Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 01 - Hurricane Season (9 page)

“I’m here to see Woody,” Lily said.

Loyce blinked. “Well, I’ll tell you, Miz Trulock. We have an emergency here. You may not have heard about the murder.”

Lily was stung. “I’m not deaf, dumb, and blind, Loyce!”

It was a mistake. Loyce’s nostrils closed a fraction. “Then you understand why Sheriff Malone can’t take time out now for family matters.”

Trying to sound conciliatory without feeling it, Lily said, “I wouldn’t dream of coming here about family matters. I want to tell him something about the murder.”

Loyce’s face expressed pity for the sheriff’s poor mother-in-law, reduced to pathetic attempts to be part of things by coming down and disturbing the sheriff when he was busy. Her voice was falsely sweet. “Miz Trulock, why don’t you just have a seat until he’s finished.” She turned back to her typing.

Loyce had won. Lily turned toward the long bench that ran along the wall next to the door. For the first time, she noticed a stocky black woman sitting in the corner farthest from the door. The woman was wearing a black dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a black ribbon around the crown. On the bench beside her were an umbrella and a large pocketbook. She was slumped down, staring at a point on the floor in front of her feet. Lily recognized Pearl Washington, Snapper’s maid.

The idea that a member of St. Elmo’s Negro community would, apparently voluntarily, spend time in the sheriff’s office was a strange one to Lily. Surely Pearl should have been at Snapper’s, where she belonged. She had even helped raise Diana. Her presence would be doubly required so she could receive, in the kitchen, condolences herself, and perhaps sympathy gifts of money slipped into the pocket of her apron. Yet there she sat, her daughter Marinda doing her job at Snapper’s and being, Lily recalled, most ungracious about it.

Lily wasn’t sure what to do. It would be much easier if Pearl would look her way, give some sign of recognition, but Pearl seemed unaware of her surroundings or of Lily’s presence. I’ll just have to go up to her, Lily thought, and she walked up to Pearl and said hello.

Pearl seemed to pull herself in. “Miz Trulock,” she said heavily.

“Sad to hear about Diana.”

“That poor child.”

Lily saw pain in Pearl’s face. “You did your best, Pearl. Everybody knows that.”

“I couldn’t help that child, Miz Trulock. I could talk to her sometimes, that’s all. I’d rub her back and tell her a story. After a while, she’d go to sleep.”

“I saw Marinda helping at Snapper’s,” Lily said. “I thought you’d be there.”

“I would but except I had to come down here and see the sheriff.” Pearl glanced at the pocketbook beside her on the bench.

“I’m waiting to see him, too. They say he’s busy.”

“Busy finding out who killed my gal.”

Lily doubted it, but she said, “Reckon so.”

Just then, Woody and Cecil burst from Woody’s office, followed by a gray-haired man in dirty overalls with a goiter on his neck. At the sight of them, Pearl stood up and Lily said, “Woody—”

He ignored them both, shoving his hat on his head and saying to Loyce, “We’re going after him.”

“Good luck, Sheriff,” Loyce shot back, and the door banged behind Woody and Cecil before Lily could take in what had happened. The man with the goiter sketched a nod and followed them. The door closed again.

Lily looked at Pearl. “Well,” she said. Pearl seemed to dissolve, as if her momentary effort had used her up.

Lily called to Loyce, “When will he be back?”

“When he’s done with his business,” Loyce answered, and swiveled her chair so her back was to Pearl and Lily—offended, perhaps, as much by their alliance as by the question.

Pearl sighed. “Lord, I been here two hours already.”

Lily realized that Pearl would not be here at all if she didn’t consider her errand extremely important. She would know that being ignored by Woody was the kindest treatment she could expect. Next would come contempt and ridicule. And, by being here instead of at Snapper’s with Marinda, she was losing the wages Snapper would have paid her. Lily was curious. “Did you want to see the sheriff about Diana?”

She could see Pearl wondering whether to tell her. Having Woody walk out must have swayed the decision. “I got something seems like I need to show the sheriff,” she said. “Marinda, she told me to have no more truck with it. But I think the sheriff should know.” She patted her purse.

Lily nodded toward it. “It’s in there?”

“Yes’m.” Pearl hesitated in the face of the unasked question. “It’s Miss Diana’s poems.”

Lily didn’t know what she’d expected, but this wasn’t it. “What do you mean?”

“Poems she wrote.” Pearl opened her purse and withdrew a black-and-white school composition book.

The idea that Diana Landis had written poetry was so strange to Lily that she was unable to react.

“I thought the sheriff should see them, because they tell about somebody,” Pearl said.

“About who?”

“I don’t know who. She never told me.”

“Then how do you know they tell about somebody?”

“Because I know. Because she told me about him, too.”

“Him?”

“It was a man. A man she was carrying on with.” Pearl tapped the book with her forefinger. “It tells about him in here, but it don’t tell his name.”

Lily stretched out her hand. Pearl gave her the book in an automatic movement, perhaps bred from years of handing things over when white people made gestures of wanting them.

Lily leafed through the pages. The poems were written in black ink in an unformed hand.

“Person that killed her beat her up,” said Pearl. “This man, I know he nearly hit her once. She told me about it last time I saw her alive. He had a wife already. Something bad was fixing to happen. I said, ‘The sheriff has got to know.’ ”

Something occurred to Lily. “But I thought—” she began, then stopped.

Pearl eyed her.

“I thought she carried on with lots of men,” Lily finished, flushing.

Pearl gave a measured nod. “That was before. Before him. She used to tell me, ‘Pearl, I was always looking for him, now he’s found.’ ”

“But you don’t know who he was?”

“No’m. She never said his name. She told me, ‘He’s got a wife. I better not say.’ And she never did. My poor, dead girl.” Tears oozed out of Pearl’s eyes. She fumbled in her handbag and brought out a crumpled handkerchief.

To her dismay, Lily felt her own eyes moisten. “Oh, Pearl,” she said.

“She was my baby girl,” said Pearl. “Mr. Snapper used to say, ‘She loves you better than she loves her own granny.’ ”

“I’ll bet she did, too,” said Lily.

“She did.” Pearl blew her nose. “And now I got to wait for the sheriff, or go and come back, and Mr. Snapper—”

“I’ll tell you what, Pearl,” said Lily.

Pearl dabbed at her eyes.

“Let me keep the book and show it to Woody. That way you don’t have to take more time off. I’m his mother-in-law. He can’t avoid me forever. I’ll tell him just like you told me.”

Pearl looked at Lily a long time, but Lily knew she would realize how sensible the suggestion was. On her own, Pearl would never have any luck with Woody, and she knew it. “All right,” she said.

Lily tucked the book under her arm. “I’ll tell you what he says.”

Pearl picked up her umbrella from the bench. “I’ll get on, then,” she said.

Lily walked with her out the door and down the corridor. The few people in the halls watched curiously but without comment as they passed. They believe she’s my maid, Lily thought. In trouble over a cutting or a drunk and disorderly charge. The idea was obscurely disturbing, but still it was comforting to have a pattern to fit into.

At the front door she offered Pearl a ride, and when Pearl refused she repeated, “I’ll let you know about the poems.”

Pearl nodded, put up her umbrella, and walked down the sidewalk, shielded from the afternoon glare. Only then did Lily remember. Pearl hadn’t told Woody about the poems, but neither had Lily told him about the dark young man and the phone call. She watched Pearl’s black umbrella bobbing down the street and then started toward the Nash. Sara Eubanks would be wondering what was keeping her.

All day, Josh had acted in a way that reminded him of a hog his father used to have on the farm. The hog had seemed well enough, but every now and then it would stop whatever it was doing and tremble all over—legs quivering, sides rippling, ears flapping slightly. When Josh asked why, his father chuckled and said, “Reckon he sees a ha’nt.” And Josh, his belief in ghosts confirmed, watched the hog with renewed wonder. He had never understood that hog until now.

After his telephone call he had gotten back to the island early enough so Murphy’s displeasure was only routine. Larry had been frying fish and hush puppies on the camp stove, the insects batting around the kerosene lanterns that hung from the branches of the trees. When he walked into camp, Josh for the first time looked down at his shirt and noticed the little smear of blood on his pocket. The trembling hadn’t begun then. He unbuttoned the shirt, remarking on the heat, wadded it up, and stuffed it under his bunk in the shed. He took the obligatory swallow of moonshine, ate his fish and hush puppies with good appetite, said good-bye to Murphy when he left for his boat. And then, sitting with Amos and Larry in the yellow lantern light, Josh started to shake.

It was a slow tremor, not violent but steady. He anchored his hands under his calves and leaned forward, trying to hold his body stable.

“You got the bellyache, boy?” said Amos. “We got to run tomorrow.”

“I’m all right,” said Josh. And after a while the shaking stopped.

That was the first time. Throughout the night, while he lay in his bunk in undershirt and shorts, the trembling returned at intervals. It seemed to have no relationship to what he was thinking. He didn’t have to be picturing the dark-haired woman’s body suspended in the murky canal, or the catfish bumping against the dead fingers. Sometimes he could think of that and be rock-steady. But then, his mind might drift to a trip he and his father and brother took to Atlanta when he was fifteen and it would start. When it did, he lay trying to turn off his mind, aware only of the rhythmic shaking that seemed to make the bunk unsteady beneath him.

Making that phone call was all he could do. And not to have a damn nickel. The woman there, talking to him, taking up time—his teeth were clenched. He relaxed his jaw, and they started to chatter. The cycle continued through the night.

The next day was worse. It was hot, the air so heavy with moisture that drawing breath was an effort. He, Amos, and Larry got the kerosene blowers going early, but it made no difference. Under the pines, the air felt a hundred degrees at least while the three of them ran the sprouted corn mash through the condenser. Josh was dizzy with the heat, the constant testing, the heavy smell. Several times, without warning, he had fits of shaking.

Toward late afternoon, Murphy arrived. His face was grave, meaty lips pursed. He inspected the day’s production and nodded without enthusiasm. “We’ll move it tomorrow night,” was all he said. He sat on a fallen log and watched them finish. Tomorrow, they would clean the equipment and run the load of beer that was working in the barrels.

When they were done, Murphy said, “I went to the mainland today. Place is working like an anthill. Somebody got killed.”

Josh was drinking a Dr. Pepper. He swallowed and asked, “Who?”

“Daughter of the congressman. Gal named Diana Landis.”

“Catch who done it?” said Amos.

“Not yet. Whole damn town is in an uproar. Have to put off shipping if things don’t quieten down.”

“Was she pretty?” asked Larry.

Murphy gave a rich chuckle. “I reckon she ain’t too pretty
now
.”

Josh swallowed the last of his drink and got up. “Maybe I’ll go swimming,” he said.

He got a towel from the shed and walked through the pines to the ocean, following the coastline until grass gave way to beach. There, he took off his clothes. He walked naked into the ocean, the cool water hitting him in a series of pleasant shocks, the sand soft and clean under his feet. When he was waist deep, he let his knees give way and churned himself along clumsily, like a boy raised on a farm who’d had limited contact with the water.

The salt stung his eyes. He turned onto his back, letting the swells carry him like a jellyfish. Her name was Diana. She had been killed, the spots of blood he’d found told him, aboard the
Southern Star,
the same boat he’d seen meeting Murphy’s cabin cruiser yesterday morning. She was a congressman’s daughter.

The current had moved him some yards down the coast. He paddled back. Diana. Had she been in the boat when he had seen it yesterday? If so, that would mean she and Murphy were in the liquor business together, since the
Southern Star,
as Josh figured it, had delivered the payroll.

He coasted to the beach, letting the waves break over him, burying his fingers in the shifting, watery sand. A horseshoe crab, armored and ponderous, made its way along the beach. As Josh watched it, he wondered what excuse he’d give Murphy to get to the mainland this time.

As the sun set, the chickens in the dirt yard of a house in the pine woods outside St. Elmo gave up scratching and drifted into the chicken house to roost. A bird dog sleeping underneath the back porch worked his chin deeper into a rut in the earth and gave a slobbery sigh. The woman on the back steps shelling peas took her pan inside. In a moment, a light came on in a back window that was probably the kitchen.

Bo Calhoun watched from the scrub oak and palmetto surrounding the yard. He was sober now, surveying the homely activities with intensity, crouched in a position he had shifted only slightly in an hour.

He had awakened a while ago, drenched with sweat and his head drumming, lying across the bed fully clothed. Sue Nell had gone. He had splashed his face with water, picked through the broken glass on the living room floor, and driven out to take up his vigil.

Watching, waiting, and not moving came naturally to Bo. He had been trained to it since his earliest years. “I got four big old boys,” Old Man Calhoun had always said. “I got no need to fool with anybody who ain’t my kin.” Stealth, a strong stomach, and a knack for glad-handing the law were requirements for the illegal whiskey trade, and as much as Old Man Calhoun could promote these characteristics in his four sons, he did so.