arkansastraveler (9 page)

Aunt Garnet replied to Isaac, “I can’t believe my sister thinks she has the right to come into our town, the town she hasn’t lived in for nigh on
thirty years
, and think she has the right to an opinion about how we run things.” She pulled her pocketbook close to her chest. “It’s all happening too fast. You can’t make people change that fast.”

Dove said to Isaac, who was getting a distinctly alarmed look on his face, “I can’t believe my sister is talking like she hasn’t got a Christian bone in her body.”

“I can’t believe
my sister
is so ignorant about what it’s like to live in the real world, not someplace crazy like California,” Aunt Garnet shot back to Isaac.

“I can’t believe
my sister
 . . .”

“Isaac,” I jumped in. “I want to show you something in front that I was hoping you’d take pictures of while you were here.”

“Certainly, certainly,” he said, his expression grateful.
“Ladies, please excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

With a grinning Uncle WW watching us, Isaac and I walked through the house to the front yard.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning against one of the white pillars. “I owe you one.” We silently watched people move toward their cars and trucks. Talk of the incident with Toby Hunter had spread through the party and had been like a splash of cold well water on the festive mood. “I don’t know if those two will last out the week without killing each other.”

I leaned against the opposite pillar. “They’ll be fine. The best thing to do is ignore them. That’s what the rest of us do.”

“I’ll try,” he said, his voice uncertain.

I laughed. “Isaac Lyons, you’ve been all over the world, taken photographs in wars and famines, of popes and queens, not to mention Hell’s Angels and gang bangers. For cryin’ out loud, you’ve been married five times. Are you telling me a couple of elderly Southern ladies have you running scared?”

He looked down at me, his face perfectly serious. “You bet your pecan pralines, kid.”

“I know this is a dumb question, but did you bring your cameras?” I asked.

“Always. Promised Dove I’d take pictures of the homecoming.”

“I was thinking . . .”

“Of me taking pictures of Amen and her campaign for mayor? Already thought of it. Actually took some casual shots earlier this evening, when she first arrived. It might make an interesting feature somewhere.”

“I figured that even if she can’t win, maybe the recording of her efforts, if they were seen by enough people, would at least make people think.”

He leaned over and ruffled my hair. “You and I are on
the same wavelength. I’ll talk to Amen tomorrow and see if she’ll give me full access.”

“I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t.”

That night, after we’d all gone back to Garnet’s and everyone was tucked into bed, Elvia and I discussed the incident. The moon shone in through the thin window shade, and I could make out my friend’s form lying on the twin bed across from me.

“Dove and Aunt Garnet almost got into a fistfight about this incident with Toby Hunter.” I told her about their hot words to each other.

Over in the other bed, she silently listened, then said, “Well, your Aunt Garnet’s got a point.”

“What?” I said, sitting up. “You can’t be serious! She’s totally against this church merger. Tell me how Christian that is!”

“Benni, it’s not that I agree with her feelings. It’s just that, in a way, I understand what she’s saying. Mama has this saying.
No es lo mismo hablar de toros que estar en el redondel
. Roughly translated it means talking about bulls is not the same as facing them in the ring. Dove—and you know I love her like my second mother—doesn’t live here and hasn’t for a long time. It’s easy for someone outside of a community to come in and tell you how things should be, then leave you with the consequences. Your aunt’s right. You can’t change people that fast.”

“But you have to start somewhere,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, her voice floating softly across the room. “But you have to let people choose that themselves. Isn’t that the whole idea of freedom in our country? Shouldn’t freedom encompass staying the same if that’s what you want to do?”

I thought about what she said for a moment. “You’re not saying that people should stay bigoted like that Toby creature, are you?”

“Of course not,” she said, her voice patient. “But think
about it. Dove and Garnet were literally raised in the same house, by the same parents, with the same culture, skin color, and religion, and
they
can’t get along longer than three minutes. And people are expecting a black and a white church to blend into some kind of cohesive whole? I’m not defending your aunt’s views. I don’t even agree with them. It’s just that some people, some really good, decent people, don’t necessarily want to make a grandstand effort. Some people challenge things in little ways every day of their lives. That doesn’t make them bad or less brave.”

I didn’t answer right away. Was she talking about herself? About her and Emory? “Why does it all have to be so hard?” I finally said.

“I don’t know,
amiga
. I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, I hope that little jerk Toby gets what’s coming to him. The picture of him spitting on Miss DeLora is something that my brain will never forget. Believe me, if ever I’ve felt murderous thoughts in my heart, it was at that moment.”

And, we found out the next morning, I wasn’t the only one.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, when I stumbled downstairs in my pajamas looking for breakfast, the dining table was bare. The feud had obviously been moved from food into other areas. I was searching the kitchen cupboards for coffee filters when Uncle WW came in through the side door.

“Third shelf to the left of the stove,” he said. “Got some doughnuts here.” He sat a couple of white bags down on the white tile counter.

“You’re an angel,” I said, opening one and pulling out a fresh maple bar. I took a generous bite and let the sweet warmth coat my mouth. “Where are the girls?” I opened the coffee canister and started measuring out coffee.

“Guess there’s to be a quiltin’ bee,” he said. “They’re up to the church gettin’ ready for that, I reckon.” He glanced up at the pink plastic daisy clock on the wall. The time read seven-forty-five. “Most of us round here get up before noon.”

“Hey, I’m on vacation,” I said.

The phone rang, and he picked it up at the same time Elvia wandered into the kitchen. She was dressed already,
looking fresh and crisp in a pair of wheat-colored jeans and a white cotton T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a dark shiny bun.

“No double breakfast this morning,” I said, pointing to the bags of doughnuts. “The competition has moved on. Uncle WW’s provided sustenance, though. There’s a creme-filled in there, I think.”

She nodded, not answering, and walked over to the coffeemaker to wait for the pot to fill. We both poured a cup of coffee and were sitting at the breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen when Uncle WW, his face sober as a judge’s, hung up the phone.

“The manure’s goin’ to hit the fan now,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, licking a flake of icing off my finger.

“Toby Hunter’s dead.”

I looked up at him, shocked. “Dead? Like in a car accident?” With the way he pealed away from Emory’s house last night, it wouldn’t have surprised me.

“Nope, he was beat to death. Found his body out on one of the side roads near Mayhaw Lake. Right next to his truck.”

“
Madre de dios
,” Elvia said softly.

“Who was that on the phone?” I asked, looking down at my half-eaten doughnut, my appetite gone.

“Your aunt Garnet. They just heard at the church. Brother Woodward was comin’ back to the parsonage as they were opening the fellowship hall. He said it happened real early this morning.”

“Poor Grady,” I said.

“Especially after losin’ his wife so young and all. He’s had it tough, that’s a fact,” Uncle WW said.

“When did his wife die?” I vaguely remembered her from church, a slender, freckled woman who sang a weak soprano in the choir.

“Oh, ’bout eight years ago now. Had cancer. Took a
long time to pass on, poor soul. ’Bout tore Grady to pieces. And Toby was her pride and joy. Probably good she’s not here to see how he turned out. Though she never could see what a little hooligan he always was.” Uncle WW’s face turned pink. “Don’t mean to be speaking ill of the dead.”

“Well, the truth is the truth,” I said. “Did Brother Woodward say they had any idea who could have done it?”

“Not that they’re sayin’,” he replied, his bushy eyebrows raising slightly.

“There’s lots of people who probably had a grudge against that boy,” I said.

Uncle WW shrugged. “Guess we have to wait and see.”

Emory came over while I was upstairs changing. He and Elvia were on the porch swing, their heads close together, when I came outside.

“No spooning in broad daylight,” I said. “You’ll scare the horses.”

“Hey, Benni Lou,” Emory said. “What’s up for today?”

“For me, the quilting bee, I guess. I don’t pick up Gabe until three o’clock and I promised I’d lend a hand getting the opportunity quilt finished. I think they’re also working on something for Brother Cooke and his wife.”

“Think he’s forgiven you yet for your baptismal water fiasco?” Emory said, his eyes twinkling.

“I can still rat on you,” I said, sitting down in a wicker porch chair. “It’s not too late for Brother Cooke to kill you.”

We instantly sobered at my choice of words. “Yikes,” I said. “Speaking of that, I take it you heard.”

Emory nodded. “Grady called Daddy early this morning, right after he found out. You know they’ve been buddies from way back, even though Daddy’s supporting Amen’s run for mayor. He was sobbin’ and apologizin’ for what Toby did last night and swearin’ he was going to get whoever did that to his son.” Emory pulled Elvia a little closer.
“He was talking out of his mind, and Daddy knew that. Just let him ramble.”

“Did he tell Boone what happened? All Uncle WW knew was Toby got beat to death out by Mayhaw Lake.”

“Guess he was hit in the back of the head a number of times with some kind of blunt object. They’re thinking a hunk of wood, though they didn’t find anything at the scene with his blood on it. Most likely the killer took it with him. The back of his head was pretty messed up from what they say. Guess they caught him walking away, and
they
was some kind of mad.”

“That certainly enlarges the suspect pool, doesn’t it?”

“No doubt.”

We sat silent for a moment, contemplating the possibilities.

“Well,” I finally said, glancing at my watch, “it’s almost eight-thirty. I’d better get on over to the church before the hens start clucking about the lazy habits of Californians.”

Emory laughed. “Sweetcakes, your lazy nature’s probably done already been pecked to death hours ago. No doubt they’ve moved on to more scintillating subjects like your many forays into crime back in San Celina or whether you’ll actually wear a dress to church this Sunday or not.”

“Eat Arkansas clay. Where are you two headed?”

“I’m going to drive Elvia into Little Rock,” Emory said. “Show her the university, some of the other sights.”

“Don’t forget the old mill,” I said.

“What old mill?” Elvia asked.

“The opening scene of
Gone with the Wind
was filmed in North Little Rock at this old mill. It’s pretty cool. The house on
Designing Women
, that TV show you liked so much, is in Little Rock, too.”

“And a few museums of note,” Emory said dryly. “We do have some culture here in Arkansas.”

“Take her to Corky’s,” I said, then turned to my friend.
“It’s the best barbecue in Arkansas even if it did originate in Memphis.”

“Go do some stitchin’,” Emory said. “Leave Elvia’s Southern education to me.”

I walked the four blocks to Sugartree Baptist Church, enjoying the cool, early-morning fall air and the brilliant colors of the changing leaves. In San Celina, fall was more brown and gray with a few touches of gold. I’d forgotten how bold nature’s colors could be. I cut through the middle of the busy town square where business was going on as usual at the redbrick courthouse. Looking at the surface of this small town, you’d never know a brutal murder had occurred last night.

Grady Hunter’s campaign office was closed, the shade drawn down over the glass-front door. I wondered how the death of his son would affect his run for mayor. I felt a little guilty for not feeling more remorse about Toby Hunter’s murder, but both encounters I had with him yesterday had not given me any reason to think that the world wouldn’t be a better place without him. Grady seemed like a nice man, and I trusted Amen’s opinion of him, but I couldn’t understand how someone like that could produce such an obvious sociopath as Toby. I passed by the Beauty Barn and was tempted to stick my head in to hear what the ladies had to say about the crime. Plenty, I was sure, but I could do that later.

The freshly mown lawn of the church was still soaked with dew, turning the bottoms of my Wranglers soggy and limp. In honor of homecoming, the parking lot separating the sanctuary and the fellowship hall had a fresh coat of asphalt and new white lines. Half the spaces were filled with the sparkling clean old Buicks and Chevys of the church’s quilting ladies.

Next to the pastor’s office, under the very window of my infamous entry into Sugartree Baptist prankhood fame, Frank Lovelis, the church’s longtime janitor and handyman,
was trimming bushes with handheld clippers. Frank had worked for and attended the church for as long as my memory extended. He wore the same gray work pants and shirt that I’d always remembered him wearing. A short, broad-chested man with rough walnut-brown skin and coarse features, he had sad brown eyes and a low, hesitant voice. He didn’t talk much, but if you were polite to him, he’d pull a cellophane-wrapped butterscotch candy from his pocket and hand it wordlessly to you, the white around his dark eyes sometimes growing watery and red.

“Hello, Mr. Lovelis,” I said, stopping for a moment. “How are you?”

“Fine, Miss Benni,” he said, his head nodding in small, uncontrollable jerks. He always addressed everyone by Miss, Mrs., or Mr. and their first name. Whenever I heard a preacher talk about the definition of the word
humble
, Mr. Lovelis always came to mind.

“You remember me?” I said, smiling.

“Yes,” he said. “Mr. Emory talks of you all the time. I remember you, yes.”

I looked over at the fellowship hall. “I’m braving the dragon’s lair this morning.”

He gave a jerky nod. “Yes, miss, they’re a’talkin’ away.”

“The grounds look marvelous,” I said.

“Thank you, miss.” He glanced back to his bushes, a not-so-subtle indication that he wanted to get back to work.

“Well, you have a nice day,” I said.

“Yes, miss, you, too.” He reached into one of his pockets, pulled out a butterscotch candy, and held it out, his eyes studying the ground at my feet.

“Thank you, Mr. Lovelis,” I said, taking the candy. For a second his calloused fingers touched mine. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yes, miss,” he said and turned back to his bush.

Inside the large, airy hall, all the partitions that normally separated the room for Sunday school classes were folded
back, and twenty or so ladies were gathered in equal numbers around two large quilt frames, fingers moving in and out as fast as their tongues were flying.

“It’s about time you got here, Benni,” a rosy-cheeked woman with a dark curly cap of hair said. She came out of the attached kitchen carrying a glass pitcher of lemonade. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other? Ten, twelve years? You haven’t gained an ounce. I hate you.” She smiled, showing pretty white teeth that appeared brighter because of her red lipstick.

“Leave it to her to get here in time for the coffee break,” Dove called from over at one of the quilts. I turned and stuck my tongue out at her, sending the ladies around her to clucking. Beulah, the youngest woman sitting around the quilt, gave a great hoot. I waved at her and grinned.

“I tried to teach her respect,” Dove said. “Just never took. Slid right off her like she was covered with bacon grease.”

The other ladies murmured in agreement, throwing in comments about their own ill-behaved children and grandchildren.

“She’s always treated
me
with respect,” Aunt Garnet said from over at the other quilt. “Guess that says something about a person, don’t you think? We’re treated how we’re expected to be treated.”

The room went silent. I froze, looking at her then Dove. This was not good. And, dang it, it involved me.

“Come in the kitchen and help me with the goodies,” the dark-haired lady whispered in my ear. “They’ll settle down once they get some sugar in them.”

Back in the kitchen as I helped her take the lids off Tupperware cake holders and unwrap foil-covered brownies and cupcakes, she said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

I folded a piece of tinfoil and gave her a long look. Finally a light went on in my head. “Shirley Hazard, is that you?”

“It’s Shirley Hazard Arnett now,” she said, laughing gaily. “Better save yourself a piece of whatever you want, ’cause I know these ladies. They are worse than a plague of locusts. This’ll be gone in a half-hour, tops.”

Shirley was another girl who had often joined our little gang of children. She lived down the street from Emory. Her father, Dr. Hazard, had been the local dentist. She used to sneak us the plastic giveaway toys he bought for his young patients. I remember all of us fighting one summer over a ring that flipped open to reveal a place for secret messages.