He nodded. “I do.”
“Yeah, well, I still know how naturally unfriendly a place this is.”
He shook his head. “Reserved. Not unfriendly.”
“Okay.”
“Next thing: You got any other kind of clothes?” I tightened my lips. “Nope. I only got my clothes. I only like my clothes. I only wear my clothes.”
He smiled. “Just askin’.”
“Uh-huh, and I’m just answering: Lay off the accoutrements.”
“Roger that.”
“I got my own sense of style.”
He agreed. “It’s uniquely your own, I’d give you that.”
I looked out the window. “Still, I don’t much care for the idea of the kid out there in the snow.”
He saw the look on my face. “You’re going to give it a shot.”
I nodded a little. “It’s a simple little thing, I guess. Ask a few questions. Find a tyke. If Dally’s up for stayin’, I’m in.”
But there was little doubt that Ms. Oglethorpe would stay. She’s the motherly type, in a very strange way. And my own nonchalance was a little deceptive. I was one to take this kind of thing very seriously. If I’m in, I’m in all the way. No half measures. I was going to find Ginny McDonner. I just had no way of knowing how wrong I was about it’s being a simple little thing.
6. Miss Nina
By seven-thirty Dally, Mustard, and I had eaten. Miss Nina’s FOOD was superb dining; the woman was a rural epicure. There were no employees, only the owner herself, and she was well into her sixties. She arose at five every morning and started setting pots on the three stovetops in the backroom. By noon everything had been boiled or fried to her satisfaction, and she’d open the doors to the front room, which might have been a drugstore or a feed store at some time in the past. There were maybe twenty tables and a soda-fountain-type bar.
By one-thirty in the afternoon Miss Nina always went home, upstairs, for a nap. But she was back at five for the dinner crowd, and she closed at seven. We’d made it just in time. Miss Nina was barely awake in a rocker by the heat-stove in the outer room. We handed her our three bucks, following Mustard’s lead as he wandered into the kitchen.
Stacked up on a table were the plates and napkins. In a shoebox beside them were the eating utensils. All a customer needed to do was heap creamed corn and country-fried steak and black-eyed peas and collards and fried chicken and boiled green beans on a plate — and then try to get to a table without spilling any.
The tables were set with jars of iced tea and a big wad of foil that was supposed to have kept the cornbread warm. There was no talk, not in the whole place. By seven-thirty we three were the last ones in the joint. Miss Nina’d shuffled upstairs just after she’d locked the doors and told Mustard to make sure it closed real tight and locked when we left.
He was staring into his glass of tea. “Okay, bud — where do we start?”
I turned to Dally. “Something of a coincidence, this little story of the little girl of Lost Pines in conjunction with the currently missing Ginny McDonner.
She nodded. “And I know how you feel about coincidence.”
Mustard looked at her — it was a question.
She answered. “He doesn’t believe in ’em.”
“They always mean something.” I smiled at him. “Always.”
He set his glass down. “Well, in point of fact I believe I’m the one that brought it up.”
I leaned my elbows on the table. “So, what’s the real story?”
He shook his head. “Whatchu mean?”
“I mean there’s more to the story. There always is. What I heard was the folktale. I want the tabloid version.”
Mustard looked away. “Well … Daddy did tell me somethin’ once. He didn’t like to bring it up. I was about twelve, I remember, and I told him I’s a’run away like that old Christy girl. I reckon I was mad about somethin’ or another. I could tell right away Daddy’s troubled in his head. He said, ‘You don’ want to be like that, boy.’ And this is what he told me was the real story.”
He settled back. “That little girl’s daddy was significantly the best corn-liquor man in this county. Made the best corn liquor you ever tasted. So clear it was invisible in the jar. So pure it healed the sick at heart and made the lame to walk. Also made the walkin’ lame — if they had too much.”
Dally understood. “He was an artist.”
Mustard stuck out his lower lip. “I’ve heard it said that a’way.”
I encouraged. “And …”
Mustard’s face tightened. “And one night” — he looked at his tea again — “maybe more than one night, but this one night in particular … he was drunk and took out after his own little girl but good.”
Dally squinted. “Like how?”
He nodded. “Like, with a belt, they say — wailed the tar out of ’er. She brought in a jar of fireflies, inside the house to show ’im? He got mad on account of it was one of his liquor jars. He didn’t want her messin’ with his things. They say he busted the jar on her head and then took a belt to her so bad, she run out the house screamin’ so loud everybody on the mountain heard it. She run into the woods, to a hidin’ place she had: little ol’ tree hut made out of pine straw. When I was a kid, they used to tell me it was still out there somewheres.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Well, this is a much worse story than I’d like to hear right now.”
He nodded. “Uh-huh. And when they couldn’t find her, the mama threatened to leave the daddy, and they was a big fight. And then the ol’ boy got more an’ more drunk and worked his still too much, and they say it blowed up.”
Dally nodded. “That’s the fire that burned down the house?”
He shrugged. “They say.”
I shoved my dinner plate away from me. “So what really happened to the little girl?”
He looked at me, finally. “Oh, they never did find her.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t want you’uns to think I’m out my mind — but I seen her before last night. I don’t mean like just a blink or a scratch. I’ve seen ’er walking in these woods. Lots of folks up here have. It’s a dark night on a back road or out night fishin’ …”
I rubbed my eyes. I guess I was tired. “Yeah. Okay.”
Dally leaned over to Mustard. “Any of that family still around?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I don’ know.”
I closed my eyes. “Well … I guess, in answer to your earlier question, we start talking to people. Somebody might have seen something.”
Mustard didn’t seem enthusiastic. “They woulda said …”
But Dally moved like she was about to get up. “They might have seen something only they didn’t know it.” And she fluttered her eyes in my direction.
7. Folk Art
By eight o’clock we were all standing on the Wicher front porch, at the next house over from the McDonners’. Mr. Wicher was holding the door nearly closed and leaning on the inside frame.
“Mustard?”
But he was looking at Dally and me.
Mustard cleared his throat. “This here’s Ms. Oglethorpe, Sissy’s cousin from Atlanta. She come up to see the baby.”
He nodded. “Heard you had it.”
Mustard acknowledged. “Did.”
Dally tried valiantly. “Hey.”
Mr. Wicher barely nodded, staring at me.
Mustard went on with the introductions. “An’ that’s Flap Tucker. He’s goin’ to find Ginny McDonner.
“Oh, he is.” Mr. Wicher, it seemed, was also something of a Doubting Thomas — although I am by no means implying that we were on a first-name basis.
Mustard nodded. “Yup. Needs to ask you a few things.”
Mr. Wicher pushed back from the doorframe, away from us. “Don’t know nothin’ about it.” And he was on the verge of closing the door without any further niceties.
I saved the day. “Oh, you’d be surprised. A lot of people who feel like they don’t know anything at all tu
rn out to be quite bright about a subject, once you get in out of the cold and maybe a cup of coffee — get to know ’em and all.”
He scrolled his eye at me, obviously angry for no good reason. “What?”
I was fearless. “I said maybe you know more about this than you realize.” Big smile.
He opened the door and took a step toward me. “Looka here. I got no use for you. I got little use for Abernathy. I don’t give a damn if you freeze to death out here. This is my property, an’ I’m tellin’ you three to clear out, right now! Get off my porch. Get off my land.”
Dally scooted back; Mustard stood his ground, looking at me; and I shot out my right hand like it was a twenty-dollar bill I was giving away. “Listen, brother, I’ve got nothing in mind but finding that little girl before the temperature drops any lower. Now … why wouldn’t you want to help us with a thing like that … if you could?”
He didn’t take my hand, but quite unexpectedly he stopped. He sniffed. He softened. “They do say it might snow tonight.”
Mustard nodded, looking down at the porch floor. “I believe it might.”
Mr. Wicher looked at Dally, took in a long, deep breath and sighed it out. “Would you like to come in the house, ma’am? Maybe have a cup of coffee? It’s kindly cold out here on this porch, ain’t it?”
She smiled. “Uh-huh.”
He shoved the door back and turned away from us.
Dally went in first, whispering to me, “Nice work, kiddo. Coulda got us shot.”
Mustard disagreed. “Naw … Wicher might cut you, but he ain’t got no good kind of gun in the house.”
I let him go before me too. “Does he greet all his visitors like this?”
Mustard smiled and nodded.
Wicher had vanished. We followed Mustard into the sitting room. There was a very hot cast iron stove at an outside wall — the only light in the room — and a big knife right in the middle of the floor.
Mustard grinned at me and pointed at the knife. “See.”
Dally was a little less bon vivant. “What’s that there for?”
Wicher appeared, suddenly, out of the shadows. “Carvin’.”
We all jumped just a little.
He ignored us; sat in the chair closest to the knife.
“Coffee’s on.” He made no indication whatsoever of where he wanted the rest of us to take a load off.
Dally slipped into the chair farthest away from our host, leaving Mustard and me to slap down side by side on the sofa.
She was still bold. “Carving?”
He nodded, leaned over to pick up the knife. I leaned forward just a little, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Mustard shake his head.
Wicher picked up a foot-long hunk of wood he’d apparently been working on when we’d come to the door. It was shaped kind of like a giant clothespin. It came out of a pile of stuff on the dark side of the chair, where something else caught my eye.
He held it up. “See?”
Dally nodded. She had no idea what she was looking at. “Nice.”
He looked at it. “Going to be blue.”
Dally smiled a little. “I like blue.”
Mustard agreed. “It’s a nice color.”
But me? I’m a dope. I had to know. “What is it?”
Wicher cocked his head at it. “Once I get the arms on it, stick half a clothes hanger through it, and counterweight it with a big old wooden bass, it’ll be a fisherman. Balances on the edge of things — things like a table an’ all. You can rock it back and forth, and it won’t fall over, if I get it right.”
Mustard put the final touches on the explanation. “Folk art. It’s a big seller come summer when all the northsiders run up here from Atlanta.”
He agreed. “Them an’ the rotor-ducks.”
Dally’s turn for curiosity. “Rotor-ducks?”
He nodded at her. “’Swhat I call ’em.”
Once again, Mustard toured us through the world of primitive sculpture. “It’s a duck that’s got, like, propellers for wings, so that when the wind blows, they run around an’ ’round. Looks nice.”
Wicher set his knife down. “Usually paint them things red.”
Dally relaxed a little. “Is that what you do?”
“Do?”
“I mean for a living …”
He actually smiled. “Shoot.”
Mustard clued us in as to the sudden outburst of levity. “He’s got his own farm here. Does pretty good, don’t it?”
He gave a single nod, set down his wooden fisherman. “That carvin’ an all, that’s just what I do of an evenin’ — so the time’ll go by. I do a little carpentry from time to time, cabinetmakin’ and such as that …”
I sat forward. “Well, we won’t take up much more of your evening. I was just wanting to ask you a few things.”
He stood up. “Coffee’s ready.” And he left.
Mustard stood up too. “We can go in the kitchen now.”
We followed again. The kitchen was much brighter and there were four mugs set around the kitchen table. Mustard waited until our host had poured the coffee and taken a seat, and then he sat down. We followed suit.
Loath as I was to waste more time: “Did you know Ginny McDonner?”
“Seen her.”
“She ever come over here?”
He nodded, not looking at me. “She likes to watch the ducks.”
“The wooden ducks.”
“Uh-huh.”
I took a sip. “When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Last night.”
“Really. Where?”
“In the road.”
Dally set her mug down. “In the middle of the road?” She looked at Mustard.
He nodded. “I believe we did too — takin’ Sissy to the hospital.”
I tried to get Wicher to look me in the eye. No dice. I leaned back. “About what time did you see her, Mr. Wicher?”
Shrug. “Ten?”
I looked at Mustard. “You didn’t see her till after midnight.”
He nodded.
Dally shifted in her seat. “Well, she wasn’t playing out in the middle of the road for two hours.”
I looked down at the table. “What was she wearing?”
Wicher squinted. “Red.” He sipped. “Could have been midnight.”
“How’d you happen to see her?”
“I was out on the porch, carvin’.”
I sipped again. “Isn’t midnight a little late for folks up here?”
“I don’t sleep that well.” He looked away.
“Maybe you drink too much coffee at night.” I couldn’t help it. “Is there a Mrs. Wicher?”
Still looking over at the general area of the percolator, he took in a long breath. “I used to be married.”
Mustard lowered his voice. “She’s passed on.”
“Sorry.” I looked at my cup. “Any kids?”
Mustard looked at me. “She died birthin’ their first.”
“Baby died too.” Wicher’s voice was hollow.
Dally finished her coffee. “I think we’re about finished with this particular subject.”
I disagreed. “Mr. Wicher … how often did Ginny come over here?”
“Well …” His eyes drifted back in my general direction. “Near ever’ day.”
“Really. How come?”
“I make … little toys for ’er.”
“I thought I saw something like that out in the sitting room.” That’s what I’d seen in the pile on the dark side of his chair that had caught my eye: dolls.
“It’s a little wooden family.” His voice was soft. “I been makin’ ’em for a while. I built her a dollhouse too. Plays with it all the time.”
Dally got caught up in my line of thinking. “Where’s the dollhouse, here or at her home?”
He took a long sip of coffee. “Here.”
I think I surprised both my cohorts by finishing my coffee and shoving back from the table. “Okay. Thanks.”
Mustard squinted. “You done?”
I stood. “It’s late. It’s cold. I want to cover as much territory as I can. You’ve got me thinking about the kid out there in the woods and I have a kind of a sense of urgency about the matter.”
Dally didn’t know what was going on, but she went along anyway. “Mr. Wicher, thanks for the coffee.”
He nodded. “Ma’am.”
Mustard looked at us both, then down at Wicher. “You want to come out tomorrow an’ help us look some more?”
He didn’t stand. “Might.”
Mustard stood up too and headed for the front door. “Okay. I’ll be by early.”
He didn’t see us out.
Then, just as we were closing the front door, the strangest thing happened. We all heard him speaking very clearly, even though it was obvious he wasn’t talking to us.
His voice was hushed. “Well, what do you make of that?”
Pause.
“I know, but they’ve got to know everything. Don’t you want them to find her?”
Pause.
“Sorry. I know you do. I must be gettin’ a little tired. You ready for bed?”
That was all we heard.
Dally waited until we were in Mustard’s truck to ask, “What was that?”
Mustard cranked up the engine. “He was talkin’ to his dead wife. He believes her spirit is still in the house.”
Dally leaned forward. “He’s nuts?”
Mustard smiled. “Naw. He’s just lonesome.”
Dally shook her head. “Yeah, but … he talks to her.”
Mustard twisted around to see backing the truck out. “Well … I seen her too.”
I had to butt in. “What? You got too vivid an imagination, pal.”
He nodded. “I seen her. Once on the stairs, and once or twice out in the field.”
Dally wouldn’t have it. “Mustard …”
He was calm. “Everybody knows how he talks to her. Makes him feel better. And it’s a powerful belief. You be around ’im long enough, you believe she’s there too.”
The headlights of the truck cut out across the sightless black of the night, down the long road where Ginny McDonner had gone. Just as we pulled onto it, the snow began to fall.
8. Guilt
Easy as One Two Three (A Flap Tucker Mystery) Page 3