging on a nail beside the door began to glow. In its light Elmore, a spindly, freckled, ginger-haired man in his fifties, looked greenish and drawn. His hand was shaking as he adjusted the lantern wick.

“Who was that that came by? Hosey?” asked Bo, naming the black proprietor of a juke joint in the Quarters, the Negro section of St. Elmo.

Elmore cleared his throat. “Bo, what it is—”

Bo ignored him. “Let’s see what you got.”

Moving heavily, Elmore shifted two large sacks of chicken feed away from the wall, revealing a low door flush with the dirt floor and about a yard square. He unhooked the leather-thong latch and swung the door open. Taking the lantern from its hook, he bent to the dark cubbyhole. The lantern beam flickered off glass.

Bo took the lantern. “Bring out a sample.”

Elmore crawled inside and emerged with a five-gallon glass jug filled with clear liquid. He set it on the ground near Bo’s feet.

Bo squatted down, putting the lantern on the ground next to the jug. The men crouched with the jug between them, Bo rubbing his jaw and looking at the jug, Elmore looking at Bo.

The wavering light accentuated the deep hollows under Bo’s eyes. The skin of his face was stretched and taut. He bent his middle finger with his thumb, released it, and gave the jug a solid thump.

The men watched bubbles rise through the liquid to rest on its top. “Nice bead,” said Bo meditatively, and then, to Elmore, “Get me a jar lid.”

When Elmore gave him the top of a fruit jar, Bo unscrewed the demijohn and poured some of the liquid into it. Eyes closed, he sniffed at it and sipped enough to moisten the end of his tongue. Then he set the lid on the ground and held a hand toward Elmore. Elmore dug into his pocket and gave Bo a book of matches. Bo lit one and held it to the liquid in the lid, which immediately and briefly flared into a bright flame. When it died down, Bo regarded Elmore levelly. “Over a hundred proof,” he said.

Bo began to whistle between his teeth, softly and tunelessly. Elmore said, “He come by here, Bo. You’d said you’d be out of business for a while because your still blew up.”

“Whoa,” said Bo. “Back up.
Who
came by?”

“Big old fellow. Not from here. He never said his name.”

“And you didn’t ask, either.” Bo’s voice was without inflection. “You didn’t mind dealing with a stranger who blew up the Calhouns’ still.”

“He never said
he
blew up—”

“No, hell, he never said anything. Why should he? You were just as happy to deal with him no matter what he did.”

“It was just that I had people to supply. Like Hosey. He was mighty put out, Bo, when 1 told him.”

“Oh, well now,” said Bo. “I’m real sorry to hear Hosey was put out. That makes the whole thing more understandable, knowing that Hosey was put out.”

Bo stood up, and Elmore scrambled to his feet beside him. Bo looked at Elmore for several seconds before he spoke. “When does this big old fellow make his deliveries to you?”

“Sometimes one day, sometimes another. I can’t never tell when he’s—”

Bo took Elmore by the upper arms and slammed him against the wall. Elmore’s head snapped back and hit with a solid thud, and he staggered to his knees. Chickens squawked, and one thrashed through the air, hit the wall, and fell motionless to the floor.

“You must want to get hurt,” said Bo. “You know better than to give me that kind of trash.”

“It’s true,” wheezed Elmore. “He don’t never let me know but a day ahead.”

“All right.” Bo knelt beside Elmore and grasped his collar. “Next time you get the word he’s coming, you let me know. If I don’t hear from you, you’ll hear from the Calhouns.” He shook Elmore’s collar gently, and Elmore’s head swayed. “You hear?”

“Yes.”

Bo stood and slipped out the chicken house door. Elmore didn’t look up to watch him go.

Careless was the love I bore,

Careless all I’d done before.

Careless was my only song,

Careless for those I’d done wrong.

Careless until I met one

Who showed me careless days were done.

And now, it’s true, I must confess,

That no more do I feel careless.

Lily put the composition book on the kitchen table and rubbed her eyes. The handwriting was starting to blur. Blurring, too, were the poems themselves. Diana had restricted herself to the theme of love and, however compelling it may have been for her, Lily was getting tired of it.

Lily hadn’t read much poetry, but she’d read enough to know it wasn’t always about love. Her own favorite poem was about a seashell. At the thought of it, she got up and went into the stuffy, little-used living room where
One Hundred and One Favorite Poems
stood on the shelf next to the Bible. Back at the table, she found the place easily. “The Chambered Nautilus,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes. The words slid through her head, soothing and familiar. The sea animal working its shell, its “ship of pearl,” year by year in an ever-larger spiral. And at the end, the satisfying moral: “Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul.” She read that part aloud, but not loudly enough to wake Aubrey.

Leaving Oliver Wendell Holmes, she turned back to Diana Landis. Who could the man have been? What would Woody make of it all, Woody who had probably never even read “The Song of Hiawatha,” much less “The Chambered Nautilus”? She turned the page.

Honor thy father and mother
,

The Bible tells us to.

My mother is gone, my father’s like stone,

And I’d rather honor you.

I didn’t know it would mean choosing,

And choosing is hard, it’s true.

But when it came to a decision

I knew I would have to choose you.

I’d like to have honored my father

If it hadn’t been so hard to do.

So I won’t even try, just let it go by,

And instead I’ll honor you.

Sacrilege, thought Lily. It isn’t funny, playing around with the Commandments. Besides, what’s all this about her father, choosing between Snapper and this other man? What a ridiculous whoop-te-do. Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul.

But Diana, she reminded herself, had been young. And Lily, she reminded herself, was not. Diana’s love agonies did bring back memories. Especially of a young man in a straw boater who’d had amber eyes. So long ago, it was as small and static in her mind as a panel in a love comic book. A hint of sun behind him lit his hair when he took off his hat—to greet her? To say good-bye? And that’s all she could remember. That and his name, which was David.

She closed Diana’s book. She had read enough both to satisfy herself and to be fair to Pearl. Tomorrow, she would keep her promise and turn it over to Woody.

The sound of the sea was a constant faint plashing in this calm weather. She stepped onto the screened porch. The air was stirring slightly. She should be sure to listen to the weather report tomorrow. Or maybe it was her imagination.

On his cot on the porch, Aubrey stirred. The kitchen light shone dimly on his tufts of white hair, his ruddy face. He had slept out here all summer, saying that inside he couldn’t get his breath and was afraid he would choke. Lily hadn’t argued, hadn’t known what to say. He had set up the cot, and she had put on the sheets and a light blanket, and given him his pillow from their bed. He now pulled that pillow around his ears and turned on his side. She went back inside, where the air remained hot and unmoving, and prepared for bed. She lay a long time, watching the clouds move slowly across the moon, before she was able to sleep.

Sara Eubanks was able to look after the store again, and Lily got an early start the next morning. In her visit with Woody, she planned as she drove toward St. Elmo, she would discuss two points: the mysterious young man who made the phone call, and Diana’s poems.

As she approached the courthouse, she noticed that the street was choked with cars. She didn’t remember ever having difficulty finding a parking place in St. Elmo before, but today she had to park down a side street two blocks away. Knots of people were standing on the courthouse lawn.

Lily, intent on her errand, wondered if there was an election rally she hadn’t heard about. She soon realized, though, that her own destination was the focal point of all the attention.

The sheriff’s department was jammed with people, many of them hovering around Loyce, whose jaws were grinding faster than ever. Among them Lily saw Dr. Andrews from the clinic and Brother Chillingworth. The man with the goiter who’d rushed out with Woody and Cecil yesterday was sitting on the bench eating boiled peanuts out of a damp paper bag and talking to Otis Tyree, editor of the
St. Elmo Bay Observer.
In a corner stood Mrs. Chillingworth, the minister’s wife, holding a large cake with coconut frosting on a cut-glass cake stand.

Lily had never cared for Mrs. Chillingworth, who in her opinion suffered from the excessive piety that was an occupational hazard of ministers’ wives. On the other hand, Mrs. Chillingworth was the only person who looked available for conversation in this unexpected crush. Lily worked her way over to where the small, rabbity-looking woman stood, and said, “What on earth is happening?”

The tip of Mrs. Chillingworth’s nose reddened, and she began to cry.

“Mercy.” Lily said, taking the cake stand before Mrs. Chillingworth tipped it too far and the cake slid off. “Come with me,” she said, and led the weeping minister’s wife out the door and down the hall to the ladies’ room, where Mrs. Chillingworth sniffled and dabbed at her eyes.

Eventually, Mrs. Chillingworth got herself under control. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Trulock,” she gasped. “It’s just that the seminary gave that young man such a high recommendation. Even so, I know everyone will consider this a reflection on Buster.”

It had never occurred to Lily to wonder if the Reverend Luke John Chillingworth had a nickname. Unable to take in “Buster,” she rested the cake on the edge of the rust-stained sink.

“The bishop is sure to hear about it,” said Mrs. Chillingworth. “Not that he shouldn’t. Buster has nothing to condemn himself for. It’s the seminary that should be worried.”

“The seminary?”

“If they send murderers out as youth workers, the whole Alabama-West Florida Conference will have to change plans next summer.”

The cake was listing. Lily caught it and said, “Are you talking about Wesley Stafford?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Chillingworth. She looked at the cake. “Do you think he likes coconut? I could’ve made chocolate. But if Wesley doesn’t want it, the sheriff might enjoy it. Don’t you think?”

Mrs. Chillingworth peered into the mirror and patted at her hair. Lily cleared her throat. “Are you saying that Wesley Stafford is supposed to have killed Diana?”

Mrs. Chillingworth glanced at Lily in surprise. “They arrested him last night. Someone saw him running away from the dock where they found her body. And I do believe I heard Buster say he’d confessed.”

Numbly, Lily handed the cake back to Mrs. Chillingworth. “Confessed?”

“So Buster said.” Mrs. Chillingworth smiled a wavering smile. “I’d better get back. Buster will be wondering where I am.” She left, the door hissing closed behind her.

Lily remained behind, trying to take in the news. What about the dark-haired young man who hadn’t had a nickel? What about Diana’s poems? If Wesley had confessed, they would be meaningless. She gazed at the composition book projecting from the side pocket of her purse. She had, after all, promised Pearl.

When Lily returned, the scene in the sheriff’s department was a little calmer. The Chillingworths were nowhere in sight, but the coconut cake sat on Loyce’s desk. Lily had no intention of going by the rules this time. She threaded her way through the crowd and walked straight into Woody’s office.

He was on the telephone, saying, “Naw, he come along just fine. Blubbered a little.” Cecil was leaning against the wall, his chair balanced on its back legs. Woody looked at her, blinked, and said into the phone, “I got to go.” He hung up and turned to her. “Mother Trulock.”

“Woody.”

“Was there something I could quick do for you?”

Woody’s face had the same look of pious inattention Lily had often seen on it in church. “There are a couple of things about the murder,” she said.

Woody’s eyes rolled upward slightly. “What was that?”

“Well,”—Lily pulled up a chair and sat down—“that same day, a young man came to my place all agitated. He didn’t have a nickel for the phone, and—”

“You say this has something to do with the murder?”

Lily flushed. “Yes, I think so. You see, this young man—a dark-haired young man—didn’t have a nickel for the phone, and he asked me for change, and then he went and made a call and ran off. And that was about the time you got the call about the murder.”