The Old Buzzard Had It Coming
Read The Old Buzzard Had It Coming Online
Authors: Donis Casey
Tags: #Murder, #Mystery & Detective, #Frontier and Pioneer Life - Oklahoma, #Oklahoma, #Fiction, #Murder - Oklahoma, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Historical, #General
The Old Buzzard Had It Coming
The Old Buzzard Had It Coming
An Alafair Tucker Mystery
Donis Casey
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2005 by Donis A. Casey
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2005921160
ISBN: 1-59058-149-0 Hardcover
ISBN: 9781615950171 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Poisoned Pen Press
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Love and thanks to my siblings, Carol DeWelt, Marti Casey, and Chris Casey, and their spouses and children, for whom I wanted to write our family’s stories. Thanks also to my friend Suzanne Kiddy, for forty years of encouragement, to my sisters-in-law Lorraine Kinkg and Dolores Lukenbaugh for some great stories, and especially to my husband, Donald Koozer, my true partner in life and most loving critic.
It was just after dinner on that January day in 1912, and very cold with a threat of snow, when Harley Day began the journey to his eternal reward.
He made it to the outhouse, though he didn’t remember if he actually managed to do his business inside or not. He did remember that there was a good sized stash of moonshine in the barn, and he navigated that fifty or so yards with only a couple of stops to rest and regroup. He got somewhat turned around in the barn, and after he had retrieved a jar, he realized that he had gone out the back and was headed for the woods instead of the house.
This fact in itself put him in a bad mood, for he couldn’t quite get his feet headed back in the right direction. But as he drew near the trees, he could hear voices murmuring. Having to think about this quite put him out.
When he drew near enough to recognize the voice of his nineteen-year-old son, John Lee, Harley’s irritation turned to anger. Something about that boy made Harley mad, especially since the boy had become so contrary. John Lee was supposed to be slopping the hogs now, and it occurred to Harley that he hadn’t seen the boy in the barn. Indignant, he staggered toward the voices, then stopped, swaying in his tracks, when he realized who John Lee was talking to.
It was that Tucker girl.
It seemed like there were hundreds of Tuckers in Muskogee County, and Okmulgee County, and they were married to everybody and held every third office and owned every other business in the area. Harley hated the Tuckers, with their highfaluting ways, and he hated the fact that John Lee was talking with Phoebe Tucker, whose father’s large property nearly wrapped around Harley’s ratty little eighty-acre farm.
Harley’s anger turned to rage. He could see them through the trees, sitting with their heads together on a little hillock, so engrossed in their conversation that a mule could have sat on them and they wouldn’t have known it. Harley dropped his jar and lunged at the pair, feeling murderous.
The young people saw him at the last minute and scrambled apart, he with a yelp and she with a shriek of terror. Harley took a swipe at John Lee with his right hand and missed, but he managed to grab Phoebe’s arm with his left.
Phoebe was a small girl, but her alarm gave her strength, and she almost twisted away. Harley managed to hold on and jerked her toward him, and she stumbled and fell to her knees. Harley was aware that John Lee was yelling at him. John Lee often yelled at him, lately. But there was something new in the tone of John Lee’s voice that penetrated the fog of Harley’s thinking.
John Lee sounded angry. Not afraid, like he usually did, or desperate, but angry. A righteous anger, like the preacher at a revival. For a second, Harley’s curiosity got the better of his fury and he looked at his son.
John Lee’s eyes, big and black and usually as mild as a deer’s, were snapping. “You let her go, Daddy,” he ordered.
The fury was back as suddenly as it had abated. “Boy, you should have listened to me when I told you never to see this gal again,” Harley yelled.
“Let her go,” John Lee repeated. His voice had dropped a register, and was as taut as a barbed wire fence.
“Don’t you be talking to me like that,” Harley warned. “I’ll skin you alive. You get on back up to the house. I’m going teach this little piece of baggage to stay at home….” Harley had planned to say a lot more, but he didn’t get the chance. John Lee punched him in the jaw.
For an instant, the wonder of this inexplicable event knocked every thought out of Harley’s head. For nineteen years Harley had been abusing John Lee at his pleasure, and never before had the boy retaliated. At most, he would try to escape, or sometimes he’d run off and not be seen for the entire day. For the last year or two, he had been objecting when Harley hit the boy’s mother, though sensibly she always told John Lee to mind his own business when he tried to intervene. In fact, there had been an incident with the boy recently, Harley remembered. Was it this morning? But this was the first time he had actually struck his own father.
Harley’s befuddlement only lasted for an instant, and then the fury returned, doubly intensified by John Lee’s unforgivable outrage.
Harley let go of Phoebe’s arm and grabbed something off the ground. It may have been a stubby tree branch, or a clod, or a rock, Harley wasn’t sure. He swung, aiming as well as he could through the red haze that glazed his view, and connected. There was an odd crunching sound and John Lee was flung face down into the leaf litter and lay still.
Phoebe screamed, but did not run away as any sensible girl would have. She tried to reach John Lee’s prone form, but Harley seized her by the shoulders, and she turned toward him. He was vaguely aware that she was making a high-pitched sound, part fear and part outrage. She was fighting him. She attempted to jerk out of his grasp. Harley wasn’t steady enough to keep his feet, and they went down together. Harley fell on the girl like a sack of potatoes, and her breath whooshed out past his ear.
Harley thought that Phoebe was struggling and crying under him. He thought that he saw John Lee sit up, then brace himself unsteadily with his hand on the ground. The boy said something that Harley didn’t understand. He turned his head enough to look at his son, who was coming at him. John Lee reached into the bib pocket of his overalls.
Alafair Tucker was standing on the porch, clutching a dishtowel, watching the two young people come up the tree-lined drive toward the house, and she shaded her eyes with her free hand in order to see them better against the pale gray afternoon sky. They were walking slowly, perfectly decorous, at least a yard apart, but Alafair was not fooled. Phoebe’s face may have been serene as an angel’s, but it was also beet red. The white house sat on a gentle rise facing the long drive that ran the quarter-mile from the road to the barn and stables so it was easy for Alafair to observe the couple for a considerable time before they reached her.
Alafair had not seen John Lee Day much since he had gotten so well grown, but there was no mistaking who he was. He still had the same stunning, big-eyed face that he had had when he was a ten-year-old and used to hang around the farm with all the other kids in the vicinity. He looked like a man, now, Alafair thought with a pang. A young man, to be sure, downy-cheeked still, but those cheeks were surely more gaunt than when she had last seen him. He looked to be a little less than middle height, but that still made him taller than Alafair’s little Phoebe.
“Well, look what Phoebe has drug in,” said the girl in the porch swing to Alafair’s left. “It’s John Lee Day as I live and breathe.”
“Don’t you have something to do, Alice?” Alafair asked, without taking her eyes off the advancing couple.
“Sure I do, Mama,” Alice answered in that light, sassy way of hers. “But this here is much more interesting.”
Alafair had long ago learned to school her pleasant features to look all business, but her mouth often betrayed her with unbidden smiles, as it did now as she looked over at Alice. Alice and Phoebe were twins, both seventeen and beautiful, but so unlike that it was hard to believe that they were even sisters. Alice was tall and incorrigible, blond as wheat and blue-eyed as the sky. Phoebe was like the little bird she was named for, small and neat, with an abundance of waving dark russet hair and fine, deep-set hazel eyes that could be either green or gold depending on the light and her mood. She was brave, Phoebe was, and could stand up for herself when she had to, and with Alice for a twin, she often had to. But left to her own devices, Phoebe was by far the sweetest of all of Alafair’s children, and a real dreamer. “I can’t remember the last time I saw John Lee,” Alafair observed to Alice. “He used to be around a lot to play with you kids when he was a youngster.”
Alice shrugged. “Ever since he’s gotten old enough to walk behind a plow his daddy’s kept him as a slave, I think. You know how we’ve got to walk by their place on the way to town? Seems like he was always there by the road, at the gate in front of their farm, watching us go by when we went to school.”
“Didn’t he go with you?”
“He left school when he was about thirteen, if I remember right. He still shows up at that gate, though. Especially when Phoebe walks by. I think he’s sweet on her.”
Alafair looked back out at the advancing pair and rubbed her arms, wishing that she had thought to throw on a shawl before she stepped outside. Her breath clouded the air as she sighed. “Now, why haven’t I heard about this?” she wondered aloud.
“Why, you know how Phoebe is, Ma.”
“I know you’d never let her hear the end of it if she got her a beau.”
“True enough,” Alice said with a laugh. “And you know what? Now that I think on it, Phoebe sure has taken a liking to strolling up and down the road lately.”
Alafair shot Alice a stern look. “You just go inside, now, and help your sisters with supper, or find something else useful to do. It’s too cold to be sitting around doing nothing, anyway.”
Alice looked as though she might say something else annoying, but apparently thought better of it and stood up. “Want me to make the cornbread tonight?”
“Ask Martha. She’s in charge of supper this evening. Now hurry up. Your daddy and the boys will be in directly.”
The screen creaked and the door clumped closed behind her when Alice went inside. Alafair walked down the porch steps to meet Phoebe and John Lee as they came in the gate.
A white fence defined the front yard where in summer Alafair grew herbs in small plots along the stone walk, and sometimes flowers, when she had the inclination. Native elms dotted the yard, and a large hackberry tree shaded the side of the house. A square stone well graced one corner of the yard, though it was covered and seldom used, now that a pump had been installed next to the back door. There was no back yard, only a fire break of twenty feet or so between the back of the house and a patch of woods which served as playground, dog run, pig buffet, and home to a small flock of wild turkeys.
Alafair acknowledged Phoebe with a smile before she looked beyond the girl toward John Lee, who had stood aside to let Phoebe pass. He snatched the wool cap from his head when Alafair looked at him, releasing an untidy shag of black hair that fell across his forehead.
Alafair leaned against the support beam and placed the fist clutching the dishtowel on her hip. “John Lee Day,” she greeted. “I haven’t seen you since before there was dirt. What brings you around?”
John Lee drew himself up and looked her in the eye, shy but straightforward, and pressed his cap against the breast of his threadbare coat. Alafair caught her breath when the boy looked up at her. She hadn’t realized what a looker he had become. For just an instant, she was bemused. The fist on her hip dropped to her side, and the dishtowel unfurled like a flag.
“Good evening, Miz Tucker,” John Lee was saying, when Alafair came to. “I met Phoebe on the road yonder, and figured I’d walk her home and say hello to y’all, being as I ain’t been by here in so long.”
Phoebe came up to Alafair’s side, quiet as a shadow. She slipped her hand into her mother’s, but kept her gaze on John Lee.
Alafair said, “You’ve grown up since I saw you last, son.”
“I don’t get away from the farm, much,” John Lee admitted.
“How is your mother?”
He hesitated. “Well enough, ma’am,” he conceded. The words “given her husband” were unspoken but understood.
“And all them young’uns?”
“Growing right along, ma’am.”
“What happened to your eye?” Alafair asked, in the same polite tone of inquiry, though more gently.
John Lee’s hand flew to the gash next to his right eye before he could stop himself. It was a rather ugly gash of about three inches, not very old, since it was just beginning to swell and redden. It had been carefully cleaned, but still oozed a little. John Lee sighed a barely perceptible sigh and smiled a rueful smile. “Reckon I run into a door, Miz Tucker,” he said.
Alafair nodded. She didn’t look at Phoebe, but the girl’s hand tightened around hers. Harley Day’s reputation was well known in Muskogee county. It had long been rumored that he struck Mrs. Day, and Alafair expected that John Lee was plenty old enough to object. Her heart tightened. He probably ran into a lot of doors.
“Why don’t you come in and let me doctor that?” Alafair offered. “It don’t look too bad. Shouldn’t take but a minute.”
John Lee shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am. I expect my ma can put something on it.”
“We’re just about to sit down and eat a bite of supper. You’re more than welcome to stay if you’ve a mind,” Alafair urged.
The invitation seemed to alarm the boy. “No, no, thank you, Miz Tucker. Ma’s expecting me. I got to get back or she’ll be wondering what happened to me.” He looked at Phoebe, and a transformation came over his face that gave Alafair pause. “I just seen Phoebe strolling down the road past our gate and I wanted to keep her company for a bit, if you don’t mind. It’s just a nice evening for a stroll.”
Alafair couldn’t help but laugh at that. It had been drizzling a freezing rain off and on all day. The wind was still, but if it were twenty-five degrees, she would have been surprised. The layered clouds warned of snow before morning. “I don’t mind if y’all take a little stroll,” she told him, “though you might have picked a better evening for it. I do wish you would take some supper with us.”
John Lee tore his gaze from Phoebe and looked at Phoebe’s mother. “Thank you, ma’am, but I got to get home. Maybe some other time.” He looked back at Phoebe again, and that strange transformation again came over his face. “Good night, Phoebe,” he said, backing out of the gate.
“Good night, John Lee,” Phoebe replied in a voice like honey.
Alafair and Phoebe stood together in silence, hand in hand, and watched for a long time as he went back down the drive, until he turned out onto the road toward his own farm.
“So, you’ve started taking regular strolls on down by the Day place,” Alafair finally observed. “Must be half a mile. That’s quite an amble in this cold.”
Phoebe did not normally have a high color, but the cold and her emotions had already reddened her face, so her mother’s question caused her to flush alarmingly. “I get cabin fever staying in the house all the time, what with this weather, Ma. Sometimes I like to have a little walk. John Lee has spotted me a couple of times and come up to his gate to talk to me. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No, surely not,” Alafair said. “I think you should invite him to supper, though. Let me and your daddy meet him. Especially if you’re going to be doing any more ‘strolling’ in the future.”
“He’s a nice boy, Mama,” Phoebe assured her.
“I’m sure he is, Phoebe. Especially if you like him. Now let’s get inside before I freeze to death. I swear it’ll snow before the night is out.”
They turned and walked toward the deep porch that ran along the entire front of the long white house. Alafair paused and took Phoebe’s arm before they went inside. “Honey, I know you’ll use your sense now,” she warned. “But I want you to be careful about going over there to the Day place. That father of John Lee’s isn’t the best of men. And I’d really like for your daddy to look this boy over before you get too fond of him.”
Alafair feared that if Phoebe got any redder, the top of her head would blow off like an overheated thermometer. For an instant, Phoebe’s mouth worked, but no words came out. “You’re right about that old man Day, Ma,” Phoebe finally managed, her voice rapid and low. “He’s just an evil man. He strikes Miz Day sometimes, and John Lee, too. You could see that. And he drinks something awful, Ma. He makes his own corn liquor and sells it to the low types around. I think we ought to tell the sheriff about him. But John Lee ain’t like that, Mama. He’s so good. He feels real responsible for his mother and them kids, and he’s so gentle and kind, even to animals. He’s never been anything but a perfect gentleman, believe me, Ma. And he wants to improve himself, too, and learn….”
Alafair patted Phoebe’s arm. “Calm down, now,” she soothed. “I never said we were going to forbid you to see him. You just ask him over first chance you get.”
Phoebe said, “Yes, ma’am,” but she looked troubled, and Alafair thought that Phoebe was afraid that John Lee’s father would be the real impediment to their relationship. It hurt Alafair to admit to herself that this was probably the case.
***
It was a relief to finally get into the dark warmth of the house. They walked together into the large parlor, which was brightened by tall windows that covered two walls. Two doors in the back of the room led to the bedrooms, and to the left was the entrance to the enormous kitchen. The parlor was furnished with a settee and two horsehair-stuffed armchairs, plus several slat-backed chairs, a rocker and a few side tables. A fine old upright piano graced one corner, and two narrow iron cots were discreetly tucked head to head into another. A large quilt frame was appended to the ceiling by a rope and pulley at each corner, to keep it out of the way when not in use. The pot-belly stove in the center of the parlor was fired up enough to take the chill out of the air, but the real heat came from the giant wood-burning cook stove in the kitchen, where all six of Alafair’s other daughters were in a frenzy of meal preparation.
Dark-haired Martha, twenty and the eldest, was the general of this evening’s repast, and directing her troop with a skill that was beginning to approach Alafair’s own. Almost-nineteen-year-old Mary, the best if sloppiest cook in the house, was spooning fried potatoes into a ceramic dish. Alice was in charge of dessert, since she had a particular talent for pies, and tonight’s offerings were already cooling on wire racks on the cabinet. The youngest girls, Ruth, Blanche, and Sophronia, ages twelve, seven, and six respectively, were setting the table with much rattling and clanking of dishes.
“You girls done with your lessons?” Alafair asked the young ones, as she hung Phoebe’s coat on the rack next to the back door.
The two little girls shrieked and skipped and both spoke at once, somehow conveying the message that they had no homework tonight. Blanche dropped a serving spoon on the floor and gazed at it in befuddlement before Ruth scooped it up and handed it back to her. “Now you got to go wash it off,” Ruth informed her disdainfully.
“Ma,” Blanche implored, indignant, “I just swept the floor this afternoon.”
“Go wash the spoon, Blanche,” Alafair told her, ignoring the faces that the girls made at each other as Blanche flounced off toward the wash basin with the spoon.
“I see Phoebe has deigned to grace us with her presence,” Mary interjected.
“Phoebe was occupied with her new beau,” Alice explained.