Smoke (4 page)

“Yes, but she wasn’t
dead
,” said Louise. “She was only down the road a piece. They also had an agreement for farrowing future litters. Amy JoBeth was supposed to get the pick of Gretchen’s next litter, with a special boar that Amy JoBeth chose. That litter pick was part of their price negotiations.”

Immy was glad Marshmallow was a neutered boy pig. No litters to worry about.

“I’d better go break the news to her before someone else does.” Louise pushed herself up from of the chair and wobbled out the door.

“I wonder if she should be driving,” said Hortense.

“Probably not,” said Immy. “But do
you
want to take her, and be there when she tells Amy JoBeth about the dead pig?”

Hortense considered for a moment. “If Louise is this distraught over the animal, her daughter will be influenced in geometrical proportion, I surmise.”

“Yep. I think you’re right.”

“Until this most recent setback, I was contemplating how well Louise has been doing.” They heard Louise start her car start and drive away.

“You mean…cuz her husband killed himself?”

“His suicide affected her severely. Her recent ebullient nature was, I understand, from what she’s related to me in the short while I’ve been acquainted with her, the norm for Louise prior to that event. She’s been morose to the point of morbidity until lately.”

Immy picked up the last crumbs of brownie from her plate. “It’s awful he got so all-fired upset about losing his ranch like that.”

“That land had been in his family for generations,” said Hortense.

“And Amy JoBeth is Louise’s daughter? I should have figured that out. Now I think about it, they do kind of look alike.” They both looked a teensy bit like sows. “They haven’t been living here until recently, have they?”

“Louise has transferred her domicile here from Bootstrap, whence she retreated after the suicide. Louise’s daughter was united in connubiality with Ernest Anderson, who was a member of the military establishment. I believe they were on various bases in this country and Europe until she returned to work in Wymee Falls a year ago. Amy JoBeth seems to have kept her matrimonial name of Anderson even after her divorce.”

“How odd that I have her job.”

“You’re raising pigs now?”

“I am not raising pigs, Mother. She’s the person I replaced when I went to work for Mike Mallett. Maybe you didn’t hear me telling Louise. You were watching Drew with her new pig.”

“My, my. Small world.”

Immy retreated out the back door to the yard, where Ralph and Drew were leading Marshmallow around by his leash, acquainting him with his new quarters.

“I think the cement pond should go yonder.” Ralph pointed to a spot near the corner of the pen. “I can rig up another pen for it, and a gate so Marshmallow can get there from his main pen. You’ll be able to close it off to clean it up.”

“And just how am I supposed to clean up a cement pig pond?” asked Immy.

“I will,” said Drew. “I clean it up. All by myself. Like I clean my room. I take all the toys out and put them away.”

Immy had to chuckle. “Cleaning up” meant straightening to Drew. She had never cleaned anything in her short life.

“Drew,” said Immy. “I’m going to get a piñata shaped like a piggy for your party tomorrow. Would you like that?”

Drew’s eyes sparkled and she jumped up and down. “Piñata pig! Piñata pig!”

“I think that means yes,” said Ralph.

“We can pick it up after supper,” said Immy.

“What are we having?” asked Ralph.

It looked like Ralph would be staying.

* * *

After watching Ralph chow down on four pork chops and a mountain of mashed potatoes, Immy drove back to the pig breeder’s spread for the piñata. She thought her mother’s menu choice was unfortunate, but no one said anything.

She’d never had a pet, although she’d always wanted a donkey, or maybe a goat. While her father was alive he’d promised she could have a pet when she was old enough to take care of it by herself. But his death when she was twelve shut her mother down so completely and for so long, Immy hadn’t brought it up again. She’d run into her own problems, letting that smooth-talking, exciting-looking, long-haul trucker talk her into fifteen minutes of passion in the bunk of his cab, and getting pregnant with Drew. He’d disappeared down the highway without Immy getting his name or license plate. Being pregnant had made her senior year of high school hard. But she wouldn’t trade Drew for anything on the planet. And she never felt the need for a pet after she had the baby.

Maybe, just maybe, for Amy JoBeth, who had no children, losing Gretchen was a tiny bit akin to how it would be if Immy lost Drew. Hard to tell.

Now that she was on her way to Amy JoBeth’s, Immy had to decide what to say to her when she saw her. She rehearsed some phrases. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “Sorry about the pig.” “I heard about what happened to Gretchen.” “I know what you must be going—” No, that wouldn’t work. Immy had no idea why everyone was getting so upset about a dead pig. Pigs were slaughtered to be eaten every day. Of course, people probably didn’t eat miniature potbellied pigs.

She braked in front of the white ranch house, glad this trip had been cooler than the earlier one. The sun was a couple hours from setting, now throwing long slanting rays across the roof of the house and outbuildings, casting the ground behind them in deep shadow. Snuffling, rooting sounds came from the pens behind the house.

Immy wandered around back first, thinking it might be feeding time, but Amy JoBeth wasn’t there, and didn’t come out of the house to see who was calling on her. Immy gave a tentative rap for her first attempt, and her second and third, expecting Amy JoBeth to come investigate. Her fourth and fifth were loud banging, accompanied by calling out Amy JoBeth’s name.

Her white truck was there, beside the house. No lights were on in the house, but it was borderline whether she’d need them this hour of day.

Then Immy spotted the piñata. It lay next to the wrought iron porch railing and had a post-it note stuck to it. Immy pulled it off and read it.

‘Immy, this is yours. Pay me later.’

So, Immy thought, she must be feeling bad about Gretchen, mourning her, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Still, Immy thought she ought to make sure she was all right. Like, not suicidal or something. She might take after her father.

She’d seemed cheerful enough earlier in the day. Before she heard about Gretchen being shot. Maybe the potbellied pigs helped keep her out of depression. It would be terrible for her to slip back now.

So Immy opened the front door and poked her head in to see if Amy JoBeth needed anything.

* * *

A fruitless fifteen minutes later, Immy emerged, puzzled. Amy JoBeth wasn’t in her house. Maybe she was with her mother, Louise. She’d left the piñata on the porch. Her white truck was parked beside the house, so she hadn’t driven herself anywhere. Immy carried the piñata to the van. Before she left, she gave one last sweeping glance around the grounds. Her eye was caught by a metallic glint near the tornado shelter.

Immy, who, whether justly or not, prided herself on her frugality, walked closer to see if the glint was money. When she bent to examine the small pile of metallic pink glittery stuff at the entrance to the tornado shelter, she saw it was confetti in the shape of pigs. She chuckled. She’d bet the piñata she’d stowed in the van was stuffed with this.

But she sat back on her heels and wondered why it was out here, next to the shelter. The tornado shelter was underground, except for the top foot and a half that stuck up and had grass-covered dirt mounded around it. The door, a rectangular affair on about a thirty degree slant, opened to the side and swung upward. A couple of fresh footprints had been left in the small dirt space outside the door. Could Amy JoBeth be in the tornado shelter? Should Immy be starting up the car and tuning the radio to the weather station? It didn’t even look like rain when Immy glanced at the sky, let alone a tornado.

There was no padlock, so she pulled the heavy door up and peered down the dark stairway.

“Yoo hoo,” she called. “Anybody down there?”

“Go away,” came the muffled answer.

Immy started to pant and her heart trip-hammered a few beats. The last thing in the world Immy wanted to do was enter that dark, underground place, exactly the kind of place that would trigger panic from her morbid fear of being closed in.

When five-year-old Immy had locked herself into a dark closet, she’d pounded on the door for what had seemed like hours, screaming for her mother to let her out. Hortense had been in the backyard hanging up clothes, so it probably hadn’t been more than half an hour before she rescued her frantic child. Immy had never forgotten the terror she’d felt in the closet.

But Amy JoBeth, the poor woman, was in distress. Immy had to do something.

She slowed her breathing, but not her heart, and started down the steps, leaving the door open for light and quick escape. A loose spider web floated past her face and she batted it away. Amy JoBeth lay curled up on a mattress under a heap of blankets. It was a degree or two cooler under the ground, but the small enclosure was still sweltering.

“Oh my god, this is creepy. And dark. What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

No reply.

Immy squatted on the floor beside the mattress and put her hand on Amy JoBeth’s forehead. She was drenched in sweat, but didn’t seem feverish.

“I should have locked the door,” muttered Amy JoBeth, turning her back to Immy.

“But what in the hell are you doing down here? The sky is clear. There’s no tornado coming. The breeze isn’t even very strong today.” Immy’s hands prickled from her fear of the closed in space.

“I don’t care ’bout the weather.” Amy JoBeth’s words slurred slightly. Was she drunk? “Don’t care ’bout nothin’ anymore.”

Was this the same bright, bustling woman who had, only a few hours ago, sold her a pig? Immy’s scalp prickled to match her palms “C’mon, Amy JoBeth. Tell me what’s the matter. Maybe I can help.”

The air in the shelter was warm and still, with a slight smell of dampness. A portable toilet stood in the corner, beyond the mattress. The shelter was a prefab affair, unlike some of the homemade ones in Saltlick. It had built in shelves, a ceiling light and a ventilation turbine. The light wasn’t on, though. The white walls would be black with the hatch closed. Amy JoBeth must have been huddling here in inky darkness.

“Can you resurrect Gretchen?” Amy JoBeth sat up and flung off the covers. “Some son of a bitch shot her. Some drunk bastard. Shot my pig! My Gretchen!” Her face crumpled and her tears streamed. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve let those filthy Buckets take her. They let her get out, I know they did. It’s their fault.”

“Well, and the fault of the drunk hunter.”

“Yes! It’s everyone’s fault. I wish they were all dead!” Amy JoBeth’s fists clenched the blanket so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Now how would that help anything?”

“It would even the score, I reckon. But it’s mostly my own fault because I let someone buy her. How could I? How could I sell my baby? I let Tinnie talk me into it. I should be shot. Right after Rusty and Tinnie and the drunk asshole who shot her.” She grabbed the top blanket and wiped her tears from her cheeks, then blew her nose.

Her grief filled the tiny space. Immy wanted to flee up the stairs so she could breathe more easily. “Can I get you to come out of here?”

“No, you can’t. Go away.” Shooting a sharp look at Immy, she said, “And you take care of that baby pig I just sold you.”

“Oh, we will. He has a sturdy pen. And we’ll probably keep him in the house most of the time.”

“Yes, that would be good.” Her crying had stopped.

“We’ve already taken him to Dr. Fox and gotten him all fixed up.”

Amy JoBeth gazed at Immy for a moment. “You’re a good person, Immy. You’re kinda flighty, but Marshmallow will be okay with you and Drew. And Hortense. Mom said you’re Hortense’s daughter. She’s been a good friend to Mom. He’ll be all right.”

“Oh yes! He will be.” Now that Amy JoBeth had stopped crying maybe she could be reasoned with. “So, are you hungry?” That usually worked as a good distraction in dealing with her mother and with Drew. Worked well on Ralph, too.

Amy JoBeth set up a loud wail. “How can I eat? How can I go on?”

“Um, can I bring you some brownies?”

Silence. “Hortense’s brownies? Mom’s told me about them.”

Immy nodded. “She made some this afternoon.” If Ralph ate them all, maybe Mother can make some more, she thought.

“That might be good.”

“All righty then.” Good God, she sounded like Betsy, that dingy vet’s assistant. “I’ll go get some.”

“I’ll be right here,” snuffled Amy JoBeth, swiping at her nose again. “You can leave the hatch open. It’s dark in here.”

Immy raced up the steps, glad to be leaving the dungeon.

The germ of an idea was forming in the part of Immy’s mind devoted to detective matters. The fiery part, the part that held her burning desire to someday be a detective. Mother scoffed at her and belittled her dream. But her father had been a detective in the Wymee Falls Police Department, and, if he were still alive, would be proud she wanted to follow, somewhat, in his footsteps, Immy was sure. She didn’t see how she could ever achieve the rank of Police Detective, but PI seemed possible. She had a book she had found almost new, in very good condition, called
The Moron’s Compleat PI Guidebook
. With the help of that, and her new job working for a real PI, she was well on her way. True, all she’d done at work so far was typing and filing, but she felt she’d be able to investigate a case one of these days.

Maybe she could investigate the murder of Gretchen. It would be good practice, and maybe give Amy JoBeth a measure of closure. The Case of the Slaughtered Pig.

* * *

There were a dozen brownies left, to Immy’s relief. She told Hortense about Amy JoBeth shutting herself into the horrible tornado shelter and grieving.

“But I think we can lure her out with brownies,” said Immy.