Death by Deep Dish Pie (24 page)

Then I slowed to go around the nasty hairpin curve that had conspired with Dinky's fast driving to take Jason's life. I saw the Fireworks Barn, just a shadowy smudge up ahead of me, and came within a hundred feet of it, when suddenly it exploded.

No warning. No sizzle, crackle, or pop forewarning: Danger, Josie! Turn around, Josie!

Just a sudden, booming explosion of fire and sound, as if someone had buried a supersized cherry bomb beneath the Fireworks Barn, and finally set it off.

Sometime later, I sat on the Hapstatter's front porch swing, still shaking and shivering—even though it was a warm night—sipping at my glass of lemonade, which Mrs. Hapstatter insisted on fixing me, saying “it'll be good for your sugar, Sugar,” meaning (with the first sugar) my blood sugar, because she was hypoglycemic, and was always fussing about other people's blood sugar levels, and (with the second sugar), that she felt sorry for me.

Mrs. Hapstatter was back in the house, fixing more lemonade, while Mr. Hapstatter stood on the porch, glaring at Chief Worthy as he grilled me.

“You mean to tell me, Josie,” said Chief Worthy, “that you were just driving around the bend, and suddenly the whole Fireworks Barn blew up?”

I took another sip of Mrs. Hapstatter's sweet lemonade. The ice clinked around in my glass, I was shaking so badly.

”That's exactly what happened. And I don't know anything else, I really don't.”

The Fireworks Barn had exploded. In what I guess was an instinctive reaction, I'd slammed on the truck brakes and jerked the wheel to the right, all at the same time—and so had plowed into the ditch along the road by the cornfield.

Then I'd opened the truck door, which wasn't easy given the angle at which the truck was jammed into the ditch, and crawled out, and started running, feeling the heat of the burning, exploding Fireworks Barn against my back.

I had a vague memory of looking back over my shoulder, pausing for what seemed like minutes in my memory, but which was probably just a split second in reality, to stare in shock at the barn in flames, an occasional firework spiraling out of the top of the flames and exploding in the dark summer sky.

Then I turned and ran toward the Hapstatters' farm.

I don't think I'll ever look at fireworks in quite the same way.

By the time I was on their porch, panting, Mr. Hapstatter was already calling 911. Mrs. Hapstatter took one look at me, just mildly lifted her eyebrows in surprise, swatted away a bug unwittingly on the way to its death in the blue bug zapper that hung on the other end of the porch and doubled as an outdoor light, and said, “Why, Josie Toadfern, is that you? You look a sight, Sugar. Let me get you some lemonade for your sugar, Sugar.”

Then she'd hefted her considerable girth, loosely covered in an oversized housedress, out of the porch swing, and went calmly inside for the lemonade.

Which was when I started shaking.

Now, still shaking, I took another sip of lemonade. I liked the smell of it as much as the sweet, tart taste—we were close enough to the Fireworks Barn that the smoke had drifted over the Hapstatter house, casting a haze and a smoky sulfuric smell that masked out the scent of the lilacs that grew all around the front porch of the farmhouse.

Chief Worthy said to me, “Try and remember, Josie. You didn't see anyone running away from the Fireworks Barn? Didn't pass any cars or trucks speeding away from the barn? Things don't just explode on their own, you know—”

Mr. Hapstatter cleared his throat. “Now, Chief, if this little girl says she din't see no one running or driving away, then she din't. For what it's worth—although I know you ain't asked us yet—me and the missus din't see nary a soul driving up and down the road, until Josie here drove by right before the explosion.”

Chief Worthy glared at me, a question coming to his eyes. Another bug flew by and buzzed to death in the bug-zapper-light. I stuck my nose in my glass.

Mr. Hapstatter said, “'Course now, Josie was driving right proper, well within the speed limit, and me and the missus commented on that, not even knowing it was Josie at all, saying how it was nice to see someone going the speed limit around that curve for a change, how it's shameful no one does and some kid will wreck out here again like those Breitenstrater boys—”

I moaned. I felt myself start to spin.

“—anyway,” Mr. Hapstatter was going on, “Josie was driving toward that barn as law abiding as you please, and—Josie? Sugar?”

Lights were dancing before my eyes. Like the shoots off of little sparklers. I heard another bug go zip zap. Must-not-go-to-the-light . . .

“Josie? Sugar?” Mr. Hapstatter was on the porch swing with me, giving me a little shake, taking the glass of lemonade from me. “C'mon now.” I looked at him. Smiled. The Hapstatters were salt of the earth people, I thought. That's what my Aunt Clara always said about people who were good folks. Salt of the earth. So were Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace, though they never saw themselves that way. I reminded myself to compliment Mrs. Hapstatter on her lemonade and Tuna Tetrazzini Casserole at the next church carry-in.

Mr. Hapstatter was looking at Chief Worthy, though. “This little girl is done for the night,” he said. “She din't see anything that can help you figure out what happened. And neither did we.”

Chief Worthy snapped his notebook shut, gave a terse thank you, and walked off.

I heard more sirens in the distance. Fire trucks coming from volunteer fire stations from all over the county to help put out what had to be some kind of record fire for Mason County.

Then I saw a tow truck slowly going down Mud Lick Road, away from the Fireworks Barn. It was pulling Sally's truck.

I pointed and moaned. “They're taking the truck in to Elroy's?”

I looked at Mr. Hapstatter questioningly. He smiled. “Don't you remember? You asked us to call.” He shook his head. “I'm afraid you hit a pretty deep part of the ditch there. Wouldn't surprise me if your truck's totaled.”

I wanted to say it was my cousin Sally's truck, and she was going to total me when she found out.

Mr. Hapstatter looked at me appraisingly. “You want to spend the night with us? Or go home?”

“Home,” I said.

He nodded. “Home it is.” He got up off the porch swing. “Let me go just let the missus know I'll be taking you—”

“No, you've really done enough for me,” I heard myself saying, and went on, shocking myself with the words, “could you just call my friend Owen Collins instead—555-1283.”

A half hour later, I was in the passenger seat of Owen's car, still shaking, but not as hard, holding in both hands a mug of lemonade. Mrs. Hapstatter had told me, “just return the mug to me at church, Sugar.”

I would. Filled with Hershey's chocolate hugs and kisses for these dear salt of the earth people.

Owen had come quickly, listened to Mr. Hapstatter describe the events that had led to me needing a ride home, followed by a stern, “Now, you take care of this little girl.” Owen had nodded, and then gently guided me to his car, his hand on my elbow.

I had yet to say a word.

I sipped on Mrs. Hapstatter's lemonade. It was cool and sweet and good.

We had to go a long way home, since Mud Lick Road was closed by the Fireworks Barn. The countryside was just an impression of grays and blacks—black sky, dark gray trees, houses, barns, cornfields . . . one all much like the other, yet I knew if it were daylight, I'd recognize each individual house and barn and yes, even cornfield.

But I was glad for the cocooning darkness, for the gentle swaying of Owen's car, going around curves and up and down slopes, and for the breeze that whistled in through the half-lowered windows. It was cool and sweet and good, too.

“You want to talk?”

“Mr. Hapstatter already covered everything that happened,” I said.

Long silence. Then, Owen, softly: “I meant about us.”

Did I want to talk about us? Let's see. I'd come within seconds of being right by the Fireworks Barn, which hugs up right by the road, when it had suddenly and violently exploded, sending wood and glass and fireworks and God knows what all flying. Which meant I'd come within seconds of being injured. Maybe seriously. Maybe, even, dead.

No, I did not want to talk about us. I just wanted a ride home.

But you could have called lots of people,
a voice whispered in my head, sounding a mite like Mrs. Oglevee.
And you called Owen.

So why had I really called him? The image of the Hapstatters came to mind—a couple whose quiet devotion I'd admired from afar for a long time. And then I thought of Mrs. Beavy, and her love for her late husband, which a little wine shared with Cletus would never touch. Then of my Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace and their devotion to each other and to Guy and even, eventually, to me. And then even of Geri, so distraught over Alan's death. All these people had something I'd never seen in my own parents, because they each took off when I was young. Something I'd never had with another person. Something, though, that maybe I wanted.

They all were so close to each other. No, they were more than close. They were bonded. And surely bonding like that couldn't happen with secrets. Not secrets like the ones Owen had kept from me.

Now Owen wanted to know if I wanted to talk about us. I didn't think so. I wanted to be able to look over at him, through the dark, and not feel like I was hitching a ride with a stranger.

But then, as we came up on a lane to another farmhouse, Owen slowed, then pulled in the lane, and shut off the car and his lights. Then—gearshift between us, be damned—he pulled me to him and hugged me.

It was enough to make me cry—for all I was feeling. And for all I wasn't feeling.

When I'd finished, and Owen had found a tissue for me in the glove compartment, and I'd blown my nose, Owen said, “I'm sorry I lied to you, Josie.”

He did sound truly sorry. I stared out into the darkness, at the shadowy impression of a farmhouse up the lane. “You know, my daddy left about the time I was born and my mama ran off a few years after. I never knew why. My Aunt Clara told me it was because my daddy was no good and my mama took ill—but I could always tell she was lying. On both counts. I never could get the truth out of her. She thought she was lying for my own good, and maybe she was. I was a kid then.”

I looked at Owen. “But I'm not a kid now, though one thing hasn't changed. I don't like being lied to. I can handle the truth—just about any truth. But I can't handle secrets between us—or always wondering if I know the whole truth.”

Owen sighed. “The job over at Masonville Community College was a fresh start for me. When I first moved here, Paradise seemed like a quaint little town where maybe I could fit in eventually. Be somebody. I couldn't just go into Sandy's Restaurant and say, hey, folks, guess what, I killed a guy once.”

‘And now what does Paradise seem like to you?” I asked. My heart clenched up like a fist. I hated that. It meant I was scared. Which meant I cared. Which, suddenly, I didn't want to.

“You've lived here all your life, Josie,” Owen said, waving a hand at the windshield to indicate the farm country and, just down the road, Paradise. “You have no idea how hard it is to fit yourself into a place where everybody already knows everybody, where a stranger sticks out instead of blends in, where gossip is an art form.”

‘You chose to come here, Owen,” I said quietly. “What did you think you'd find—Utopia?”

Owen shrugged. “Maybe. Yes. I guess—well, that was naive.”

“And you chose to get close to me. I trusted you enough to let you into my life—into Guy's life. That wasn't easy for me.”

“I should have trusted you.”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry,” Owen said.

“I know.”

“Look—I would have told you eventually.”

“I'm not sure I believe that.”

”Have you told me everything about your past, Josie? I mean, I know about Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace and things about your childhood and you taking over the laundromat—but you don't talk much about your life after that. What about all the things you haven't told me?”

Of course there were things I hadn't told him. I'd had boyfriends and lovers before Owen. I'd made my share of goofs, had my ration of regrets. He was right about that. But I hadn't hidden anything major—like divorce, a kid, a killing—that might be a real factor in deciding if he wanted a long-term relationship with me.

That thought hit me hard, like a slap out of nowhere.

Did I want a long-term relationship with Owen? Was that what I was after in the long run with him—marriage, family?

And was I being too hard on him, too easy on myself?

I didn't know the answers to those questions. And so I wasn't sure how to answer Owen's question, either.

Finally, in the uncomfortable silence Owen said, “Are we—going to be okay?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Only time will tell.” That was a phrase my Aunt Clara liked to use whenever she wished she could tell the future, but couldn't.

Owen thought for a minute. “Time will tell,” he repeated. Then he nodded. “That's fair.”

“
What
in the
world
were you
thinking,
telling him
only time will tell?”

I moaned, wishing I could will myself awake, instead of sitting up in a dream-version of my bed with Mrs. Oglevee standing at the foot of my bed, whacking the bedpost with a flaming sparkler.

I'd had a hard enough time getting to sleep after I'd gotten home and had to call Sally and explain about her truck. She had not been in the least understanding, even when I tried to explain to her that it was not my fault. She'd calmed down a little when I told her my car insurance would cover the repairs. But then she'd started screaming at me about what was she supposed to do with three little boys and no transportation and she'd have to bum rides with her ex-mother-in-law and just how did I think that made her feel, and . . .