Milk and Honey (12 page)

“Something’s cookin’,” Decker said. “And it ain’t moonshine.”

Marge said, “Only one thing smells like that.”

“Two things,” Decker said. “You forgot about piss.”

Marge laughed. “We got meth. Now where are the bikers?”

“Close,” Decker said. “I guarantee you that.”

The valley once again turned into glistening fields—cow and sheep pastures. A mile later was a large wooden indoor-outdoor structure shaded by tall eucalyptus and thick-trunked olive trees. Souped-up Harleys, Honda GSMs, and BMW choppers were chained to posts on a side gravel lot. The front part of the building was an open patio set up with tables and chairs. Dozens of tattooed, shirtless bikers slumped lazily in their seats, shooting the breeze while they smoked cigarettes and joints, and guzzled beer. Some were completely naked from the waist up, others were shirtless but had donned leather vests. Most had oversized bellies and hair falling down their backs, the long strands tied away from their foreheads with red bandannas. A few of the men held skin-and-bone women on their laps, the girls looping stringy arms around their fat men’s necks.

“Our illustrious chemists,” Decker said.

“Meth,” Marge said. “Some things just go together—love and marriages…horses and carriages…bikers and uppers.”

Decker said, “I know the song, but I missed that verse.”

Marge said, “Just your old-fashioned cottage industry.”

Decker said, “If this were a movie, you and I would
storm the place, crack open some heads, and demand some answers.”

Marge said, “Well, that’s the difference between Hollywood and reality. For one thing, Hollywood doesn’t concern itself with the ACLU and search-and-seizure laws. Not to mention the fact that these beer-drinking gentlemen are packing.”

“Don’t tell me you’re wary of a few motorcycle enthusiasts.”

“I?” Marge replied. “Bite your tongue. But you know how these hick lawmen are. We go in and do their dirty work, they get all pissed off at us big-time dicks.”

“True, true.”

“So we’ll let the bikers go this time.”

“Just this once,” Decker said.

“Of course,” Marge said. “Next week, that shed’s still standing, I’m going in and busting some chops.”

Copses of eucalyptus lined the road, darkening the asphalt. The air-conditioning sucked in the scent of menthol. Riding another mile, the trees disappeared and they came upon open fields once more—acres and acres of purple alfalfa bloom filled with grazing livestock. In the middle of the area, a green signpost pointed to a dirt road. It read,
TO L.A., ORANGE BLOSSOM DEVELOPMENTS
.

“That’s the official name of the Manfred tract,” Decker said. “Someone wants to dump Sally, he takes a quick ride over the mountain and he’s in civilization—somewhat.”

“Well, it’s better than leaving the kid at the biker bar. Did you catch its name?”

“Hell’s Heaven,” Decker said, turning the air-conditioning fan down a notch. “Cute.”

They rode another mile. Marge nudged Decker in the ribs.

“Look up ahead,” she said.

A burnt-wood sign read:
HOWARD’S HONEY FARM—ROAD TO OFFICE ONE MILE DOWN
. The turnoff was a loose gravel
lane that wreaked havoc on the unmarked’s tires, the office a greenpainted lean-to. Marge parked in front of the shack, and they both got out and stretched. The shed was surrounded by acres of sweet-smelling clover. In the distance was a two-story redwood farmhouse.

Decker knocked on the door to the office. When no one answered, he took out a glove, slipped it on his right hand, and turned the unlocked handle. Inside were a metal desk piled high with graph paper, a swivel chair, and a file cabinet. On the wall behind the desk were pinups—a blonde with her rear in the air and a brunette with the finger of her right hand in her mouth, the fingers on her left pulling up the lips of her vagina. Other wall decor included an out-of-date calendar from an auto-parts store, and a battery clock that said five after five. Decker checked his own watch. It was around eleven-thirty. A half-eaten pizza was falling out of a garbage can, flies covering the cheese like a topping of raisins. The air smelled rancid—garlicky and hot.

“Phhhew,” Marge said.

Decker closed the door. “I have a bad feeling about this, Margie.”

“If that pizza’s any indication of what’s to come, I don’t like it either. Think we should check in with our khaki counterparts?”

“Not yet,” Decker said. “Let’s take a hike up to the farmhouse.”

They started across the fields. Halfway to the house were a dozen rows of two-foot-long pine boxes resting six inches off the ground. A low-pitched hum filled the air. Marge and Decker exchanged watchful looks. They walked another ten feet, then froze.

A funnel-shaped black cloud exited one of the boxes. It came upon them so suddenly that they had no chance to go forward or retreat. The humming grew in intensity—a deep moan. Bees blanketed the sky, swirling like a tornado intent on uprooting them.

“What do we do?” Marge said, panicking.

“I’d say draw, but I think our weapons are useless,” Decker said, talking out of the side of his mouth.

“Peter—”

“Just stand still,” Decker said.

“I don’t want to die this way,” Marge said, as bees swarmed past her face.

“Calm,” Decker said soothingly.

The buzzing became a maddening dirge. The space around them was thick with wings and cooler because of it—hundreds of tiny little fans moving the warm air upward. Decker kept his eyes open, saw gray shadows of fuzzy blips dart past him. Bugs in flight careening into him, falling in his coat pocket, touching his face and neck. He forced himself to breathe slowly, remembered reading about a contest in the papers—who could grow the biggest bee beard…contestants allowing thousands of bees to land on their faces and cheeks. Bees tickled the inside of Decker’s nose.
Calm
, he repeated to himself. He felt as if he were drowning in the suckers.

After what seemed like hours, the funnel abruptly landed on a pine box three feet in front of them, covering the wood like a brown woolen tablecloth. A few strays buzzed around Decker. At last he felt safe shooing them away. Marge followed suit. She was shaking.

“You okay?” Decker said.

Marge nodded.

“I suggest we walk away from the boxes,” Decker said.

“Slowly,” Marge added. “What the hell was that?”

Decker said, “I don’t know. I’ve never been around bees before.”

A few minutes later, the boxes were nothing more than dots. But the acreage was filled with foraging bees—workers seeking pollen from the pink, white, and purple blooms.

“God, why couldn’t MacPherson be assigned to this?” Marge said.

Decker didn’t answer.

“Sometimes, Pete, I hate your stoicism.”

Decker still didn’t respond. Marge gave up. A minute later, a percussive pop broke through the air.

Decker halted his steps, brought his hands over his head. “Shotgun.”

“Sweet Jesus, now what?” Marge said. “Police!” she shouted.

“Stay where you are!” commanded a voice. It came from behind them. Decker straightened up and turned around. A man wearing a wire-veil hat, thick gloves, and a leather apron was approaching them. He was tall with a sizable paunch, and held a long-barreled shotgun. Marge started to step forward.

“I said stay where you are!” the man said. “And Lord, I mean it!” He emphasized his point by shooting into the air again. Marge jumped.

“Police, sir,” Marge said. Her voice was surprisingly strong.

The man seemed unimpressed.

“What the hell you doin’ on my property?”

“No one was in the office,” Decker said.

“Don’t give you no right to come steamrolling over my fields. Scaring my bees.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Decker said. “Truth is we just wanted to talk to the owner of this honey farm. He wasn’t in the office. We figured we’d try the house.”

“Don’t bullshit me, slick,” said the man. “Your plain-folk manner and southern drawl don’t fool me none. You’re one of them builders. My pappy told you we ain’t interested.”

“Mister,” Decker said, “I’m going in my pocket and gonna pull out my badge. I’m a police detective, and I’m wearing a gun. I’m telling you what I’m doing, so don’t let your finger get itchy on that trigger.”

The man didn’t answer. Decker moved deliberately, fish
ing into his pocket and finding the fold containing his badge and ID. He showed it to the man.

“Don’t prove nothin’.”

“Are you Mr. Howard?” Marge asked.

“One of ’em,” Howard answered. He removed his veil hat, exposing a bald head and a leathery face colored nut brown. His eyes were close-set, his nose was fleshy and full of veins, his lips were cracked. “Who the hell are you?”

“A detective, also.”

“Suppose you got a badge, too?”

Marge started to open her purse.

“Forget it,” said Howard. “L.A. don’t have enough crime that it’s got to send two of its policemen to come up and bother us.” Howard spit behind his shoulder. “Get off my pappy’s land. This is swarming weather. Bees might decide they don’t like you any better than I do.”

Decker pulled out a picture of Baby Sally. “Know this little girl?”

Howard’s face drained of its color. Marge started to say something, but Decker interrupted.

“
I
sure as heck don’t know who she is. She’s living in a foster home, mister. You know that’s no place for kids. I don’t know who her parents are, but I was kind of hoping they might live around here.”

The men stared at each other for a minute or two. Howard’s denuded head was coated with sweat. He stared upward, squinting in the sunlight, then put his veil hat back on. Decker licked salty sweat from his lips.

Howard said, “Whychu think she lives around here?”

“Because the poor little thing had bee stings on her arms—”

“City don’t got no bees?” Howard asked.

“The doc we took her to thinks she has a whole lot more stings than a city girl should have.”

Howard spit again. He said, “I got work to do.”

“So do I,” Decker answered.

Howard said, “And whachu mean by that, boy?”

“Just what I said,” Decker said. “I mean to locate this kid’s parents. Recognize her?”

Howard looked at his feet and kicked the ground absently. He said, “Go into the big house. The women are in the kitchen, jarring honey. Ask ’em ’bout the kid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Howard,” Decker said.

“Whenchu find her?” Howard asked.

“’Bout a day ago.”

“Where?”

“Over the hill.”

“In L.A.?”

“Yep.”

“She okay?”

“Yep,” said Decker.

Howard placed his hat back on his egg head. He said, “Tell Darlene to give you a piece of honey cake. Darlene’s my wife. And tell her to get you a pitcher of
ice
-tea, too, boy. You’re sweating like a chained bull.”

Decker said, “It’s hot out here.”

“Specially in that suit,” Howard said.

“You ain’t kiddin’,” Decker said.

“You ken take off your jacket,” Howard said. “It don’t impress me none.”

“Then I think I will,” Decker said. He removed his jacket.

Howard waved them away and headed in the direction of the pine boxes. A scented breeze perfumed the air. On top of the farmhouse, a Chinaman whirled furiously. A V-shaped formation of sparrows soared through the liquid sky.

“Let’s go,” Decker said.

“You shut me up,” Marge said angrily.

“Yes, I did.”

“He
knows
who she is,” Marge said.

“Of course he knows who she is,” Decker said. “And if he
wanted to tell us, he would have. Apparently, he finds it more acceptable for us to be informed by the womenfolk.”

“I don’t like to have my feet stepped on.”

Decker slung his jacket over his shoulder and threw his free arm around Marge. “I’m sorry I shut you up, but I know these guys. They haven’t heard of the women’s movement.”

“Where’d you learn how to drawl, Pete?”

“Gainesville has its share of southerners. I grew up with hundreds like our pal Mr. Howard. He’s nothing more than a transplanted good ole boy. Lots of them in this area. Don’t believe me, just step into the tack and grain shop off Foothill Boulevard and listen a while. You’d swear you were in rural America. We just don’t come into contact with the farmers because they’re usually good law-abidin’ citizens. But just step on their toes, try pushing them around. You’ll wind up with a butt full of buckshot.”

Marge said, “Well, I’d certainly like to give Mr. Howard an enema with my thirty-eight.”

Decker smiled, drew his arm away. “Don’t let him get to you, Detective Dunn. These guys are a species unto themselves.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell us who the kid was?” Marge said.

“Because they’re mules, Marge. They get ideas into their heads and nothing will budge them. My dad’s that way. So is yours, from what you’ve told me. Ever say anything that changed his mind once it was set?”

Marge shook her head.

“Stubborn is their middle name,” Decker said.

“Think Howard’s hiding something?” Marge asked.

“He could be.” Decker paused. “Or he’s just a wary guy. Obviously, he hasn’t had friendly exchanges with some developer—”

“Manfred?”

“Probably.”

Marge said, “I wish he’d talk to us.”

“That’s the way these people work,” Decker said. “They’re stubborn and secretive. Howard’s determined to keep his mouth shut, but he wants us to find Sally. So he sends us over to the women. And a little birdie’s tweeting in my ear that we’re going to discover important info over iced tea and honey cake.”

Like a tackle,
the woman blocked the front entrance of the farmhouse. Her body said,
Just try to get past the door, mister
. Thick arms were folded across a bosomy chest, feet stretched apart and planted solidly on the floor. Her face was round and flushed and held muddy blue eyes and an incongruously small button nose. Her hair was black streaked with silver and tied back into a braided knot. She wore a short-sleeved gingham dress, most of the green checkered print concealed by a white baker’s apron. Cloyingly sweet air was pouring out through the threshold.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’m looking for Darlene Howard,” Decker said.

“Yes,” she repeated.

Decker said, “The mister told us we were welcome to some iced tea and honey cake.”

“Who are you?”

“Police, ma’am,” Decker said, showing his badge.

The woman studied the gold shield and ID card. “You’re from the other side of the mountain.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Decker drawled.

“What are you doing here?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Decker said.

“And Byron sent you here?” the woman said.

“If Byron is Mr. Howard, he did, ma’am,” Decker said.

The woman’s eyes landed on Marge. “Who’s she?”

Marge opened her purse to find her badge, but Decker gently placed his hand upon hers. “This is Detective Dunn.”

“She like your partner?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said.

The stout woman stared at Marge.

“You married?” she asked.

“What?” Marge said.

“You married?” the woman repeated.

“To him?” Marge said, looking at Decker.

“To him, to anyone,” the woman pressed.

Marge hesitated, then said, “No, ma’am.”

The woman said. “An unmarried woman shouldn’t be workin’ with no man. Tempts the devil in him.”

Decker said, “The city has lots of room for temptation, no doubt about that.”

Marge turned around and rolled her eyes. What was the point of all this bullshit? Show the bitch the damn picture. But Pete acted as if he had all the time in the world.

“So what’re you doin’ working with her?” the woman asked.

“Detective Dunn’s the best.” Decker smiled at the middle-aged hausfrau and said, “C’mon. You know how it is with us men. If we didn’t have you ladies to keep all our paperwork straight, we’d never get anything done.”

Marge coughed. Decker’s face remained impassive.

The woman smiled with thin, pale lips. “Ain’t that the truth. Well, come on in. It’s a hot one outside.”

“You’re Mrs. Howard?” Marge asked.

“Last time I checked, I was, Miss Detective.” She stepped aside to let them in. “You can call me Darlene. Everybody calls me Darlene. That’s my name.”

“Thank you, Darlene,” Decker said.

They followed her through a sunlit living room. The furniture was country pine, unstained, sanded as smooth as
porcelain. By the color of the wood, the pieces looked to be at least fifty years old. Two six-foot sofas faced each other, both upholstered in a white-and-blue floral print. Doilies rested on the arms of the sofas, throw pillows stitched with petit point decorated the back. The fireplace had a wooden hearth; above it were elaborately embroidered samplers of fruits and vegetables.

Darlene’s destination was the kitchen, which took up the back portion of the house. Twice the size of the living room, it was filled with the latest in modern cooking equipment—metal freezers, food processors, hanging copper pans, and a stainless-steel industrial oven and cooktop that ran the length of the entire rear wall. Atop the burners were steaming cauldrons. Even with all the windows open, the air was choked with the smell of honey. A reedy blonde was stirring a pot, her back to them. A radio was blasting out Randy Travis, who was wishing he was in 1982.

“Who was it, Darl?” the blonde asked loudly.

Darlene shouted, “Look and see for yourself.”

The blonde whipped around. “My goodness, why didn’t you tell me we have company?”

She was much younger than Darlene, with an oval, freckled face that was pink and moist from steam, and hazel eyes opened wide in surprise. She had on a long apron over jeans and a T-shirt. Her smile was crooked, but Marge liked it. She was the first friendly face Marge had seen down here.

“Well, sit on down,” the blonde said, turning off the music. “I’m Annette.”

“Please to meet you, ma’am,” Decker said. “I’m Detective Decker, and this here is Detective Dunn.”

Annette’s face clouded.

“They’re policemen,” Darlene said.

“What’s this all about?” Annette asked.

“Now, that ain’t polite, Nettie,” Darlene scolded. “Go get these people some
ice
-tea. Can’t you see they’re sweating?”

“Oh, yes,” Annette said. She fiddled with her hair, which
was bunched into a net. “Of course. I’m sorry. Please sit.” She motioned them to a round, cherrywood table at the entrance of the kitchen.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Decker said.

“I’ll get you some honey cake,” Darlene said. Her fingers brushed against Decker’s shoulder.

“Sure smells fine in here,” Decker said.

“Bet you say that to all the people you visit,” Darlene said.

Decker thought of his routine calls: women who’d been raped, often beaten as well, kids who’d been physically and sexually abused, underaged punks who, while flying high on Jim Jones or dust, had pumped Grandma full of lead.

“No, I don’t say that to all the people I visit,” he said, smoothing his mustache. “And that’s no lie.”

Darlene placed two slices of honey cake in front of them. Decker tasted a forkful of the mocha-colored wedge. He chewed slowly. Marge wondered how he could masticate for so long.

“Well?” Darlene asked.

“One problem with it, ma’am,” Decker said.

“And what’s that?” Darlene asked.

“The piece is too small.”

“Oh, you,” Darlene said, slapping his shoulder lightly. “I’ll give you another piece. Just finish what you got first.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Decker said.

“And how do you like it?” Darlene asked Marge.

“Delicious,” Marge said. It was the truth. The cake was almost too rich and moist to eat. Like drinking cream.

“Well, sit down and join us, ladies,” Decker said. “Me and my partner don’t like to eat alone.”

“I suppose we could use a break,” Darlene said. She wiped her forehead with a white cotton towel. “Though Lord knows, I’m tired of honey cake.”

“We sell it,” Annette said.

“I’m not surprised,” Marge said. “It’s terrific.”

Darlene said, “We sell cakes, cupcakes, cookies, syrups, jellies…just about anything that you can make with honey.”

“Who do you sell your products to?” Decker asked.

“Nobody too special,” Darlene said. “Just a few people here and there.” She paused and shrugged. “A few wholesale outlets.”

Decker recognized the feigned nonchalant tone in Darlene’s voice, knew instantly she was trying to downplay the business. Same breezy timber his father had adapted if you asked him about the state of his finances. Ask Lyle Decker about money, and his stock answer was “Can’t complain.” The hardware store had been good to him, netted him a few bucks in the bank. What Lyle wouldn’t tell you was that the store had netted him enough money to buy up Florida land that was later sold to Disney Corporation. His few bucks in the bank were more like a few million bucks.

“What kind of wholesale outlets?” Decker pressed.

Annette washed her hands, dried them on her apron, and took a seat. “Oh, Karrol’s restaurant decided they liked our muffins. And we just got lucky on an account with Tucker’s Pancake House. I’m real proud of that one.”

Marge looked at Decker, raised her brow. He knew what she was saying. Between the two chains, that was about twenty-five restaurants in the L.A. area alone. But neither one voiced the comment out loud. Annette kept talking.

“We’re marketed under Howard’s Honey Farms and Bakeries.”

“You have any competition from the other honey farms?” Decker asked.

Annette said, “Well, there are the bigger honey farms down near Lancaster…and up in Ventura. But here in Sagebrush, it’s just us and the Darcys now. They live ’bout two miles down the—”

“More cake, Mister Detective?” Darlene broke in. “You’re almost done.”

“Thank you, Darlene,” Decker said. “And some tea, if you don’t mind.”

“’Course,” Darlene said.

“The Darcys are good friends of yours?” Marge asked.

“No,” Darlene answered. “At least
some
of them aren’t.”

“Now, Darl—” Annette said.

“Let’s put it this way,” Darlene said. “Pappy Darcy is a fine man. But he’s had a lot of trouble from his children.”

Annette looked down. Darlene squeezed her lips together until they disappeared into white lines. A moment later, she blurted out, “Pappy D.’s son has a wife that is pure devil, and I don’t mean that lightly, I can tell you that.”

“In what way?” Marge asked.

Darlene went deep red. Decker saw it and asked, “How ’bout that tea, Darlene?”

Darlene nodded, her hands were shaking. “Right away.” She served them two frosted tumblers of tea. Decker drank his in six gulps.

“It sure is good tea, isn’t it, Detective Dunn?” Decker said. “What’s in here that makes it so special?”

“Honey,” Annette said.

“Well, I know there’s honey in it,” Decker said. “But there’s something else…ginger, maybe?”

“You’ve got a good palate, Mister Detective,” Darlene said. “We sell our tea, also.”

I bet you do, Decker thought. He said, “So you and Pappy Darcy are the only honey farms left, huh?”

“Only ’cause that greedy witch hasn’t had her way,” Darlene said. “She’s been trying to get Pappy D to sell out those builders.”

“Manfred?” Marge asked.

“Yeah,” Annette said. “Those are the ones.”

“They’ve been creating a lot of mischief around town,” Marge added.

“They’re building all over the place,” Decker said. “Making lots of people mad.”

“Well, I can tell you that Pappy H was fit to be tied when Pappy Willard sold out to them,” Annette said. “Pappy H and Pappy D tried to talk him out of it, even offered to buy up his land, but they couldn’t compete with the price that Manfred was offering them.”

“What are they planning to build on the land?” Decker asked.

“I don’t know,” Darlene said. “No one does. Land’s just sitting out there, doin’ nothing. No cows, no sheep. The clover hasn’t been turned over in a year. It’s a mess.” Darlene wiped her mouth. “Boy, when the witch found out the price Manfred paid Pappy Willard, she started working on poor Luke to get Pappy D to sell and hasn’t let up since. Day in, day out—”

“Now how do you know that?” Annette said.

“Things get around,” Darlene said. “Things get around.”

“Darl, for being such a Christian, you sure don’t turn the other cheek,” Annette said.

“I’m a fine Christian,” Darlene said. “I just know the Devil when I see him…or her.”

Annette said, “You could at least call her Linda instead of the witch all the time. You know, it’s gotten so that the kids call her the witch to her face.”

“Well, that’s what she is,” Darlene said. “A refill, Mister Detective?”

Decker nodded.

“How ’bout you, miss?” she asked Marge.

Miss?
“Thank you,” Marge said.

“A witch is a witch,” Darlene said. “And if it was you, you’d think she was a witch also.”

“I’m not calling Linda an angel,” Annette said. “She was wrong to do what she did.”

“Darn right she was wrong.” Darlene angrily poured tea
from a ribbed glass pitcher until the brown liquid sloshed over the rims of the tumblers. “She did what she did ’cause she’s a witch. Can’t get away from what you are.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good Christian example for the kids to hear you carry on,” Annette said, mopping up the spill with her napkin.

“And I mebbe don’t care about what you think,” Darlene said.

“Well, you might care, if only for the sake of the kids.”

“The kids are just fine, thank you.”

Darlene sat down stiffly and clasped her hands tightly. Annette bit her thumbnail. A moment later, Annette reached out for Darlene’s hand.

“We bicker a lot,” Annette said. “But that don’t mean we don’t love each other.”

Decker smiled.

“More cake?” Darlene offered. Her voice was shaky.

Decker said, “No thank you.”

Marge said, “It sure was delicious. Would you part with the recipe?”

It was Decker’s turn to cough. Marge’s idea of baking was microwaving a frozen coffee cake.

Marge added, “If it’s not a family secret. My granny has a recipe for Christmas fruitcake that she wouldn’t part with even if Jesus came down from heaven and asked her for it in person.”

Darlene smiled tightly. “Well, you don’t have to be Jesus to get the recipe here.”

“Matter of fact,” Decker said, “might be a good idea to give Detective Dunn some of your other favorite recipes. Her cooking could use it.”

“This is true,” Marge said.

“One of the reasons she can’t find a man.”

Marge covered her mouth with her hand. Pete was spreading it thick. But, as always, they were thinking along the same lines. Both of them wanted to split the women up.
She’d work over Darlene, while Decker pumped the young one. After the last interchange, the gals would remain muzzled as long as they were together.

Marge said, “Well, my cooking could stand a little help.”

Darlene said, “I’d be delighted to share my cooking secrets with you.”

“Why don’t we go in another room where it’s quiet and you can explain to me exactly how you make your dishes?” Marge said.

“What about the police business?” Darlene said.

“If it means an improvement in Detective Dunn’s cooking, it can wait.”

Marge threw him a mock dirty look.

Darlene said, “Then come on. I’ll get us some pieces of paper.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Annette whispered, “Please don’t judge Darl too harshly.”

“I take it that Byron and Linda had a little something going,” Decker said.

“It was awful,” Annette said. “Just plain awful. The way Darl talks about it, you’d think it happened yesterday instead of four years ago. She still talks about going over there and pistol-whippin’ Linda—” Annette stopped talking for a moment. “’Course, she don’t mean it.”