He stared out toward me.
“Yeah. Mustard had the idea she might be over at the old abandoned farm.”
“Abandoned farm?”
And I realized at that very second I had no idea what the ghost girl’s last name was. “You know, where the ghost of Lost Pines used to live. What was their name, the moonshiner and his family and the little girl and all?”
He got softer. “They was Rayburns.”
“Well …” I climbed the two steps up onto the porch. “That’s where Mustard took us last night. Good thing too. We found some old tree hut where the kids had been playing. We think Ginny went there and changed clothes and got a hat. So … you know …”
He whispered. “She’s alive.”
“I don’t want to get up any false hopes, but at least she made it up there to that place and was feeling good enough to climb up a tree.”
Even softer. “She’s alive.”
Mrs. McDonner was all of a sudden out on the porch with us. I guess she’d been standing at the door. “Ginny’s alive?”
I took a shot at being the voice of reason. “Let’s not get too specific …”
Mr. McDonner looked at his wife. “She was up at the place …” He gave a look to me, then went on. “She was up at the old Rayburn place.”
She looked at me, very strangely. “What was she doing up there?”
I smiled. “I don’t know, ma’am. Actually — I was thinking maybe you’d tell me.”
She looked away. “Come on in the house, Mr. Tucker.”
Her husband let me go first. I followed her, he followed me.
The house felt hot to me after my hike in the snow. I got out of my coat right away.
The missus was headed right for the kitchen. “You had any breakfast yet, Mr. Tucker? You hungry?”
I smiled. “I’m riding on Miss Nina’s biscuits.”
That made her smile too. She agreed. “They gets good mileage. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
We all sat down in the kitchen. I draped my coat and hat over an empty chair. I was starting to sweat.
Mr. McDonner started to talk. “You say it was Mustard’s idea to go up to the old Rayburn place?”
The way he said it, made it sound like a strange choice. But he seemed to be trying too hard, for some reason.
I nodded. “Good thing too. I believe that’s where she was, up there — only a few hours ago.”
Mrs. McDonner dropped the spoon she was bringing me. She started to cry, like a kid who’s spilled something on the table.
Mr. McDonner got up. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s going to be all right.”
I didn’t know what else to say. “I found a wool hat on the logging road up behind Wal-Mart. You know the one? We think she was wearing it.”
Mr. McDonner sighed. “Where’d she get it?”
“We think she got it, along with a change of clothes, in a little tree hut up there on the property. Did she ever mention going there, like to play or anything? Maybe with some other kids? Looked like a kind of playhouse for a bunch, not just one.”
Mrs. McDonner forgot her coffee. She sat down at the table with us. She stared at that nice Formica tabletop. “We know the place.”
Her husband jumped. “Darlin’ …”
But she shot him a look like a crow on a rooftop: black and menacing.
He sighed again.
I’ve noticed that people who spend a lot of time working hard, especially on the land — hard jobs, isolated lives — fall into two categories linguistically speaking: those who seem to think that words are too strange and difficult to bother with, and those who think words ought to be scattered like broadcasting seed. Some find it hard to talk at all, in short, and some can’t shut up. The McDonners fell into the former category, obviously.
Finally the old guy looked at me. “Rayburn? He was a no-good. A drunk. Beat his own wife an’ child. That fire that burned him up? It was a clear retribution of the Lord. It’s just too bad … it’s too bad the wife died too.”
Mrs. McDonner finished the thought. “She was a Day … like me.”
I shook my head. “You mean some of your kin was the mother of the Little Girl of Lost Pines?”
She couldn’t look me in the eye, but she nodded. “Christy. She would have been Ginny’s second cousin, I believe.”
“Her mother …” I had to think. “… your mother …?”
“There was fourteen kids in their family.”
My brain has always been a sieve as far as genealogy goes. “Never mind. Suffice it to say, you’re related.”
He nodded. “That property’s deeded to us.”
I snapped my head up so hard it made my hat fall off the chair beside me. “The abandoned farm belongs to you all?”
He nodded.
She elucidated. “We go up there ever’ so often. Picnic. Play. It’s real pretty in the fall — leaves an’ all …” And she drifted off thinking about it.
He added, “So she knows the place quite well. That tree hut? It must have been up there for years. Somebody’s fixed it up recently — looks like. Don’t know who. But some of the kids play up there.”
So what was it that was buzzing in my head? Mrs. McDonner, still far away, spoke up softly. “I believe she could have had a old blue wool cap up there. She had so many other things …” And she was gone again.
It took me a second more, but I finally got there. “So, if she’s not lost … why doesn’t she come home?”
16. Gravy
If you want a smooth gravy, you’ve got to make a roux first. You melt butter, or actually I personally prefer heated olive oil, and add flour. It mushes up to a brown paste, then you add the already warmed liquid, slowly — and use a whisk. Don’t insult the gravy with a fork or a wooden spoon. What I’m saying is, you can’t add the flour later. If you do, you’re doomed to lumps and a culinary disaster. I’m saying I hate lumps.
And the information I was getting now was very lumpy information indeed.
Nobody in the kitchen was answering my very interesting query. And everybody twitched a little when the front door slammed.
“Hey. It’s me.” It was Cedar.
I got myself craned around just in time to see him zip into the room, and I was very curious. “No wonder you didn’t have to ask Mustard which abandoned farm he was talking about going to last night.”
He stopped in his tracks. “Hmm?”
“Why didn’t you say anything about Ms. McDonner owning that property?”
He was steady. “Is it important?”
“Right. And you don’t even mention a word about her being kin to the little ghost girl.”
He was still like a rock. “I don’t take much to children’s stories and idle gossip, Mr. Tucker. Or haven’t you noticed yet that I’m a more or less no-nonsense person?”
“Oh, I’ve noticed. It’s just normal enough to be odd in these parts.”
And unexpectedly, that cracked him a smile. “Yeah. I guess that did make me a little strange in high school.”
I think that might have been the first time I’d seen him smile. I pressed. “The deal is, I got to know everything. That’s a fair amount of something to keep from me in this matter, wouldn’t you say?”
His smile was gone. “If it seemed like Ms. McDonner or her husband had done something to make Ginny’s disappearance happen, I’d say the family history would be marginally germane — but as things stand, I don’t know what makes that important.”
I looked back across the table. “You missed my most recent interesting question.” I looked at him again. “If Ginny’s not lost, why doesn’t she come home, or come to you, or go some other place nice and warm? Brother Dave’s church springs to mind. When you saw that she’d been up there, you knew she wasn’t lost in the woods. You knew you could take Mustard back to the hospital and it didn’t much matter what I did up there. The hat’s just idle curiosity. So do you mind telling me — what’s going on?”
I looked down. “I think you’re jumping to conclusions.”
Mr. McDonner was a more ready audience. “Damn. I shoulda known it.”
I looked at their faces. They’d already made up their minds. It was looking grim for the neighbor. I had all manner of questions about Cedar and his relationship with the McDonners, but it didn’t seem like the time or place. It seemed like the time or place for reason.
I raised my eyebrows. “Are we basing this new theory of yours on any evidence whatsoever?”
Cedar’s voice was clear. “The state of his house, the nature of the things missing from it, and the circumstances in general.”
Mrs. McDonner lowered her head along with her voice. “Plus — he’s done it before.”
I railed back in the chair. “Now, see — that’s exactly the kind of information we were just talking about. Lumpy information.” I scattered a look her way. “He’s kidnapped her before?”
She looked at her lap. “Well … I mean … once or twice when she was out sleepwalkin’ late of an evenin’, and it didn’t look like me nor Mr. McDonner was anywhere close by, he’s taken her in.”
Mr. McDonner was less generous. “He kep’ her for a day an’ a half. We was out our minds lookin’ for her the first time.”
I sighed. I had to. “When was this? How long ago?”
Cedar answered. “Last spring — about this time of year.”
Everybody nodded sagely, and I heard something strange in his voice. “Anything significant about this time of year in this regard?”
Silence. But it was a silence that was very loud indeed.
Finally it was the missus that broke. “It was just about this time of year when the Rayburn place burnt down, and Christy went missin’.”
I squinted. “And Wicher often refers to your daughter as Christy, right?”
More nods.
“And you think this means he’s confused enough to think Ginny is a dead little girl in need of protection from less than ideal parents.”
Continued nodding.
I wasn’t finished. “You think this because he also often talks to his dead wife like she’s really there.” I eyeballed Cedar. “Even though you told me last night you thought he was just lonely.”
He shrugged.
I leaped on. “Not to mention that when you were telling us about the McDonner miscarriage you hardly batted an eye. I’d have to say that it seems to me the investigation of the incident was fairly slack.” Okay, in retrospect I kind of wish I hadn’t said that. But that’s what happens when you get riled. You blurt. That’s why I try not to get riled.
No one in the room was very pleased with my little speech. Mrs. McDonner was the first to throw stones. She chunked them at Cedar; her face white and her voice choked. “You told him about that?”
He looked at the floor, but I could tell his face was burning. Odds were good that I could look for a whack in the schnoz from the guy — soon.
Mr. McDonner was the only calm one in the bunch. “The baby had what they call Down Syndrome …”
I corrected. “… Down’s …”
He went on. “Uh-huh. What you call it don’t mean nothin’. The plain facts is that the baby was in need of extra care and we didn’t have it to give. Not to mention the way people would treat it. Children up here … is hard.”
Mrs. McDonner was crying. Not big sobbing, but tears were there. “I didn’t want to do it.”
Her husband was steel. “It was my decision. She didn’t have nothin’ to do with it.” He looked at her. “It was my fault the baby was wrong — I’m so much older’n she is.”
I squinted. “Your decision?”
He nodded, very certain. “Head of the household. God gave the man dominion over the woman.”
I leaned forward. “That from Brother David’s pulpit?”
His face was like a fist. “I don’t take much to David’s church. I’m from a more … conservative religion.”
She spoke up softly, trying to pull herself back together. “He’s Temple Holiness.”
Like I had any idea what that meant. “Well, far — and I mean very far be it from me to tell anybody else how to live, but put me down as being in general disagreement with this entire situation.”
Mr. McDonner was very specific. “Don’t much give a thought to what you have to say about it.”
I hope I was just as clear. “As long as we understand one another.”
Cedar finally found his voice again. “Mr. Tucker, I think we’ve all had just about enough of your help. Ginny’s going to be fine. I’ll find her, now that I know what’s happened to her, and that’ll be that. I know where Wicher goes to fish and hunt. I expect she’ll be playing up there with him and everything will be normal by the end of the day. You can go on back to Atlanta now, you and your girlfriend.”
I took in a good breath. “In the first place, Ms. Oglethorpe is no girl. And in the second place, even though we are friends, our relationship far surpasses your ability to understand. In the third place, I’m up here to visit with Mustard and Sissy. They asked me to help, and when I’m done helping, I’ll roll on back to Atlanta. Until then I’m here.”
I stood, picked up my hat from the floor and my coat from the chair. I could sense menace in the room, but no more than I was used to in plenty of situations in my daily intercourse.
The woman of the house, alone, spoke to me. “Mr. Tucker … thank you for … tryin’ to help …” And it seemed like she had lots more to say, but the atmosphere was getting pretty thick.
I nodded. “Ma’am.” I looked at Cedar. “So are you going to give me a ride back to Miss Nina’s, or am I going to have to do more hiking?”
Clearly cool to the idea, and without any eye contact whatsoever, he nodded. “I’ll give you a lift. Got to go back over there anyway, and I wouldn’t mind getting you out of this house as soon as possible.” Without any further discussion, Cedar and I were down the hall and out the front door.
The clouds were still thick, but the air seemed softer by the minute. No more snow. In the front yard by the porch dozens of purple crocuses were popped open in the snow.
Once Officer Duffie had his Jeep cranked and we were turning around, I started up the conversation again. “You don’t really think Wicher kidnapped Ginny.”
“I do.”
“And you think you know where he is?”
“I do.”
I folded my arms in front of me. “Now, why did he do it, again? I forget.”
“He …” But the guy was having a hard time controlling himself. “He thinks it’s for her own good.”
I readied myself for his response to what I had to ask. “And is it?”
Brakes. Sliding. Fist with a handful of my coat.
“Looka here, Tucker! I’ve had enough of this from you.”
I took his little finger. It’s a simple trick, really. You move quick enough, you snap it like a little twig. It comes out clean from the socket. No real damage, but it certainly incapacitates the hand it’s attached to. He reared back from me.
Just in case, I also put my thumb in his esophagus, just above his sternum. His hand was on fire and he couldn’t breathe. Seemed to do the trick.
I spoke calmly. “Now give me your hand, and I’ll pop that finger back in its socket. It’ll hurt for a while, probably swell, but it’s okay in the long run.” And before he could think about it, I reached over and cracked it again, only the right way this time. “You ought to get some ice for it. Can I let go of your windpipe now, or are you going to mess up my coat again?”
He really didn’t have a choice. He was seconds from passing out. He nodded. I let go. He sucked in for a big breath and started coughing.
I sat back. “See, you’re really not mad at me. You’re mad at yourself. You’re mad because you told me a secret and you really didn’t wa
nt to. You’re mad because I’m helping you and you think you got to do everything yourself. You’re mad because Dally gets your goat and you don’t know what to make of her. And you’ve got collective guilt in your guts about all these lost little girls. Now, I don’t mean to come off psychological all over the place — but you’re a mess, boy.”
He still couldn’t breathe right. He was gasping for air. I had to take ahold of his neck and wiggle it a little, let the passage pop out into its proper shape; slammed him on the back once or twice hard. He came around.
“What … what the hell did you … do to me?”
“Self-defense. You’d be surprised how often a guy like me needs it.”
He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t. I can’t imagine you’re not in trouble most of the time.”
“Well, I have long periods of lying about the house when I’m fairly absent of worry.”
He nodded. But he was still dizzy.
I made idle conversation. “See, I’m something of a free agent. I come when I want to, I go when I’m done. Now, it’s true that I came up here for nothing more than a peep at the vistas you all keep stashed around about, and a gander at Dally’s new little niece. But since I made a promise to find Ginny McDonner, I have to find her. That’s how I work. I’m not at liberty to split until the promise is kept. I disagree with you about Wicher. I don’t know where he is, but Ginny’s out in the woods by herself. I don’t know why I think that, but I do. And I’ve come to trust my instincts like all get out. So … there you have it.”
He started the Jeep forward again. “You’re not going to leave until Ginny’s home.”
“Right. I can help you, or I can work alone. I got no hard feelings, and by the way, I’m sorry I brought up the miscarriage thing. It was, trust me, an uncharacteristic bit of insensitivity on my part. Sorry.” I slouched a little. “I haven’t been myself, exactly, up here, for some reason. Maybe it’s the thin air. I’m usually much more charming, have I mentioned that? I think I’ve got something like … well, it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to feeling parental. I’m … I’m worried about the kid. Okay?”
Big sigh. “Okay.” And away we went.
Easy as One Two Three (A Flap Tucker Mystery) Page 10