arkansastraveler (26 page)

I watched her in silence, wishing I could take some of that pain on my own shoulders.

“Let me talk one more time to that young police officer, Billy Brackman,” I suggested. “He seemed real irritated about how this investigation was being run, and I bet if I catch him at the right moment I can pry out of him what’s being said. Then we’ll see what we are up against.”

She nodded. “Let’s take this water back and get something to eat before the food’s all gone.”

We joined the crowd gathered around the tin-foiled-covered dishes and platters set out for the noon meal. After a quick blessing by one of the elders of Zion Baptist, we filled our plates with cold fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, and slices of fresh watermelon. I glanced over the five different kinds of pie, planning for later.

“I’m going to join my aunties over yonder,” Amen said, nodding at a group of ladies unfolding webbed lawn chairs under a large maple tree. From this distance, their high laughter and darting words reminded me of the birds who had serenaded our work earlier. “Get back to me when you find out something.” She paused for a minute, then leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“You’re okay, girlfriend.”

I watched her go over to the women who welcomed her with a flurry of laughter and teasing. I took my plate of food and joined my family under an oak where Isaac had spread out a couple of blankets and set up our own webbed chairs. Elvia was sitting in a chair drinking a glass of iced tea and nibbling on a chicken leg.

“Where’s the girls?” I asked Isaac who was sitting next to Elvia eating a piece of pecan pie. “And does Dove know you’re eating your dessert first?”

He grinned at me. “At our age, you
always
eat your dessert first. And the lovely Mosely girls are still arranging flowers on their mama and grandmama’s graves.”

I flopped down on the blanket at his feet. “Getting some good pictures?”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Took ten rolls already.”

Eventually Dove and Aunt Garnet joined us, and after lunch we resumed our work, stopping occasionally for a glass of iced tea and a cookie or two. As we worked, I tried to figure out a way to talk to the young detective again, to question him in a way that wouldn’t look planned.

Once during the afternoon, when we were arranging bouquets for each grave, Elvia asked, “Why are you being so quiet?”

I shrugged. “Just thinking.”

We finished around four o’clock, and I hadn’t come up with one single idea. The sun dipped toward the sharp points of the pine-tree horizon, and the animal rustlings and bird songs seemed to slow down and get muffled, growing longer like the shadows of the trees.

“What do you girls think?” Aunt Garnet asked as we stood in front of the Mosely plot and contemplated the decorated graves of my ancestors. There were double bouquets at every grave—each as different as its maker. Dove’s mason jar vases held a combination of wild flowers, roses, and willow branches surrounded by pine cones and hickory sticks dotted with nuts that looked like tiny defiant fists. Aunt Garnet’s were lovely, symmetrical arrangements of roses, white and lavender lilies, baby’s breath, and deep green fern cuttings.

“I think that we should have Isaac take a picture of all these gorgeous flowers,” I said, not about to take sides.

“I agree,” Isaac said.

“Isaac added the stones,” Dove said, pointing to the single stone that was placed on each tombstone. “He’s half-Jewish.”

“On my mother’s side,” he added. “We bring stones, not flowers.”

“Why?” I asked.

“From what I’ve been told, in ancient times when a person died, stones would be piled over the body for two reasons—so people would know there was a dead body there and to keep animals from getting at the body. So, now, when a person puts stones on a grave, it symbolizes protecting the body and shows respect. Flowers die, but the stones don’t change.”

“A wonderful tradition,” Amen said, walking up to catch
the last part of our conversation. “And much less work.” She said to me in a low side comment, “Not to mention less competitive.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I muttered back. “If we were Jewish, the sisters would be scouting for the biggest boulders, and we’d probably have to carry them.”

She chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

Later that night at Aunt Garnet’s house, after supper Dove and Garnet headed off to choir practice while the rest of us sat on the porch and greeted people as they walked by on their evening strolls, a small-town tradition that seemed to die a little more each year with cable television, e-mail, and computer chat rooms. I was still worrying about the problem of how to casually quiz Billy Brackman about Toby’s murder when the phone rang.

“Stay still, I’ll get it, Uncle WW,” I said, jumping up from the porch swing I was sharing with Gabe, who was telling some long, involved fish tale that had us all laughing with its improbabilities.

It was Amen.

“I’m glad you answered,” she said, sounding slightly out of breath. “You wanted a chance to talk to that young detective, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I just drove by the Dairy Queen, and he’s there alone eating a sundae.”

“How long ago?”

“I’m talkin’ seconds. I’m on my cell phone. And he appeared to just be sittin’ down.”

“I’ll get over there right now.”

It was easier than I hoped getting away from the group on the porch. After everyone’s long day grave-cleaning or fishing, everyone thought some Dairy Queen ice cream sounded good, but no one wanted to walk downtown to get it.

“I’m feeling energetic,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

Gabe started to get up, groaning dramatically. “Sweetheart, I’ll come and help you.”

I pushed him back down. “Now, you just rest, old man. Besides, you have to finish your fish story. I’ll drive so you don’t have to worry.”

He gave me a grateful look, which made me feel only a little guilty. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Down at the Dairy Queen, Detective Billy Brackman sat at one of the tables, finishing the last scoop of ice cream of what appeared to be a banana split. He’d left the bananas for last.

A large group of giggling, rowdy teenagers crowded both lines, on their way, it appeared, to a football game. A lucky break for me. “Can I join you until that group disperses?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure.”

I sat down across from him. “That’s the healthy part,” I said, pointing at the bananas.

He gave a weak smile. “I’ll get to them.”

There was a moment of silence.

Oh, well, I thought. Might as well plunge in since there was no casual way of bringing up the case. “So, how are things going with the Hunter murder?”

He shrugged, his face twitching slightly in annoyance.

“Is Quinton still their chief suspect?”

He gave me a long look, his clear, Kentucky-hill country eyes guarded. “You know I can’t talk about this with you.”

I gave a deep sigh. “I know, Detective Brackman.” He visibly puffed up slightly when I used the title. “I’m just so concerned about Quinton getting railroaded, and you’re the only person on that backwoods police force I think has a lick of sense.” I knew I was taking a chance on completely alienating him, making a derogatory remark about Sugartree’s police department, but I was hoping his
youthful irritation at his colleagues would momentarily overcome his good sense.

“Look, I agree with you, okay?” he said, attacking the slices of ice-cream-soaked banana with his plastic spoon. “There are others in this town who had just as much reason to want Toby Hunter dead.”

I decided to show my hand. “Like John Luther Billings and Ricky Don Stevens.”

The flash of surprise on his face told me I was barking up the right tree. Then he frowned and shoved a spoonful of bananas in his mouth. “They were suspects, yes. That’s no secret to them or anyone else. Most everyone in this town knows what Toby did to Tara.”

“What about Frank Lovelis?”

His eyebrows moved toward each other in confusion. “What about him?”

I had to admit it just occurred to me. What did anyone really know about Frank Lovelis, where he came from, what his background was? In desperation to fatten the suspect pool, to draw suspicion away from Quinton, I said, “He was the one who found Tara. Maybe, after dwelling on it for a while, he was so upset by what Toby did, he killed him. Did anyone ever think of that?”

By the widening of his eyes, I could tell no one had. I felt bad directing suspicion toward Mr. Lovelis. On the other hand, the more suspects, the better. For Quinton, anyway.

Billy pushed the empty plastic sundae dish to the side. “He’s pretty old. And that’s pretty farfetched.”

“I know,” I said, resting my chin on the palm of my hand. “I admit it’s stretching, but I’m just trying to make a point.” A point, I thought, that will make you go back to your superiors and question their single-minded pursuit of Quinton. “It could be any number of people. I mean, it could even be his own father, for crying out loud.” I threw that out, waiting for his reaction.

“Lordy, Mrs. Harper,” he exclaimed. “That’s about as big a crock of”—he paused, blushing slightly—“cow dung as I’ve ever heard. It’s one thing to suspect John Luther and Ricky, but Mr. Hunter? Why in the . . .” The red in his face deepened. “Why in
heavens
would he kill his own boy?”

I reached over and patted the top of his hand. “As my dear husband always says, the why isn’t our problem, but that of psychiatrists and God. The who is the only thing we’re interested in, and my point is it could just as well be Grady Hunter as Quinton Tolliver. The spot where they found Toby’s body isn’t that far from Grady’s house. I think it would take a lot of courage for someone to present that possibility, to give Quinton a fighting chance by pointing out that any number of people, including Toby’s own father, had just as much means and opportunity as Quinton.” Motive, too, I thought, though I wasn’t ready to tell the detective why it was possible that Grady Hunter might possibly have had a reason to silence his own son.

He stood up abruptly, picking up his empty sundae bowl and tossing it in a trashcan. He paused in front of the metal trashcan for a long moment, his back to me, and I thought I’d pushed him too far. When he turned around, I expected an angry man. Instead, I saw a young, pale face full of apology.

“I don’t know if I can be that person, Mrs. Harper,” he said in a rough, boyish voice. “I have to live here. I need this job.” He stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and walked down the street toward downtown.

“I understand,” I said, though he was too far away to hear my words. In that moment, I felt with great shame like the know-it-all interloper I was. Who was I to challenge him to do something that would at best alienate him from his colleagues and at worst possibly cost him his job? I felt like I’d both failed Amen and made a fine, struggling young police officer feel bad about a situation that was beyond his
ability to change. I bought two quarts of ice cream and drove back to Aunt Garnet’s house, berating myself the whole way.

Later that night, when we were in bed, I told Gabe everything that happened today, everything I’d discovered. He listened without interrupting, my head on his chest, his warm arms surrounding me. When I finished, he was quiet for a minute or two.

“Okay,” he finally said, his even baritone not betraying an ounce of his own feelings. “You’re neck deep in this quicksand of human emotion. What are you going to do?”

I turned my head to look at him, my cheek still resting on his chest. “I was hoping you could advise me, Chief.”

He scratched the center of my back gently. “You know what I’d advise you, and I know you’ll ignore that, so what are you really asking?”

I sat up and looked down at his shadowy face. “I guess I’m not asking anything. I just wanted you to know.”

“So, now I know.” His voice still hadn’t changed tone.

“Let me just ask you one thing. If it were you, if this were your investigation, what would you do?”

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. “I’m not going to tell you that.”

“I already know. You’d re-question everyone involved and look for holes in their stories.”

He opened his eyes. In the gray darkness they looked black and menacing. His voice was soft. “Take me with you if you plan on doing anything dangerous. Just promise me that.”

“I promise.”

“A
LL I
’
M GOING
to do is talk to Quinton,” I told Gabe the next day as I sat in front of the vanity braiding my hair. “So you don’t have to worry about me today.”

He kissed the top of my head and said, “Let me do that.”
He undid my loose braid and started French-braiding my hair. The feel of his hands working my hair into the intricate braid felt familiar and comforting. “I always worry about you, but at least I know when you’re talking to Quinton nothing will happen to you. Talk to me before you speak to anyone else.”

“Where are you going to be today?” I asked his reflection.

“What’s on the family agenda?”

“There’s the carnival for the kids at the church with game booths and stuff. I imagine I’ll be roped into helping in one of the booths. At noon, they’re doing the Ping-Pong ball drop. Tonight is a progressive dinner sponsored by the deacons of both churches.”